Monday, 31 March 2008

Friends in Need - The BoobFest

It's always a problem when, for whatever reason, we suddenly find ourselves financially embarrassed. My friend, Z, over at The Naked Truth finds herself in such an impecunious position. If you admire her work and feel that you can help out at all, please follow the instructions given there.

Not all of us are able to click on her special button to help alleviate her woes but, from comments over at Marianne's, some are prepared to use other assets to come to her aid.

For a suitable financial donation to the cause, several bloggers have offered to indulge in a BoobFest and reveal parts of themselves that have not been seen by the BlogPublic before.

Obviously we can't just pepper our blogs with said photos or where would be the incentive for those who do wish to put their hands in their pockets. So, we're going to set a figure of $3000. When six confirms that donations reach that amount, all the bloggers, both male and female, will submit their boobshot for posting.

Boob cake pic from a selection at

In the spirit of Blue Peter, we are looking at posting a progress Titometer on Marianne's site. If any of you computer buffs can give us some guidance on how to achieve same in Wordpress, please could you get in touch.

Any other blogger who wishes to participate should just post all of the relevant information, especially a link to Z and her special button.

Those who have stepped up to volunteer so far are:

Having My Cake
Helga Hansen
His Grace The Duke
Oatmeal Girl
Wild Cat

Mute Monday - Greatness







From The Troll Report

Friday, 28 March 2008

Subordinate, me

Chosen by Sexoteric

Engage me, seduce me, beguile me
Get your hands on my fabulous arse
Enrage me, reduce me, defile me
Let my fantasies all come to pass

Enthrall me, cajole me, control me
For your words orchestrate my demise
Besprawl me, despoil me, console me
As your knees force their way twixt my thighs

Contain me, absorb me, distress me
Is there no act my soul will reject?
Restrain me, disturb me, possess me
While my morals you slowly dissect

Enchant me, bewitch me, invite me
Know your voice wins the fight for my mind
Entice me, provoke me, incite me
Spank your palms on my perfect behind

Abuse me, insult me, regale me
Your lips whisper filth 'gainst my hair
Contuse me, dilate me, impale me
As you savage my pert derriere

Corrupt me, pervert me, defeat me
Make me beg you to hurt me and then
Protect me, placate me, complete me
Hold me close whilst you do it again

Thursday, 27 March 2008


Pulling me onto all fours and feeding the pillows underneath my belly whilst I play with my tulip and, at the crucial point, invading me with your fingers. Squealing with excitement as the intrusion takes me completely over the edge, you stroke the length of my back. Strong muscles at my shoulders and arms, softly curving down to my hips and the gentle swell of that fabulous bottom.

Listening carefully for the signs, the outward expressions of my internal arousal.

Waiting for the optimum point of excitement, you push your fingers into me again. Fucking me with them and whispering a commentary of your activities into my ear; bringing me to a fever pitch of excitement with the combination of the clit vibrations and the pumping of your fingers, you hear me begging for it. 'Hit me, hit me!'.

The new toy lies waiting on the bedside table. Soft, white vinyl on one side with pink plush fur on the other. To all intents and purposes, a heart-shaped ping-pong bat.

At first I was scared of it. Afraid of the discomfort its presence might presage. This, after all, is a man who teaches power generation for a living. When he smacks my bottom with his palm, the pain can be almost indescribable. Stinging livid hand prints raised above the soft white flesh.

But then we found the key to the delivery - the accompanying stimulation of the tulip wand throbbing between my legs.

The wonderful sensation as the pleasure in my groin connects to my brain and I start to lose myself; the stinging exquisite pain taking my breath away and forcing me to let go of the tension.

And, at this moment, it is all I can think of. I need you to do it. I want it more than anything.

You smack downwards with the paddle across those pale cheeks. Hearing the 'thwack' on my flesh and the 'oooph' as the breath is knocked out of me, making me fall forwards into the pillows with the force.

And then the whispered:


Waiting for the tulip to do its work and bring me moaning to a climax before you administer six of the best as you continue to push your fingers in and out of me.

Laughing because it's almost like playing the drums running two different rhythms, one with each hand, but also at the way the screams increase in decibels with my pleasure at the assault.

Admiring the redness of the exposed flesh and trying to cool the heat emanating from them with the palm of your hand.

Until, finally, you are ready to administer the coup de grace. You spank each cheek whilst pushing yourself into me and trying to keep in time with the tune on the radio. The ensuing shrieks are reward enough to designate this particular toy a roaring success and I will never be able to hear Nirvana's 'Smells like Teen Spirit' without remembering...


Sugasm #124

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #125? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

In Which Penny Enjoys Her Bath “In the bathroom, I flipped on the heater and shed my clothes.”

Just passing through “I twitched under her stare.”

Kegal exercises on wet Monday afternoon “Do you know what it’s like, to be buggered?”

Mr. Sugasm Himself WP/PHP Guru?

Editor’s Choice More Traveling…

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Wednesday, 26 March 2008


My shoulder hurts

My lower back groans

My thighs throb

My hips creak

My buttocks smart

My adductors burn

My cunt is numb

My arse stings

My nipples prickle

My skin tingles

My mind wants to lose itself in the sleep of exhaustion

After seven weeks of barren frustration, culminating in five days of rampant excess, I ache all over

But my smile is beatific

And I know that every cell in my body is alive...

Monday, 24 March 2008

The Science of Submission

It was not a fetish or even a fantasy. It was much more than that. A real, legitimate, strong desire. I wanted to find a woman who knew there was something missing from her life but hadn’t been able to pinpoint it.

I wanted to take control of her both physically and mentally. I wanted to seduce her in a socially accepted way, where she believed that she was a willing participant, and then slowly introduce her to what she really needed… to submit.

I imagined meeting a woman somewhere public, completely by chance. Often times, it was a department store, late in the afternoon. It's fall or winter and she’s wearing a longer coat. Red hair, usually, or chestnut brown. About my age, obviously not na├»ve, and not young or immature.

I watch her wander through the clothing section, not wanting to leave but not particularly interested in buying anything. From the moment I see her, I know precisely what I want from her. I can close my eyes and feel her reactions, hear her moans, feel her body giving in moment by moment.

I catch her eyes and hold them from fifty feet away, maintaining eye contact, watching her lips part without realising it. I see her tongue graze them and move closer. She drags her stare away to break the spell, only for her gaze to fall over my uniform, crisp, starched, perfect. It is like a magnet and my control is easily re-established.

She shivers almost imperceptibly and tries to turn away, studying the nearest rack of goods to try to regain her composure.

