Saturday, 30 August 2008


He reached out to me that night.

For the first time in a while.

His finger tips, hard and nubbly against my back.

I shook him off as best I could. It's uncomfortable... even when they're not quite touching. Knowing that they're there, millimetres away from my body. Like a forcefield that I'm about to crash into.

His rhythmic breathing showed that he was definitely asleep.

Then his palm moved onto my shoulder.

I tried to twitch it away without success. So I lay there for a while and wondered at his subconscious motivation for such an action.

But it was ever so.

Unable to voluntarily manifest affection either physically or verbally in the daylight world, his sleeping mind would initiate it in the darkness.

In the past, I would recognise this plea for love in the form of sex and submit. Give him what he wanted and needed and hope that he would return the favour in reverse... knowing in my heart of hearts that it was unlikely to result in a satisfactory ending from my point of view.

On this day, for the first time, I stuck firm to my decision.

I shrugged him away and, when that was unsuccessful, I withdrew my body to the farthest reaches of the bed...

... and wished that things could have been different.

Friday, 29 August 2008

Sugasm #144

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 #145? 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

Bush Rides Again: Birth Control Defined as “Abortion”? “The reason you tweak laws, redefining them or broadening their definitions, is to create the opportunity for a legal climate in which challenges may better succeed.”

First Time For Everything: A Polyamorous Relationship “The only real trouble with being a triad came from the world around us.”

Sex Work And Compassion: Panty Tree “I will never feel shame for being a sex worker.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice I Meet the Business End of Citibank’s Anti-Adult Business Policy

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Thursday, 28 August 2008

HNT: Tinky Winky

Although, I don't have huge brown eyes or a nose like a tomato, one of my friends still calls me Winky.

As in the house elf in Harry Potter. You know, the ones who aren't allowed to wear very much by way of clothing and do all the household chores.

Not being an HP fan, Ruf just says I'm a Twinky because I'm always wandering around his home in various states of undress insisting on cleaning things.

And d2b has also been working hard over here


Tuesday, 26 August 2008

Tissue of Lies

Will Smith was over in the UK recently promoting his latest film in various interviews with Jonathan Ross and the like.

The renowned 'nice guy' has a reputation as giving one of the best celebrity chats. He never seems to get upset by anything and several media folk asked him if there was anything that really wound him up.

He replied: 'Lying. The worst person in the world is a filthy rotten liar!' And went into some depth about how upsetting that particular trait can be. The gist being that the commission of a sin can be rectified but the perpetration of an untruth cannot.

It came up again in the series 'Criminal Justice'. Ben Coulter was asked in the witness box whether he considered himself a responsible, truthful and honest person. When he replied in the affirmative, he was led through his behaviour on the evening of the murder for which he was on trial. How he had borrowed his father's cab without permission and with no insurance, picked up a strange young woman, driven her to the beach, imbibed Class A drugs and alcohol and then driven her to her home. Woken up to find her dead and run away from the scene of the crime, returned and tried to cover up the evidence and then continually refused to reveal the details of what had happened that night. That revelation did nothing to improve the jury's opinion of the young man.

Both situations made me stop and think.

I would like to think that I am a decent, honest and truthful person but a closer inspection of my behaviour over the last couple of years would tend to belie that assertion.

Sometimes I hate the person I have become.

Lying, cheating, duplicitous, untrustworthy.

These are not words that I would like associated with me but that is how other people might view my current persona with no knowledge of all the other mitigating circumstances... and perhaps they still would, even if they did.

The mistress of spin.

Where the careful composition of a sentence, the omission of a few salient points can turn veracity into a half-truth that will satisfy any enquiry as to my actions or my motivation.

The worst part is that once you have told the first fib, they start to proliferate. Each additional lie covering the original until you have constructed this whole fabric of untruths and feel like the proverbial Pinocchio.

It is not a nice place to be.

I have tried to keep my falsehoods to a minimum. Preferring not to give too much information unless specifically asked. White lies then, rather than full-blown whoppers.

But, however much I try to dress it up, I have still fashioned a web of deceit, in total contrast to the whiter-than-white honesty of my former self.

Monday, 25 August 2008

Friday, 22 August 2008

OverRated: The Airbrush Dilemma

It was just a hair!

But the camera's flash or the light from the window had fallen upon it in such a way that it looked a definite shade of whitish grey. One strand loose at the front away from the carefully crafted stripes that had cost a fortune at the hairdressers.

I know that I am very lucky in that I do not seem to have any grey hairs as yet - plenty of white eyebrows - but none on my head. And yet, when I looked at the close-up pictures, there it was. Bold as brass. Without even a by your leave.

