“I’m wishing for you to sleep,” she said, speaking quietly.

“I’m wishing for you to have this dream,” I replied, my voice also low, barely over a breath.

Our voices huddled together in the darkness.  I would have opened my eyes but even the unlit room would have held too much light.  And somewhere far away, I was hoping she too was keeping her eyes closed.  It’s how we make the distance disappear.  It’s the only way.

Whispering to her before, in a voice drowsy and full of sleep, the dream is this:

Reclining on the couch, her body lying in mine, a half seated half lying position, muscles relaxed, resting.  The kind of position that allows for shallow breaths, her body curling alongside mine, leaning against the fabric, clawing against my skin.

It’s the closeness we want, we crave so much.  Her body against mine, the skin contact, as we might as well be naked, we’re so close.  Any fabric is pressed so tightly between us that it vanishes.  There aren’t any words necessary when we can communicate like this, the breath hanging in the air so delicately and tenuously.

And that’s the kind of silence that is odd yet completely comfortable when we’re on the phone.

Hearing her breathing, knowing she can hear mine, we sit with our ears pressed against the receivers.  It’s almost a waste of technology, a slap in the face of all the wires and signals flickering digital, wavering analog, between her and me.

And yet it’s enough, to know that in this exact moment, the final few moments before sleep, that her voice is in my ear.  It’s what wraps around me so tightly, slipping underneath the last remaining fortress walls.

This is the fantasy, the sweet seductive lie, that lulls me to sleep.

The intersection of a wish and her voice.

Where we say goodbye, goodnight, and I close my eyes.

It’s nearly 04:30 and I haven’t slept a wink tonight.  I’m stuck in yesterday even though the clock and calendar tell me with a brutal honesty that time continues to march onward.  I can only sigh wearily because my mind isn’t ready yet, to believe them.

It’s a good time to post this up, then:

This Week’s Picks

I can only be what I am.
“It’s strangely refreshing, to really submit and give up that control, and not have to make decisions.”

Don’t we all struggle with identity… a nice piece on accepting and emerging better for it.

Over the Edge
“He tells me to hold still, in that soft, controlling voice of his.”

Powerful.  Blunt and sharp, all at once.

A Story Told Out of Order and Out of Character - Part 4
“You thought you could just come to my room and tease me?”

This is a bit cold, and a bit rough.  I think I like it though.

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
A former slut examined

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
2 Naked filthy bitches spanked, caned and fucked!
Beautiful Smile
Bedroom Radio #17: Pure Pleasure and i-Lube plus Listener Feedback
Free Euro Blonde Adult Chat Video
Gotta turn the naughty on -HNT
Half-Nekkid Fun With Mirrors
Happy HNT!
Mz. Berlin Has Never Looked Hotter Than She Does In This Collar
Mz Berlin, Satine Phoenix, and Hot Wax
Natasha - I want your sex
The Outfit Kris Picked
(Pic) fun at glory hole
Ron Jeremy sticks dirty fingers in her pussy

Sex Advice
Fundamentals of Edging for Newly Chronic Masturbators

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
My favorite shower: A Review
Pirate porn review
Puffy Leather Hood
Review: Cascade Wand
TES Fest 2008 - Celebrating the Red, White (Black) & Blue in Style!

Sex Work
Captain’s Log: Moondancing With Adam Duritz And The Dirtiest Girl In Porn (Yikes!)
Funny email
Happiness Through Porn
Princess Pussy Whipped!!

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Are You a Pickup Artist?
The cable guy, the guest and Me
Doing it DOGGY STYLLEEE……arf arf
From Tomboys To Fab Femme Girls-Talkes From Toronto, Part 1
How to Enjoy the Single (And Non-Dating) Life
I Think I Have A Crush on Lochai
The Other Woman’s Other Men
To be a woman

Sex Humor
It DOES all sound the same!
“My first time” in a men’s world

Erotic Writing and Experiences
The ___ ___ war
Anal Sex from a Female Perspective
Content
Let’s talk semantics
More Mayo!
Once Upon a Time. Confession #70
Professor of Sexual Education
Public sex
Sex, The Heart, and, The Body, Electric
Totally Tuesday

Sex & Politics
Are dominants really just chauvinistic, anti-feminists?
Believing the Victim
A Straight Woman Is Just a Sober Bisexual

BDSM & Fetish
Bath time spanking
Captive in the jungle
Catalina Loves Topping A Couple With Her Master
The Evolution of My Slut - An Update And A Chat With r
Fetish Friday - Watersports
i am my Master’s slut
Jude
The Lilith Obsession, Part the Second
A minor adjustment and an end to the torment (for now)
The Perfect Cure for Grumpyness
A sexual dream
Sgt. Major makes Claire Adams Submit and Cum on Backdoor Bondage
Twenty Questions #6: Dominate or Be Dominated?
Wild Weekend: Day 3

“[six],” she said, pulling her shirt up and over her head, her hair pouring down from the neck of the shirt and onto her shoulders, “where have you been?”

My shirt was gone already, my pants undone but still on, leaning backwards on the bed on my elbows. I blinked, maybe a second too long.