The store is emptying, only a clerk remains, busy with paperwork at the desk. I step closer to my quarry, approaching her deliberately slowly. I see her hand move to a silk blouse and watch her fingertips brush it, unaware that the touch of it is having an effect on her. I see her breathing quicken and I’m amused by her dilemma. I glance down at her left hand and see her wedding ring.

Ten feet away and getting closer. She sees my gaze and follows it to her finger. I wait for her to look back up at me, knowing what will be on her face. I see it. She’s given in already. I walk past her, close enough to hear her slow exhale of disappointment. She thinks I’m leaving... until she feels my left hand on her hip, fingers curling around it, over her jacket, tips pressed against her thigh.

Visibly jumping, she begins to pull away, but only because she thinks she’s supposed to. I lean into her and my fingers slide under the flap in her jacket, four of them spread across her thigh over her dress. My breath is in her ear and she hears me whisper, 'Resist… please.'

My right hand has moved to her stomach, moving higher up her abdomen and her head leans back against my shoulder. She’s breathing heavily, her hand moving to mine on her thigh, covering it, guiding it up. 'I can’t resist,' she murmurs.

This time I feel the shiver as it runs through her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Inclining her whole body back into me, she tries to fight the feelings inside her. To subdue the demons tempting her.

I have to suppress a smile as my right hand moves to the buttons on her dress. Unbuttoning one, I slip my hand inside, massaging her hard nipple through the protection of her bra.

With my other hand, the fingers have reached her thong and she moans as I move it back and forth, between her lips. I glance toward the clerk, whose eyes are still down, engrossed in her spreadsheet. The woman in my grasp looks up at me, her chest rising and falling as she breathes deeply, watching and waiting, lips parted.

I start to push her gently toward the fitting room. Her legs are rubbery. One hand is on the small of her back but I know that all she can think of is the sensation of my fingers inside her, controlling her, slipping in and out underneath her dress.

As we reach the fitting room door, I sense her hesitation. She falters and I can almost read the frantic flitting of her mind as it tries to make sense of the situation and the unusual reaction of her body. For, after all, I am assaulting her and she's letting me. It's as if she's thinking out loud: 'Nice girls don’t behave like this, especially not nice married women.'

But her body is powerless to resist. She cannot control her limbs as I propel her towards the doorway. She’s not even sure that she wants to because, from the moment our eyes met, we both knew that she was mine.

Her back is squashed against my chest, with my knee between her thighs, spreading them as I open the door. She feels my hands moving down her back, cupping her ass, fingers probing under her coat, this time outside her dress.

She’s starting to press back against me, yearning to feel my cock throb, press, stab at her, knowing that it already controls her. Her nerves are tingling and her entire body begins to quake in anticipation. But that’s not what is making her ache. Close to her ear I begin to speak. A low, deep whisper, calm, almost menacing. Each syllable goes straight to her hardened clit. Describing to her what I'm going to do, what she’ll feel, how she’ll respond. The words begin to ease in and out of her. She can feel them sliding deeper, then pulling out, moving faster, filling her.

We’re inside the room, the door is closed and she’s powerless. Completely at my mercy. Her eyes glance at the mirror as I remove her coat, before grabbing both her wrists and placing her hands flat against the glass.

She takes in her dishevelled reflection. Flushed, wide-eyed, pupils dilated. Mouth open trying to catch her breath. Her clothes all awry. Her body so slight against the dark blue bulk of mine. And then her gaze follows the line from my fists pinning her hands to the glass, up the crisp dark blue sleeves, taking in the badges and the gold braid. The symbols of my experience and dominance. The fabric rumples as I bend to place my face close to her shoulder and press my lips against the side of her neck. Warm breath tickles the pulsing skin and she moans softly. The tiniest of sounds escaping through the wall of denial she has erected. Not quite enough to break the dam of her resolution. Our eyes meet in the mirror but this time there is a challenge in hers.

My hand moves to the front of her dress, fingers squeezing her right nipple, feeling it stiffen and squeezing it harder as her ass bucks against my groin. I grasp the cloth of her dress and rip it from her body, buttons popping, my nails leaving marks on her convulsing breasts. Snatching at the material still gripping her thighs and throwing it to the floor before pressing my lips to her ear again. Letting her hear my excitement.

'That’s it… Resist me.' Every word escapes through my gritted teeth as my right hand moves to her hair and grips it, pulls it. She squeals as three fingers slide into her soaked cunt from behind, ploughing into her, driving inside her, spreading then closing.

She watches herself riding my fingers. Pressing the sweetest spot downwards onto those probing digits, her butt writhing against my wrist as I explore her. The roughness of my uniform scratching at her naked skin as my body enfolds her and the braided lines of my medals and other insignia digging cold and sharp into her back.

Our eyes lock defiantly again and I observe the emotions working across her face as she fights the pleasure and the pain. I can feel the pressure building inside as her muscles clench around my fingers, tightening and tightening before she is gasping and crying out at the release as she melts onto me. Droplets of moisture dribbling down my fingers and my wrist, marking the cuff with a darker blue reminder. A panting giggle escapes her. She clearly believes she has won Round One.

I slowly slide my fingers from her drenched cunt, letting them linger on the lips, then take the clit between them and massage it while she starts to sway her hips in rhythm with my hand, moving the clit back and forth.

I unzip and let her feel the heat of hard cock against the cool skin of that fabulous arse. Removing my fingers and tracing a damp line down her spine, the tip of my erection pressing into her entrance. My palms caressing the velvet globes as an inch of me slips into the wetness, thick, throbbing and spreading her already. My fingers sliding down the crack and moving between her cheeks as she moans deeply, then squeals again as my thighs brace and I shove myself all the way inside her.

Her back arches and she studies herself in the mirror. The image staring back at her reveals the depth of her depravity, it exudes pure lust. The tip of my finger probes her and pushes its way inside her tight, velvety butt. The reflection of her shocked expression confirms my suspicion. She’s never experienced it before and her body is overwhelmed. There is saliva at the corner of her mouth, she's literally drooling as my finger moves deeper, my cock starting to pound her cunt, drilling into it, another finger in her ass and she’s reached a level of ecstasy she’s never known.

Bracing her hands against the mirror, she watches me possess her and rides the waves as she comes again and again. Her mouth is a big round O as she screams silently. My fingers leave her clit and push their way into that proferred opening. Smelling herself, sucking her juice from my slick fingers, forcing herself back against my dual penetrations. My hard belly slaps against her as she clenches around me, trying to draw it out of me. But I haven’t finished. My voice is in her ear again, whispering, determined, cajoling, persuading. Demanding another first.

For both of us.