When Osbasso asked me to be his Mystery Guest, I was absolutely thrilled and selected this photograph for the guess-who shot. I decided that the prominence of the hair was just me being picky. But Os commented on it too.

Aaaargh! I instantly attacked it in Photobucket with the wrinkle/blemish smoother. And took out a few forehead wrinkles in another. Done. Gone. But...

I had only the previous week taken Fairy Flutters to task for considering using an airbrushed version of her beautiful body and exhorting her to love herself as she was.

And what had I just done?

Nope. Fake photograph deleted.

I have been given a wonderful gift. A body that has retained its bloom and a pleasing shape well into my late forties. And I am griping about one possibly grey hair and a few frown and laughter lines.

The following morning I took some more photos. This time there was no evidence of the rogue hair... to my relief.

But if it had been there, I suspect I would have chosen one where it was not showing quite so badly.

I think carefully selecting the pictures that you use is just natural vanity, whereas airbrushing steps over the line into the realms of deception... of both the reader and yourself.

It is a very over-rated method of eradicating the marks of the natural passage of time. The visible signs that we have lived and loved and laughed and cried. Its ubiquitous use in any photographs in magazines and newspapers means that we have lost our instincitive perception of normal appearance and become fixated with the vain pursuit of not only our lost youthful bloom but also a simulated bodyshape which is virtually impossible to achieve naturally, leading us slowly but surely to the plastic surgeon and the botox purveyor.

So, the only time I will be using such a feature is on Ruf's tattoos to preserve his anonymity.

Having my Cake and Eating it Too - AN AIRBRUSH-FREE ZONE

Thursday, 21 August 2008

HNT: Olympic

Is it just me, or does the Olympic Stadium in Beijing look like...?

With thanks to d2b and Osbasso himself for working so hard to try to sort out the coding to get the mouseover onto the clickthru photo of my London Eye rather than the main pic of the Stadium. If anyone does have a code that will make this work, I'd love to hear from them. Apparently, it's something to do with my Javascript, which is a step beyond for me :)


Tuesday, 19 August 2008

Let's Pretend...

Let's pretend the past's forgotten and that we can start afresh
Put aside the sniping comments and not rend each other's flesh
Try to focus on the good times - not resentment and the pain
And try to be two people who were once in love again

Let's pretend the history is gone; that we can make amends
And hope that we can find the heart to carry on as friends
Face up to all the problems that we try to dance around
For the sake of both our children we must find some common ground

Let's pretend I'm not pathetic and I have a valid claim
That there isn't any reason to apportion all the blame
All I ever wanted were the words you feared to say
I suppose it made me needy 'cos I craved them every day

Let's pretend that it's all over and we both have no regret
Leave the rancour all behind us and just pray we can forget
The way that it stopped working and we couldn't make repairs
Next time I'll choose a man who isn't scared to show he cares

Let's pretend we noticed sooner that we'd both stopped having fun
You can't have been that gobsmacked when I said that we were done
So let's acknowledge all our frailties, but also that we tried
And that there were some good times 'til our mutual passion died

Monday, 18 August 2008

Mute Monday: Singers/Songs/Songwriters

Data provides the soundtrack...

Give this one time...


Saturday, 16 August 2008


What has happened to our children?

What is it that makes them so determined and so oblivious to the negative.

In my day, if my parent said 'no', there would have been a certain amount of argument to try to change their mind but we all knew that 'no' meant 'no' and pushing the issue too far would just make things worse.

These days, the word 'no' is the green light to signal a tirade of abusive recriminations on our parental abilities. It isn't just a case of being the worst parent in the world or that someone else's parents will give permission, it's a blow by blow list of our insufficiencies, accompanied by the mother of all strops and the hurled accusatory question as to why we hate them so much.

It really isn't surprising that so many of us parents cop out for the easy way by saying 'perhaps' or 'maybe' or 'I'll think about it' just to buy a little time and stave off for a few more days what we know is an unavoidable spontaneous combustion. However, it is a false hope, because all of those prevarications are actually heard as a 'yes' in our teenagers' minds and putting off the inevitable only leads to an even bigger eruption when it happens since they will have made all their arrangements on the basis of 'but you said I could!'

And, whilst I'm in grumpy old woman mode', where did all these sleepovers come from?

In my day, as a special treat, our cousins would come to stay for a couple of days in the summer holidays and, if we were really good, in the Easter hols too. We never had friends in the street to spend the night - well not unless our parents were babysitting whilst their parents went out and that didn't happen very often because grandparents tended to be the regular babysitters... or one of the teenagers from further up the street.

