F/G/T

Her writing does something explosive to me. Her words create an awareness, a divine feeling of being larger than oneself. Her descriptions have a way of flowing within, leaving me changed in some small way.

"I suppose I’m drawn to the rules of language for the same reasons that I’m drawn to sex that has ropes, blindfolds, the sting of floggers and the sweet smell of submission. I like rules because I like to break them. I like structure because I enjoy subverting it. I like structure, and structure is narrative, and just as I pretty much abhor free-form poetry, I pretty much abhor lyrical fucking, that rose-petal-strewn-bed, Sarah McLaughlin saccharine flavor lovemaking—that kind of sex that abides by conventional Hallmark syntax and doesn't allow for nips, bites, wicked attenuations, or short declarative sentences of pneumatic fucking.

I like some DeLillo fucking. Self-referential, meta-sex expressed in tidy syntax like a parade of carefully shorn terriers. I see the beauty of Woolf foreplay, a long and languid descriptive frottage where the infinitesimal movement of one saltshaker can be laded with meaning. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good libido should be in want of Austen necking. I like discursive sex, narrative sex, argumentative sex, and expositive sex. I like my fucking to be bigger than a greeting card and a lot more memorable."

Chelsea G. Summers at FilthyGorgeousThings

Ghosts of contests past

I won! Back in the day (October!), but I still won, nonetheless.

I entered a contest featured through aag, sponsored by Original Sin Hard Cider.

I strongly recommend checking out their posters. They are sexy, gorgeous, delicious little bits of life.

I won a comfy tee shirt, and got to pick two pretty posters as well.

See?






Now, no more contest talk.

Sock Dreams

Le sigh...




via Sock Dreams

This war I fight, I can no more

My skin is on fire. My heart is pounding, my breath short. She caused this.

She yielded softly to my kisses. She yielded and it seemed as if she had no interest. She does not raise her hands to my sides, does not pull my head to her. She passively accepts my lips. I keep kissing, desperate for a response, desperate to drive some desire into her. I ask, "What must I do for you to engage?" She breathes, "Engage?"

I brush her nipples through both layers of her cotton t-shirt. She arches, almost imperceptibly. Engaged.
I let my hand graze her side, push up her shirt, finally, finally brush her skin. Her heat amazes me. It's a dream.

I push her shirts up over her head, almost roughly. She grumbles a bit. I push up her bra. I can barely see her in the dark, though I know she prefers it that way. I can see she's soft. Her breasts are beautifully round, her nipples erect. I can't not have them in my mouth. I touch a nipple with my tongue, and she arches deeply. She writhes. She pushes her breasts at me, wanting more contact. I take as much of her into my mouth as my mouth will hold, more even. Heaven.

I want more of her. I brush kisses down her stomach, grazing her tattoos. Those tattoos....oh. I no longer just want her, I need her. Must taste her, must please her. Please?

"No," she says. "No," crushes me. I push kisses past the line of her pants...just a little. Crossing no boundaries. I kiss those gorgeous hips, I breathe in her heady scent. "No," she tells me.

I bite, just a soft bite, at her through her pants. I pray for the cloth to just dissolve, melt away. It will not. She said no.

I surface to kiss her. Again, she yields. I place my hand where my mouth was, pushing, rubbing, trying to please her. Still no permission.

I lay between her legs, kissing that yielding mouth. She and I have the same thought. She rolls me under as I roll her over me to straddle. Seamless. I cannot keep my hands off of her skin. So hot.

She's kissing me back. I grab her hips, push them against me. I am desperate to please her. I want to hear her orgasm. She rocks with my motions. She devours my mouth, her hands pulling at my hair, caressing my face. I feel her hand slide to my neck. She gently squeezes. She tests me, tightening a little. My head is thrown back, awaiting her administrations. Those kisses, the rocking, the caresses. I swoon. She is practically holding me up, against her.

We kiss, and it is over. I cannot please her tonight. My skin is on fire. I ache for her. We go to lay down. I fear that she will move away if I reach for her. She moves close, allows contact. She feels guilty, as do I for putting her in this position.

The guilt does not stop me from wanting more though.

Please?

Oh, Betty.

Oh, Betty. *Breathy sigh...*





Look, The vid is a little dark, and the speaking parts are in French...but it still rocks my world. Oh, and ya'll know it's from The L Word, riiight?