Breathing hard, I wait for her to meet my eye in our reflection. She knows what's coming and I can sense her apprehension, see the concern in her face. My fingers agitate inside her, one, two, three, widening the opening, making her ready, feeling the muscles relaxing with their passage.

Withdrawing my thoroughly lubricated cock, I hold her steady with both hands and spread her cheeks, rubbing the tip around the slightly expanded entrance with the lightest of forwards pressure. I watch transfixed as the head becomes encased in her, oh so slowly disappearing as it slides inside the tightness and the muscles envelop me with the sweetest of compressions whilst my widest part traverses her narrowest. I hold her gaze and watch the wonder in her eyes.

The momentum increasing as I infiltrate her further, experiencing the constricting squeeze as it moves down my throbbing shaft until I am ball deep inside her rear. And then partially withdrawing, only to advance once more into this strange new world. I love the sounds she makes as I ride her, not like before and it feels so different too.

Conscious of her concerns, I start slowly, gradually increasing my acceleration. I can feel the energy building in both of us. The first portents of the eruption that will follow. All I can think of is taking this virgin hole. Spewing my muck into its depths and making it mine. Owning her ass.

I hear her start to moan, her soft entreaties for more deprive me of the last remnants of any self-control. The lust rises and marches me onwards, harder and faster. My eyes dart from her shocked stare to her hands, braced white against the mirror as my weight drives into her. Forcing one set of my digits into her dribbling mouth, the others grip her sopping clit and extract the orgasm shrilly from her as she pulsates around my pounding member. Supporting her body as her knees start to buckle before I feel the exquisite sensations escalating within me and it floods forth deep inside her, leaving me trembling and panting with the intensity.

I hold her quivering nakedness against me, warming her with my body until the shudders die away. Eventually she looks shyly up at me from under her lashes and smiles to intimate a job well done.

And that's how I found my English Bitch.

Sunday, 23 March 2008

Cake's Arse Retaken - More breaking news

In a statement issued by her solicitors:

Joanna Cake is delighted to announce that Titus Pepper's hostile backdoor incursion attempt has been roundly rejected via the actions of an extremely gallant White Knight.

Using the previously unknown Pornstar strategy, the chivalrous saviour was able to wrest control of the valuable commodity from under the noses of PepperCorp executives in a 'smash and grab style' raid.

Ms Cake is indebted to her Good Samaritan and intends to respect his wish to remain anonymous. However, she firmly refutes all speculation that the terms of the new deal include a gagging order.

Sources close to Ms Cake confirm that she remains tight lipped about the identity of her valiant champion, although rumours abound at PepperCorp about a very well known Blogland entrepreneur and philanthropist.

All that is certain is that Ms Cake seems to have had her arse handed back to her and is now listed as being its sole owner.

She is believed to be spending the holiday weekend ensconced in a chocolate-filled love nest making full use of her regained asset and gathering material for future postings.

Meanwhile, Titus Pepper continues to skulk in Barbados on the back of his ill gotten gains but is still understood to be contemplating further attempts at rear entry on another unsuspecting arse blog.

Happy Easter!!!

Saturday, 22 March 2008

Tagged - 6 word Memoir

I have been tagged by Marianne, who has stolen all my adjectives.

The Rules

1. Write your own six word memoir

2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like

3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible, so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere

4 Tag five more blogs with links

5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

So, with Ruf's assistance:

Fabulous-arsed, wanton, needy, well-mannered, submissive gravy-lover

We just couldn't find a way to get 'cheat' in...

I just find this tattoo fascinating :)

If you haven't been tagged and you want to describe yourself, please feel free to follow the instructions x

Thursday, 20 March 2008

HNT - Hidden Nipple Thursday

They are angry at each other. Anger borne out of fear. Their bodies so close and yet the distance between them is almost insurmountable. A gulf, a chasm that threatens to destroy the fragile thing they have built.

She attempts to walk away but he grabs her wrist roughly to pull her back and, in frustration at his intransigence, she lashes out. The blow catches him smack on the nose, knocking him slightly off balance at the surprise of the attack. She tries again but this time he is ready and he catches her wrist, slamming her back against the wall and knocking the wind out of her, his other hand at her neck. Instinct takes over, her knees will not let her just be a victim as she twists in his grasp to give herself room to strike at his body. Her free hand raking at his face until his grip on her throat tightens forcing her to stop just to be allowed to breathe.

Panting and gasping, she sees the spark in his eyes and softens as he loosens his grip... just enough for her to elbow at his neck. He is smiling now at her ineffectuality, the futility of trying to fight him. It has always been so.

With his left hand tightening its grip on her throat, the fingers of the right clutch at the fabric of her shirt and rip, the force marking the back of her neck. She knows now what he is about. This will not be gentle. It will be crude and uncompromising but she doesn't care. She welcomes the coming battle, the replenishing of their lust. Groping at her exposed flesh, his palms rough against the soft skin. Kneading and mauling. She tries to savage him with her free hand but he captures it and holds both tightly in his one whilst the other tears at her clothes, leaving her naked except for the lacy boy shorts.

Held securely in his grasp, the lower half of his body pressing hard, pinioning and preventing her from kicking or kneeing him again, he makes free with her breasts. They belong to him, marking them with his teeth and his spit. Fingers gripping and twisting at the nipples. He wants to hurt her but she will not give him the satisfaction of showing the pain. Defiantly outstaring him until his mouth comes down on hers. Concupiscent lips, bent on submission. Hard and unforgiving. Implacable in pursuit of her subordination.

And then he forces her round, up against the wall and steps back to admire the soft swell of that glorious bottom. The marks at her waist where the forced removal of her skirt grazed her. Her nipples hidden as she tries to protect them with her hands from the scraping solidity of the concrete and the searching advance of his relentless fingers. He detects the slightest hint of the movement to flee and stops it vigorously with one hand on her neck, pinning her cheek to the wall as he continues his leisurely assessment of his quarry.

Sliding the soft lace to one side, he forces himself into her.

His spare arm gripping her waist tightly and lifting her to gain the optimum position for his penetration.

Thus is she forced to acquiesce and be tamed.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

Wednesday, 19 March 2008

Breaking News.... Cake's Arse - Owned

It was with some shock that I awoke this morning to discover that this news has now entered the public domain.

I am most alarmed at the sinister nature of this covert attack where I was completely unaware of my stalker until he had got his hands on almost the entirety of my arse.

With his well-documented aversion to blogs showing pictures of posteriors prettier than his own, I feel that I should issue a warning to any other Bloggers who use a splendid rear as a welcome to their pages. Mr. Pepper's megalomania knows no bounds and, even now, he might be buying up bits of you. It is with this in mind that I draw your attention to this site.