Two decades ago, I can remember my nieces and nephews having a friend to sleepover as a birthday treat. And then things started to change. Slumber parties came over the Atlantic, becoming the in-thing for British teenage girls and it all stemmed from there.

Suddenly, it was fashionable to have your friend to stay at the weekend or in the holidays (even if s/he lived just across the street) - when you were at primary school. And then these events became more regular and involving more children with two or three friends to stay and then the other parents returning the favour to the stage where children would be househopping several times in one week.

And, once they get to senior school, those children don't want to stay in their bedrooms if they haven't got televisions. They want to be downstairs 'sleeping' in the front room with a midnight feast plus access to all night dvds and no parental control over what they're watching on cable.

Which, of course, is where mixed sleepovers start to rear their ugly head and the need for propriety exerts the necessity of insisting that each gender is in a different room when they eventually decide to tuck themselves in, especially when the participants are under 16. At which point you have to say, well what's the point of a sleepover under those circumstances? They can stay until 11pm and then be taken home since they only live a few miles away.

It's a whole new world and a source of constant irritation for parents desperately trying to retain control... and failing miserably.

Thursday, 14 August 2008

HNT: Venus de Milo

As requested by Osbasso after my last statue post.

Your wish is my command and it's always good to introduce a little culture into the mix :)

Ruf and I had some fun reproducing this one but I wasn't prepared to go to the extreme of cutting off my arms.

Sadly, I did lose something rather precious a few days later when, whilst cleaning my equipment, I dropped my 7" glass bubble ridged dildo into the sink and watched it break clean in two. Somehow I don't feel quite comfortable with the concept of supergluing my faithful friend back together.

On the positive side, I should rejoice in the fact that its last act was to give me the mother of all orgasms. But I kick myself in the knowledge that it could have been even better had I but been a little braver.

Yes, dear Reader, I am ashamed to admit that, as the advent and egress of each of those bubbles tickled over my gspot taking me higher than I had ever been before, I ran away from the true climax. After thirteen straight days of being fucked senseless with several forays into Squirtville, cystitis was ever at the back of my mind. I had been dosing myself up with cranberry juice, which was holding it at bay, but it was a persistent worry and I was afraid. Looking out over the brink, I lost my bottle, pulling away from the precipice as well as Ruf's persistent thrusts with the toy.

Needless to say I shall be looking for some form of replacement because glass is just too fabulous.

Damn! This post has now degenerated from culture...


Tuesday, 12 August 2008

Back from the Sea

Every day as I make the journey along the cliffs overlooking the river, I think of him. The sailor who captured a part of my heart and would not let go.

I remember my childhood growing up here, a time when I never realised that the sea actually came in azure blue. Close up, the silt of my county's bedrock swirling it tidally into an impenetrable brown sludge, which obscured my feet as I paddled.

Watching the estuary spread out before me. Across the moored cruisers to the little sailing boats criss-crossing through each other and avoiding the path of the tankers in the shipping lanes. From this distance, the block colour of the big stretch of water reminds me of the greyish-blue tint of his eyes and that far-away gaze that had seen horizons greater than I could ever dream of - with not a hint of land in sight.

That definitive line where the sky merges into the sea. With himself and his colleagues aboard what seems a behemoth in dock - now just the merest dot dipping and rising between the swell of each enormous wave in the vast, empty expanse of ocean.

She had called to him persistently during his time ashore. It had tugged at him endlessly, his desire for those great, open, wet spaces and the camaraderie of his fellows. No matter how hard I had tried, I couldn't fight the allure of one of Nature's most powerful creations. She was his real mistress, leasing him to me for a few short moments whilst her hold on his heart remained eternal. Until, eventually, she called him back to the warmth of her bosom.

His greatest love and his destiny.

Now, he is just the man at the helm, the peak of his hat shading his eyes as he stares forward, guiding the vessel through her foamy embrace... and out of my life.

I wonder if he will ever truly come back from the Sea.

Monday, 11 August 2008

Friday, 8 August 2008

UnderRated: The Power of the Smile

'You've made my day,' the driver called through the window as the dustcart continued its meandering journey up the road past my parked car.

'Excuse me?'

'You're so smiley and lovely. It's really made my day!'

I laughed and waved him on his way and felt this huge wave of pleasure wash over me. It had been so simple to bring some joy to a strange man's work. We had made eye contact as I'd waited to cross the road earlier and exchanged smiles as he stopped the big lorry to let me over in front of him.