However, I wish to reassure my Reader that, as far as I am concerned, the ethos of my work will remain unchanged and I shall challenge any attempts at editorial control most vigorously.

This is most definitely a hostile takeover by an infamous raider and I am currently in the market for other bloggers who might be prepared to take on the role of white knight or killer bee in an attempt to limit the damage. If you have a working knowledge of share dealing and feel in the mood to rescue a damsel in distress, I look forward to hearing from you.

'Adultery blog'? My arse!

Sugasm #123

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #124? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

A Seven Letter Word for Flowers “I breathed into your neck, brushing my lips against your skin.”

Breakfast In Bed “I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly.”

Inked “How quaint to be wooed with a soft brushing of lips over my fingers.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself L.A. Bondage

Editor’s Choice Male spankees and the female gaze

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Tuesday, 18 March 2008

Read my Blog.... NOW

The familiar beep signifying a text. He stirred in the bed and groped blindly for the phone. It was from her: 'Read my Blog... NOW!'.

Smiling sleepily, he dragged himself from the warmth of the bedclothes, threw on a robe and crept over to the computer to comply with the instruction.

As he scrolled down past the familiar banner, the words began to unfurl themselves:

How she was lying in bed daydreaming about him and touching herself. Driving herself mad over him.

Sighing that seven weeks was just too long to be without him and self-pleasure just wasn't enough.

Confessing how overcome with desire she was and reminding him of the fact that she was alone in the house with no parental ties or commitments.

They had agreed it wasn't worth it. A six hour round trip through the night with only a few hours in between.

But still she dreamed of donning just an overcoat to cover her nakedness and putting Cyndi Lauper on the MP3 at full volume as she 'Drove all Night to Get to You'.

Knocking on the door, pushing him bodily inside and taking possession of his lips. Letting the coat fall from her shoulders as she loosened his robe.

Revelling in the electricity of skin on skin. Immersing herself in his nakedness.

Taking his rigid cock and leading him to the bedroom before pushing him backwards onto his own bed and sliding onto him.

Slaking her lust and fulfilling her desire without ever a word passing between them.

Lying for just a few short moments in the comforting shelter of his arms before grabbing her coat and departing again.

When the doorbell rang, he was more than ready...

Sunday, 16 March 2008

Need... R-100

I have to say that writing the Officer and a Gentleman story has left me in a very strange state.

Quite apart from being very hormonal, I cannot concentrate on anything much. There are so many unfinished household chores and I flit in and out of the laundry basket with no real purpose to my sporadic spurts of energy. My emotions running the gamut of irritability, crotchety, flighty and tearful, inconsistently and confusingly running into each other with no apparent rhyme or reason.

But, of course, the real reason for my instability is that I haven't had sex for nearly six weeks and I'm gagging for it. The prospect of another 100 hours before I actually get my hands on a real cock is driving me mad. I was forced to avail myself of my toothbrush nearly every day last week and, on Friday, I had to use a clit wand, a vibrating dildo and stick my finger up my own arse but, whilst pleasant, it still didn't totally satisfy the desperation of my craving.

How do men deal with their raging libidos when the object of their lust is unable to be present? Do they just wank incessantly? Or do they try to shut it out of their minds until they know the desire is actually going to be fulfilled?

Juno has advanced the theory that the excessiveness of my need is exacerbated because two twin souls are telepathically connected and he is feeling this absence just as keenly, which is communicating itself to me with the resulting amplification.

From my point of view, it's really rather amusing. I mean, I went without sex for months, even years and never missed it. But, once introduced to vibrators and self stimulation, I found them rather addictive and would probably masturbate once a week, especially on weekends just before I had a shower. Waking up wet after some very pleasant half-dream and assuaging the ache inside me with the aid of my toothbrush. Although if the house was empty, I might be more adventurous and get some of the other toys out.

For the past two years I've been having full-on, rampant, scream-out-loud-with-excitement sex on a regular basis. The downtime between visits has gradually decreased so that over the past year, it was never less than once a month. However, dates have conspired to make the gap between our meetings nearly seven weeks on this occasion. At the beginning of our relationship, long intervals happened on a few occasions but, this time, it's been particularly hard. There is this deep-seated emptiness throbbing away inside me.

My dreams have taken on the most peculiar qualities - forcing me to examine situations in my sub-conscious that I would never entertain in real life... or so I thought. I awake wet and frustrated and more than a little confused.

I've tried to write away my lust but that just seems to make me hornier. Repeated wanking provides a short-lived release but serves only to highlight the extent of my frustration. Self-administered clitoral orgasms are very pleasant but I need the relief of full powered thrusting penetration to ease my symptoms... and I cannot focus on the rhythm of my own arm and simultaneously relax into the waves. It just doesn't seem to be possible. I will forever bemoan the fact that I have not managed to accomplish the co-ordination to rub my tummy and pat my own head at the same time, for the ability to frig my own clit and plough my own furrow is surely just extrapolating it to the next logical step.

More than anything, the failure to achieve peace through masturbation confirms to me that it is probably something else that I miss. Not just sex, but the comfort of his arms around me. The immersion of my consciousness in his skin. The sound of his voice in my ear sending shivers of arousal up and down my spine and the resulting goosebumps covering my skin.

I yearn for intimacy.

Thursday, 13 March 2008

An Officer and a Gentleman...

It was a fancy dress party with the theme of uniforms. She had stolen a friend's fluorescent yellow work jacket and hard hat and was purporting to be a construction worker. It was much too big but, underneath, was something far more interesting.

She watched him as he entered the room. He was dressed completely in white. The uniform of a US naval officer. From the way he wore the clothes, it became apparent that this was not just a costume but a way of life. He moved so comfortably in them and was totally unselfconscious, even with the cap on.

He stood by the bar and waited to order a beer, which gave her the opportunity to study him more closely. There were badges and medal ribbons on his left breast. Lots of them. He was tall but not a giant and filled the uniform to perfection, with regulation close-cropped hair.

Suddenly he caught her staring. Flicking her eyes away, she blushed, but she had not been quick enough. She tried to look surreptitiously in his direction but he was waiting for her. He rested his dark gaze upon her, smiled and raised his bottle in salute but she ignored him and pretended to be waving to someone further along the bar.

Before long the guys in the group started dancing, then the girls dragged each other out onto the floor to join them and, since they had all consumed a large quantity of alcohol, things started to get heated. Frolicking, hugging, touching, caressing, stroking. Girls on girls, girls on boys. Her helmet, perched precariously on the top of her head eventually went crashing to the floor. Crouching in the melee of bodies, she bent to retrieve it and found her entire field of vision blocked by a pair of highly polished white shoes beneath Persil-white trousers.

His hand was under the crook of her arm gripping the sleeve of the big jacket as he helped her back to her feet. Standing there so protectively, so dazzlingly white in the mass of writhing bodies, it was as if the world stood still.

Which was when he did it. Every woman's most cherished romantic dream. She could almost hear them singing 'Up Where We Belong'. His arms went under her legs and he picked her up as if she was a feather and walked off with her. It was the whole thing. The white suit, the hat, the alpha male strut. The Richard Gere moment.

The man in white carried the yellow blob up the stairs and out of the basement club, through the lobby, past the hotel's reception to the lifts. Neither of them said anything, they didn't even look at each other. Without putting her down, he selected the floor and let the elevator take them away from the bustle of reality.

He used the card to open the door and deposited her on the bed. Despite the total darkness, the reflective strips of her jacket retained the light of the corridor and shone back at him, marking her position. He clicked on the bedside light and, in the silence of the fantasy, placed her hardhat on the table, removed the bright yellow coat and lay her back so that her feet were resting on the pillow. He couldn't help but smile as he removed the incongruous Dr. Martens boots, big and clumpy on the end of those slender legs.

And then he just stood there looking down at her. She was wearing lacy-topped thigh high stockings with her favourite red and black basque and his mind drank the image in. His fingers moved gently over her body, registering the different textures - the cool skin of her arms, over the swell of her breasts to the silky fabric and rough lace of her clothing, the smooth mesh of the stockings, the warmth of the flesh of her thighs. Her eyes closed, mouth opening in pleasure at the caress... then the shock of cold metal as the cuffs closed around her wrists.

Her eyelids snapped open with the prospect of impending danger. She had allowed him to seduce her and now she was trapped. Her legs were still free and she kicked out at him but he was expecting it and it only meant that his hands holding her wrists gripped that much tighter. He jumped onto the bed, his knees pushing down into her thighs, holding them there, pressing harder when she tried to resist and harder still when she complained that it hurt. Securing the cuffs, he moved to her ankles, roughly spreading them, fingers digging into her calves and shins as he secured them to the struts of the headboard.

She sat there, immobilised, watching the emotions play out across his face - should he return to gentle seduction with the promise of bringing her slowly to the peak of excitement over a very gradual climb or should he shift immediately to a position of total control, roughly turning her over to take her in the manner he'd planned all along.

He enjoyed the contrast of the two scenarios but, more than anything, he loved to hurt her before making it up to her with an orgasm to die for.

His English bitch.

He knew what she wanted. Knew her body like the back of his hand. But he had been away a long time. Could he wait much longer? Should he just rush in or should he trade on the accumulating lust of promise after delay?

Reaching into the bedside drawer, he withdrew the implement of her future gratification. Pulling at the lace coverings, he exposed her breasts as it sprang into life. Soft bristles slowly connecting with her stiff nipples as she stared up at him.

'Tell me about your medals,' she whispered. 'There is nothing more horny than being at the mercy of a dominant alpha male whilst he tells you about his heroics. Pointing to each piece of ribbon as he slowly divests himself of his uniform.'

He laughed softly at the request. His fingers stroking the curve of her cheek before placing the toothbrush into her cuffed hands and directing its attention between her legs.

'Would you like to hear about the ones from Iraq first?'

And with her nod of assent, he removed his belt, his voice soft and low in her ear, describing slowly how the first few ribboned rows were earned: the fear, the danger, the horror and the heroism. The hum of the toothbrush in the background, his hand under her head, gripping her hair as she took herself to the summit and then back down again.

Before she had time to recover, he pulled her up bodily by her shoulders so that she was pressed against the wall behind the bedhead. Administering six of the best with the belt, delighting in her shocked squeals as parts of her body rebounded with a double impact. Grinning as he noticed that the toothbrush had barely moved from its cosy position between her legs and watching the ripples of another climax run through her from the assault.

Driving his hand between her buttocks, he penetrated her, two fingers in that drenched pussy and one up her arse, relishing the screams as she pushed back against him so he could feel the orgasm clenching the muscles around his hand.

His cock felt thick and hard wedged between her back and his belly as he held her. Throbbing against the thin fabric of his trousers. Desperate to be let out.

But still his fingers continued to ride her wet cunt, pushing the toothbrush to one side and massaging her clit, taking it between two of them, vibrating and pinching to the accompaniment of her excited sobs. His thumb slid easily in and out of her butt and she could feel another wave of ecstasy shocking her body. Convulsions of pleasure rendered her almost beyond the ability to make a sound.

He slowly moved his hands from her, running them down her thigh, caressing it, his lips close behind, licking, gently sucking at her flesh. His fingers reached the shackle on her right ankle and set it free. Gently he lifted the loosened leg, placing her foot on the headboard. She began to realize his intentions, replaced the toothbrush in its familiar groove and the moans began anew.

She heard him unzip and felt hot skin throb against her bare bottom. Suddenly his body was tight against hers and then he lowered himself, his right knee pressed under her thigh. With a violent thrust he lifted her with his hard cock, slamming it into her, shocking her with the force, causing her to gasp... and then beg.

He waited for her pleas to reach a sufficient level of entreaty before he renewed his movements.

Fully engorged, thick, filling and ploughing her furrow, blasting off the balls of his feet, each thrust harder, straining her remaining tethered ankle, the pain shooting up her leg.

His left hand grabbed her hair, yanked it back and his lips were on her ear as he began to fuck her with an animal rhythm.

'Take it, take all of it my English Bitch....'

She felt him come for what seemed like hours, shooting into her, blasting through her, his hands squeezing her nipples as she joined him, shrieking triumphantly.

When the tremors finally subsided, she collapsed limply against him, allowing him to lower her carefully until she was resting across the mattress, her hands still cuffed and one ankle maintaining her connection to the bed.

He zipped up his pants and stroked his hand across her naked shoulders before he whispered:

'I'm going downstairs. I have a feeling you'll still be here when I'm ready for you again.'

Wednesday, 12 March 2008

Cake's Inexplicable Crush Meme

OK, you all know what I mean. That impossible to explain attraction. The one where you admit it to your friends and they all curl their lips with disdain and go 'ewwwwww!'

I'll confess first:



Yup! Martin O'Neill.

With his soft Irish brogue, his almost fey, professor-ish manner, I can remember seeing him on Match of the Day as a pundit and being captivated.

Obviously I was in seventh heaven when he took over at Aston Villa and I got completely over-excited when I went to my first-ever football match and there he was in his black tracksuit jumping up and down and waving his arms about only a few hundred yards a way.

I don't expect you to approve or understand... it just... is...

So, is there anyone about whom you are prepared to own up?