The natural course of his day's schedule meant that the vehicle then followed me up the road as I returned to my car. The guys behind the truck throwing in the piles of pink and black sacks to either side of the road.

Every so often he would pass me and wave and I returned his gesture, grinning.
And then as I reached my car, put down my shopping and searched for the keys, he stopped level with me and voiced his appreciation at my friendliness.

It had cost me nothing and his acknowledgement of a gift so freely given had made a very ordinary day into a special one for both parties.


Thursday, 7 August 2008

HNT - Handjob

This is one of my favourite parts of Ruf's body, with the emphasis on his fingers, naturally.

I seem to recall I wrote here and here about what I like him to do with those.

He was complaining bitterly, after a previous visit, about his 'fucking fingers' having been over used and causing him all sorts of grief with his attempts to hit things. Naturally, I just smiled sweetly and said nothing.

But his efforts last Sunday as a result of his research into tantric genital massage were truly spectacular.


Wednesday, 6 August 2008

Sugasm #143

With thanks to everyone who voted x

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 #144? 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

Anti-Porn Protest Gets Weird “People get very excited about their causes and lack the sense to see if the information backs them up. ”

The Come Shot “You don’t see their bodies going blotchily red and hear them howling like a banshee.”

Third Time’s a Charm “If I lift my kilt on Bourbon Street I’m much more likely to get arrested than if Elizabeth takes off her top.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice In My Office

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Tuesday, 5 August 2008

The Sunday Squirt

He couldn't wait to see her.

When she had said she wanted to squirt, he had turned his attentions to researching female ejaculation on the internet. Finding Jaiya on youtube was exactly what he was looking for. Blow by blow instruction on exactly how to achieve this most elusive and controversial manifestation of a woman's pleasure.

Once they had got over the initial rampant lust on the first night after her arrival, they dozed off wrapped in each other's arms. Reacquainting themselves with the intimacy of sleeping together. The pure pleasure to be had merely from two sets of contiguous naked skin on the same 4 feet 6 inches of mattress.

Waking up in the half-light of a sunlit Sunday morning filtering through the curtains, he became aware of her there and smiled. The warmth of her body pressed against his back like a limpet, the light pressure of her hand resting on his hip to remind both of them.

He turned over and, ignoring the dog breath of the previous evening's protein shake, kissed her awake as he had dreamed of doing for so many weeks. Her lips responded until the embrace became a warm, moist mess of mouths and tongues translating into a corresponding desire in each groin. Kneeling up and allowing their hands to explore stroking and caressing their way down each other's bodies until they reached their respective goals. Encircled by her soft palm he investigated the component parts of a wet pussy that was clearly very pleased to welcome him.

But this time things would be different. Naturally, he would avail himself of both the inner and outer labia, smiling as she gurgled her delight beneath his touch. Moving his attentions to her clit as it peeped slightly from underneath its protective sheath and then down to the sweetest spot just before it curves down to her vagina. The soft, silky skin and the little raised circular lump of the entrance to her urethra. Tickling and rubbing at it. Feeling the erectile tissue respond beneath his fingers. The tiny bud, like a minuscule volcanic crater, swelling as the flesh around it moistened. Hearing her little gasps as he played with this nubbly new toy.

And then sliding his fingers forwards and up into her vagina. Inserting two digits, one rubbing the G spot - that soft spongy bit just inside the entrance - and the other hitting her A spot which is about three inches further up. Instantly, he could feel the area under his palm becoming wetter. The combination of the two fingers inside her and the palm heel rubbing frantically across her clit/urethra opening making it squelch beneath his hand as the whole area became saturated and overflowed; squirting its liquid down his wrist and spraying the sheets around their knees as her body bucked in his grasp and she howled into his ear.

Waiting for the shrieks to subside, he held her panting and trembling in his arms until she whispered: 'Again...' and then repeated the process. Later, she explained that she was just ensuring that it was not a fluke like her only other squirting experience.

And it wasn't.

Not that time... or the next... or the one after that when they were lying down and it seemed a shame not to make use of such a beautifully lubricated cunt. When he pulled one of her legs over his shoulder and wrapped the other around his waist and penetrated her as she used her tulip on the area, if he could get cock pressure onto the A Spot whilst she focussed on bearing downwards as if trying to pee, there were more little internal and external liquid eruptions.

It wasn't until he tried for the sixth finger-induced squirt, kneeling on the sodden sheets, that it became apparent that dehydration was setting in and she called a halt to proceedings to take on cranberry juice.

So, to Jaiya, some heartfelt thanks.

Monday, 4 August 2008