BendyGirl, Redheaded Editor, Isa

and some guys - there must be women who come into this category so:

Fat Controller, Phil, Ro

Tuesday, 11 March 2008

Sugasm #122

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #123? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Sex and love; anger and appeasement “And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely.”

The Tetrised Luggage “Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat.”

You never know who we are “People tend to have an idea of who can/does talk about sex.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults) The Media vs. Pornography

Editor’s Choice Red Assed Mouthsoaping for His Lies

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Monday, 10 March 2008

Period Pants

I was reading Gorilla Bananas post entitled Lingerie Larceny (sorry, I don't seem to be able to link direct to the post but it's about the second one down from the top) and it made me think about our choices of underwear.

After watching several series of Gok Wan's 'How to Look Good Naked', I am horrified at the rather unpleasant contents of some ladies' knicker drawers. I'd be embarrassed to hang most of them out on my washing line. In fact, Gok took exception to a lot of them and proceeded to destroy these insults to lingerie with shredders and scissors and the like.

But what horrified me the most was that when these women first went to meet Gok, a well-known celebrity and style guru who was going to give them a physical and emotional makeover in front of a television crew, they had not taken the trouble to don their best underwear.

Perhaps the ladies studied in the first series can be forgiven, but the subjects of the second series had absolutely no excuse since there was a definite format to the programmes.

So, when Gok took photos and enlarged them to hang from billboards so that spectators could admire these women's physiques and make positive comments, my cheeks burned in embarrassment for those poor women.

Not because they were overweight but for the fact that they had allowed themselves to be viewed by a man and a cameracrew wearing not only non-matching bras and pants but also ones which were old and faded and had long since lost their lycra.

Looking through my own underwear drawers - yes I have two - one contains lingerie 'for best' and the more risque examples, and another is for my day-to-day undies.

There are examples of lots of different styles of butt covering: Boypants or Brazilian pants in a lycra/cotton mix, in lace and also with satin ribboned bows. These have become my favourite. They show off the cheeks of my booty to perfection and are the right height not to peek out when I bend over in low-waisted jeans.

Thongs, lacily pretty as well as practically plain. In days gone by, I swore I would never wear such a garment. The idea of having my most delicate parts tormented by a cheese wire seemed like a very bad choice. However, having viewed my beautiful derriere with the less jaundiced eye of the new me and experienced the joy of the cool breeze against one's nether regions when wearing a skirt, I have to say that I have reconsidered that rather short-sighted and dogmatic approach.

At this point it is necessary to address the fashion for low-waisted jeans that reveal some scuzzy strip of cheap, old cotton, or even a diamante-encrusted T when the occupant of said jeans sits down or bends over slightly. This is a look which has quite passed me by. I find it deeply distressing. If you're going to show off your pants, then please make them attractively lacy or silky.

And, finally, the ubiquitous high leg brief - comfortable under training bottoms and leaving no fear of exposure in a clinch. These are in the day-to-day drawer, along with those that have seen better days and become big, soft, comfortable cotton period pants. Heaven forfend that I should leave the house wearing a pair of those!

When I first started seeing Ruf, I discovered that I couldn't always make the timing of my visit equate to the right time of the month and it was necessary to find something suitable to wear on those occasions - especially for the nights when you just can't always rely on the efficiency of your sanitary ware (no matter what the people with the wings imply in their rollerskating, mountain climbing, scuba diving adverts). I immediately purchased a little short, slinky, silk nightie and sorted through my older lingerie sets where the knickers were high leg briefs which could accommodate the more bulky night-time pads. If I couldn't wear revealing lingerie - or indeed nothing at all - I could at least wear a nice sexy matching combination, even if it was going to be covered up.

To my bemusement, it soon became apparent that Ruf was not disconcerted by my predicament. After an initial surprised exclamation of: 'Oh, big pants!', he didn't even seem to be bothered too much by sanitary towels. If they got in the way of his lustful urges, he would just remove the offending item, cast it aside and carry on regardless.

I must confess that his face at the resulting mess on the first occasion he did this was something of a picture. He looked down at his pink cock and the rapidly expanding red puddle on the bedsheets, muttered something about 'an axe murder' and left the room with some haste. I, needless to say, was mortified and considered vacating the premises forthwith. It took some effort on his part to calm me sufficiently to persuade me to stay.

After that initial shock, we decided to attempt a re-entry with the aid of a tampon and some judiciously placed bath towels. This seemed to stop the majority of the fallout and was quite a pleasant experience... until I discovered that the attached string had disappeared inside me well beyond my reach. It was left to Ruf to rootle around up there like a vet to ascertain that his thrusts had forced the tampon to fold back on itself and it needed to be coaxed out with dexterous fingers.

I have to say that, being in that condition certainly doesn't impinge on my ability to climax. Sometimes, I think that I am even hornier than usual. So, for the days when things are at their most fluid, we resort to other methods of satisfaction. After all, to quote some male sources: 'Isn't that why women have three holes?'

Saturday, 8 March 2008

Muffin Top

Selena posted recently about the horrendous attitude of the media with regard to the perfect size and shape.

Her post made me reflect for most of the day on the final paragraph which showed a picture of some more generously proportioned women as photographed by Leonard Nimoy and pondered whether this was an image that should be preferred.

As an anorexic, I view fat with horror. And I mean any excess fat. To the extent that, after all my efforts to bring up my teen with a positive body image, I recently found myself commenting that her super-skinny jeans were giving her a muffin top. I tried not to say it in a derogatory way but I did want to draw attention to the fact that she has been putting on weight recently.

Whether this is to do with her starting to take the Pill, coinciding with her refusal to eat proper meals with the family and existing on a diet of fizzy drinks, Red Bull, alcohol, crisps, chocolate, popcorn and sandwiches purchased from the local mini-market, I am not totally sure. But her previously spare frame is starting to fill out quite markedly.

I want her to feel confident in her body. But, on the other hand, I don't want to say nothing as it expands... until it has got to the point where it is going to be difficult to deal with.

After making the remark, I felt terrible! Eventually, I went back and had a chat with her about it and explained that I didn't think she was getting fat, just that the type of clothes she was choosing and the low-slung way she was wearing them accentuated some additional flesh she had acquired on her hips and midriff which could be due to taking the Pill or her poor diet.

A few days later, she started talking about getting a gym in the garage and doing some exercise, as well as addressing her diet. She is now eating soup at home rather than going to buy the other rubbish from the mini-market.

I can only hope that I have managed to address the problem without making her feel bad about her body image but it was such a hard subject to tackle, particularly in the light of my own history as I am not sure that I have the correct mindset to differentiate properly between well-covered and fat. All her relatives on her paternal side are overweight, bordering on obese with BMIs well into the 30s and blood pressure and heart problems as a result. I fear that her genes may well lead her down that road rather than the slender frames of my forebears.

If we look back to the past when Rubenesque figures were the fashion, we have to ask ourselves what percentage of the female population actually possessed such a physique. Was it purely those who had the money to be able to eat regularly? And what was it that they were eating to acquire such curves.

In today's society, we should be promoting healthy eating and a proportionate figure, taking into account that some people really do have bigger frames than others - not showing the polar extremes of skeletal models and obese blobs.

Portion sizes need to be addressed as well. Why do we need Super Size Meals? After watching a programme recently called 'Half Ton Mum', a friend commented that 'if these people are confined to bed because they are too fat to get up, who is feeding them so much that they maintain their weight and, worse, put on more?' Surely anyone can see that they have a major problem if the Fire Department have to be called in to turn them over in bed...? And, again, if someone takes up two seats on a bus or a plane...

I know there are lots of curvy bloggers who are totally comfortable with their bodies and whose lovers adore their buxom shapes but this post isn't about people who are happy with their figures. They will not be affected by whatever examples of perfection the media choose to designate our ultimate physical goal.

But, you see, I also have several friends who almost tearfully bemoan the fact that they are overweight and then proceed to confess that they can eat a whole packet of biscuits in one sitting. They say they want to lose weight but they're not actually prepared to eat less or exercise more to achieve this. Yes, some of it can definitely be blamed on hormones but I fear that this is also a modern disorder.

In my childhood, people couldn't afford to eat that quantity of a luxury foodstuff in one sitting. As a kid, we might have had a bag of crisps maybe once a week and the same with chocolate bars. I don't recall many fat kids at my school, whereas at my children's, there are one or two in every class. Kids today can get through two or three packets of crisps and chocolate bars per day in addition to regular meals without getting the opportunity to run it off. And this is not a class issue, it is prevalent in all walks of life.

When I was a kid, there were some bigger ladies but their sudden weight increase all too often coincided with a problematic menopause and seems more linked with the advent of the compulsory hysterectomy at a time when hormones were even less well understood than they are today. It was a case of, if it's a problem, whip the uterus out, without any thought for the resultant hormonal imbalance that was created, particularly in relation to thyroid.

So if we decided to promote the rounder figure as being the norm, what would happen? Would there be fewer cases of eating disorders like anorexia and bulimia as a result of the absence of size 0 models and actresses on the catwalks and in the newspapers? Would we be happier about ourselves and our appearance if it were easier to emulate what was perceived to be the norm?

Personally, I suspect we would just get even more obese people. We have lost the ability to choose wisely and our sweet tooth has been amplified by the addictive nature of the chemicals that are put into our food to sweeten them so we want more of the same all the time... and these days most people have the funds to feed the habit.

If you tell humans, it's ok to be fat, then some will just think they've been given carte blanche to get even fatter.

Thursday, 6 March 2008

Mental Infidelities - The Voyeur

I know what you want.

I know how much you want to hold the woman who wants you to make love to her. To take her in your arms knowing that it is just the start of the journey and the eventual destination is wet and wanton and wicked.

You want to feel her press her breasts into your chest, run her hands over your body, demonstrate her desire for you. Her lips soft and warm against your face. Her tongue wrapping around yours and burying itself deep inside your mouth. Hear her breathing quicken as your fingers find her nipples and squeeze. You want to rip her clothes off and have her return the favour. Feel her naked flesh against yours, her arms around your neck, hard nipples thrusting into your chest, thighs gripped around your waist, cunt opening for you, soft and slick against your belly. Wanting, lusting, begging for you.

You want to push her back onto the bed and look down at her as she smiles invitingly up at you. Watch the flush of excitement in her cheeks, her lips demanding ‘I want you. I want you to fuck my cunt right now’ and experience the warm, wetness against the tip of your cock as you penetrate her. The tight, lush moistness enveloping you as she opens her pelvis wider so you can drive deeper. The muscles tightening around you as you plunge into her, plundering her silky depths and then withdraw, over and over again. Be aware of the blood pounding in your ears, your throat tightening around the shout of grateful relief as you shoot inside her to the moans and squeals and giggles as she climaxes, your bodies taut with the tension of release and then relaxing back into a sweaty embrace.

Feel her breath in your ear as she whispers endearments and strokes your face, your shoulders, the small of your back, your butt as you drift into the sleep of satisfied fulfilment.

I know what you want.

This was written back in my early days as a Blogger. What I did not reveal then was the whole story.

I had become virtually friendly with someone who read my words. I enjoyed his interest. This man entertained, intrigued and excited me. I had no intention of being physically unfaithful to Ruf but we had been together for some time and his attentions were not as all encompassing as they had once been. It was not that he loved me any less but there were gaps appearing in what had been the constant safety net of his interest… and the man I shall call the Voyeur was there to fill them.

We flirted and sparred verbally and I was incredibly flattered until I realised that I had to tell him that the only way I could ever consider being with him for real would be if Ruf was involved. And then my imagination began to work its magic and I started to hear the words for what he wanted.

His was not an unusual story: A man who was married but had not had any sexual activity for some years. A man who loved his wife and didn’t want to be unfaithful, so he masturbated over what he read on the internet.

I wanted to imagine what it would feel like for him to be in a room with a woman he desperately desired after such a long period of enforced celibacy. To touch her skin and rediscover the joy of being wanted in return. To achieve that peak of physical release as her muscles contracted around him and sucked him dry after so long.

I envisaged all of this… and then I put Ruf in the same room, sitting on a chair and viewing the scene.

I found the whole concept of being watched incredibly arousing. Suddenly a three-some was not a total impossibility. And so the idea of Ruf and Smooth was born, although, in the final draft, Smooth became a composite of a lot of men to whom I had been attracted.

I’m not proud of the way he made me feel but when I visited Ruf a weekend later, I took the Voyeur with me… in my head.

In reality, the Voyeur knew that I was going to see my lover and was well aware of how excited I was at that prospect… because I had told him.

In a break between the bouts of wonderful sex with my Ruf, I went online and checked my emails. The temptation to respond to the Voyeur’s was overwhelming. Not talking about sex specifically but obliquely letting him know that I was getting lots, before returning to bed and making love to my man.

It became impossible to fight the urge to pretend that I was performing for the Voyeur watching from his chair at the end of the bed. I didn’t even know what he looked like, just that he was tall and dark. A half-formed presence lurking in the shadows, studying my every move. And the knowledge that, wherever he was over that weekend, he would be picturing me giving and receiving pleasure. To imagine him wondering what it would feel like to actually be there in that room… that thought was electrifying.

It was cruel, it was faithless but, my God, it was exciting.

My brain was in overdrive from this additional stimulation and I was like an animal - feral and savage in my pursuit of our orgasms. Frenetic fucking causing fierce guttural groans to force their way through my lips as I came and came.

I never told the Voyeur of the effect his virtual presence had on that one session of lovemaking but, perhaps it was for the best that a few weeks later, when I returned from a holiday, he had disappeared...

Sugasm #121

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #122? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Why I like sex blogs “A few have changed the way I think about certain issues.”

A Date With Murphy “No. NO! This is not fucking happening.”

Lust and Sassiness “Some of the flames that your feistiness stoke within me lack subtlety, lack grace, lack restraint.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself The Writer Strike

Editor’s Choice An After The Date Love Letter

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Monday, 3 March 2008

Holding Out For a Hero

Listening to tales from some of my divorced/single friends about their continuing search for the perfect man, I can't help wondering if we women are so obsessed with finding the 'man of our dreams' that we overlook the less obvious charms of the more modest men of our acquaintance with the sweeping generalisation of 'he's not my type'.

My ideal man has always been the archetypal romantic fiction hero - 6', dark or blonde but definitely brooding, slim and muscular; cold and mysterious with a warm, soft centre that only I can unlock. I married one of them. But, statistically, there have been more men who were dark haired, 5'8" stocky types who, I believe, were selected by my body rather than my brain. I wasn't mentally 'in love' with them the way I was with the heroes but my physical attraction to them was just as strong and yet my mind kept telling me that I was going against my natural instincts of what I wanted in a man.

Do we have a tendency to listen to the insistent voice in our head that specifies its preference for the more fashionably acceptable version of manhood - the personification of masculinity incarnate that we can show off to our girlfriends - rather than accept the instinctive choice of our body? Are our minds swayed by facial beauty, height and physique so that we ignore the softer call of a genuine instinctive connection between two bodies?

A blogger told me recently that she had a huge crush on Ruf, the enigmatic male counterpoint of my tales.

It got me to thinking about the whole 'hero' thing for Ruf definitely doesn't fall into the category of 'my type'. He has described himself as 'short and fat', neither of which is true. At 5'8", he is dark and stockily solid, with eyes that sparkle with mischief and a smile that makes me melt.

As Bonnie Tyler sang:

Somewhere after midnight
In my wildest fantasy
Somewhere just beyond my reach
There’s someone reaching back for me

Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat
It’s gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet

And I have wondered occasionally whether I am as much in love with the idea of him - the almost flawless character I have virtually created - as I am with the real man. In this blog, I write about all the best of him but, like all men, he is not completely perfect and I tend not to dwell on those aspects, preferring to focus on his finer attributes.

So, last week, I wrote:

As we lay there, snuggling for a moment of refraction, I just drank him in. I love being in this position, tucked under his arm with my head on his shoulder and my hand stroking his chin and his chest - my Sanctuary. It has the most calming effect on me.

It makes me realise how lucky I am to have found him. Tess did a post about gspots recently and said that she would far rather have a man who could find her soul. But what I have found with Ruf is a someone who can do both. A man who makes me feel so beautiful and special that I walk around like the Ready Brek kid with a glowing external aura.

He stirs in me such amazingly positive emotions and our future together is so uncertain that I use my blog to celebrate the here and now. The perfection of the fantasy that we have built around us. I don't want to focus on how my friends or family will perceive him. Whether he will meet their criteria for the man who is suitable for me. I definitely don't want to think about what it will be like living with him 24/7, when what seem like funny foibles might become gross irritations.

When I hear this Elvis song, I get that familiar prickle at the back of my throat and the tears start to well up.

When no-one else can understand me
When everything I do is wrong
You give me hope and consolation
You give me strength to carry on

And you're always there to lend a hand
In everything I do
Thats the wonder
The wonder of you

And when you smile the world is brighter
You touch my hand and I'm a king
Your kiss to me is worth a fortune
Your love for me is everything

I guess I'll never know the reason why
You love me like you do
Thats the wonder
The wonder of you

It expresses sentiments that everyone wishes for in their relationship - and I have found these with Ruf. So, doesn't that make him my hero even if he doesn't fulfil the physical criteria that my romantic younger self had set for such an accolade? Add to that the continuing amazing connection between our bodies and surely he must be the right man?

Sometimes I want so much to suspend belief and be totally and truly certain that we could maintain this wonderful partnership in the real world. That we do have a permanent future together at some point. The uncertainty often makes both of us wonder if we should give it all up now for fear that we are investing so much precious time and emotion in something that can never be.

We're all holding out for a hero but when routine and mundane matters overtake the romantic fantasy, will they all turn out to have feet of clay?

Sunday, 2 March 2008

Tagged - Random Cake

I have been tagged by Allie to confess to you all seven strange facts about myself...

The rules are as follows:
1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Share seven random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog.
4. Tag seven random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
5. Leave a comment on their blogs so that they know they have been tagged.

Gosh, this is hard! I think I'm too sensible to do really weird things.

1. As I have mentioned before, I like gravy with everything and whenever someone mentions licking chocolate or cream off their lover's body, I always imagine doing it with gravy. Ruf says it will be too messy but I'm not completely deterred and remain hopeful...

2. I'm very persistent. I don't like to fail or be beaten by something. I will stay up til all hours to finish a book or jigsaw puzzle - even if I'm not enjoying it.

3. I get travel sick and vertigo so I don't willingly do heights or fairground rides.

4. Horror movies give me nightmares. You may not have noticed, but I do possess a very vivid imagination. I can scare myself far more effectively than any film director.

5. I once won a talent competition as a ventriloquist - no I wasn't the dummy!

6. I have that whole index finger longer than the third finger thing going on. This, apparently, means that I was subjected to lots of testosterone in the womb which accounts for some of my more masculine tendencies... like enjoying watching football and rugby. I'm afraid it does not extend to cricket, which I find dull in the extreme - unless it's one of those really exciting run-chasing competitions with the Ashes or some other major trophy at stake. In that case, I understand the concept and can watch enthusiastically. However, normal five-day matches leave me completely bemused by teams being able to win because it rained!

7. I try really hard to be nice to everybody and smile at everyone, which often gets me into trouble because I also seem to be a magnet for weirdos. Ruf tells me I should just tell them to go forth and multiply but I'm too polite and don't want to hurt their feelings. It's all part of my desire for approval and validation and I recognise that, but I'm not sure if it's something I want necessarily to change. Yes, people take advantage and think that they can treat me badly and get away with it but I think I'd rather that than become hard and suspicious.

I shall tag:

Bendy Girl