“Oh I see,” she said, stepping closer, her knee folding upwards as she reached the edge of the bed, her hands behind her back, arms bent; the sudden slack in her bra straps revealed that she had undone the clasp. “Well I hope you’ve been keeping her happy.”

I started to shake my head, which was the wrong thing to do.

“So you… haven’t kept her happy?” she asked, leering at me. “Can’t you do anything right?”

(I had burned the fish slightly. The early-Spring steelhead trout was to be steamed and seared with seasonings, not charred. Never mind that the rest of the meal was perfect, the asparagus tender-crisp, the almonds perfectly roasted. The wine paired excellently, with the fish, the salad, the sides. And still, despite this, the wisps of smoke from beneath the lid I’d placed on the cast iron grill pan called out “failure, [six]!”)

She was on the bed now, crawling. A knee landed square between my legs. Another, on the outside of my thigh. A hand poked the bed next to my waist. The other hand higher up, alongside my chest. Her back arched, like a cat in stretch, her hips up but her chest falling, curving away downward, brushing against me, hair falling on my face. I breathed steadily. Even as she rocked gently forward, her weight on her straight arms now holding her chest up, her hips falling, legs spreading, her warmth now landing on my thigh. Scraping against my knee, and slowly warmer as she let her weight shift again, sitting and slowly moving back and forth rubbing herself against my leg.

It was wet.

The moisture seeping through the underwear, now like a hot breath expelled against my knee and thigh. Smeared back and forth in a sawing motion as her eyes closed, her lip half-bitten, the slightest sliver of her upper teeth gleaming at me.

I reached out for her bra, slipping the straps off her shoulders, the first touch of my hands on her skin. It was cold against my hands, the icy stare from her eyes not isolated to her face only. I withstood the chill. I gritted my teeth and pulled her in closer, reaching behind her, my eyes on her breasts, nipples hard and hanging below her tender curves, dangerously close to brushing against my chest.

She continued to saw herself back and forth. The moments with her eyes closed grew longer. Her breath grew shorter.

My hand dared to move down her body. Pressing flat against her chest, between her breasts, I snuck it lower and lower. I felt the falling and rising of her breathing. I felt the results of her tireless trips to the gym. I slid over her navel. I found the waist of her panties. And I pulled.

The tug caught her off guard, the muffled “mmmf” escaping as the fabric was pulled taut against her clit. Against her pussy. Against my leg.

Her hand landed on my chest, nails digging in. I pulled some more. She pressed harder. It was a matter of attrition.

It was a matter of time, before my hands were around her hips, pulling her towards me. Tugging and pulling her panties off; her hands, my hands reaching as far down as they could, pulling them off her legs. All the while her nails not relenting in their steady offensive assault. Half of her weight resting on top of my stomach, still off center, using her thigh and knee to hold herself steady.

My hand reaching between her thighs cupped her pussy, the heel of my palm moving in a swaying motion, side to side. My fingers prodding her folds, the warmth and wetness slipping inbetween my knuckles. It was a swift counter-attack, the pressure on my chest less, her eyes shut tightly. And like gravity in reverse, my fingers pointed upward, slipping into her wetness, plowing between her soft folds, and deep into her pussy.

The wetness made it easy. The position of my arm made it hard. My forearm flexed as my wrist curled upward each time I thrust my fingers into her. My other hand found its way to her breast, my hand spread wide over the soft bulge, her hand quickly covering mine, her fingers pulling and twisting at the nipple escaping just past the webbing between my thumb and index digit.

I witnessed this act of treason, her fingers mercilessly betraying her own body, with deep interest. Her body started to slump forward, her hips shake, and her pussy tighten. And in an instant, she shoved herself onto my fingers, her arm buckling under her weight, my arm unable to keep her steady. Her head landed on my shoulder hard, the sudden weight with a sharp pain added as an exclamation mark making me wince.

Her body on mine, I wriggled my hand free. My fingers were covered in a mixture of her sticky wetness and blood, the pinkish combination speckled with dried up crimson brown smeared all the way to the palm.

I felt her arm moving, her hand dragging itself roughly across the sheets. Over my waist, over my thigh, pulling my pants finally off as she lifted her hips and legs up, my legs wriggling to help. Her hand moved slowly but steadily, upward again until her fingers wrapped around my cock. She let her body slide off to the side of mine, her hand not tugging or pulling at me, not jerking or moving, but instead squeezing. Her grip tightened and loosened in rhythm, my cock growing harder and harder, the blood rushing in with every squeeze of her hand. What a dirty tactic.

Holding out became a fast fading option. After her pussy rubbing against my leg. After her hands on my chest. After her body writhing on top of mine. After her nipple pinched and twisted by her own hand. After her orgasm riding down my fingers.

She didn’t have to jerk hard. Or fast. Or anything, really.

And with little warning I tightened up, my jaw slack and eyes shut as I came, her hand milking my cock. One, two, three splashes of cum fired into the air, landing warm then quickly cold, on my chest and my neck.

My hand instinctively reached for it, too late, smearing her blood with her cum and mine.

She lumbered to her feet, a drunken series of steps to the bathroom, the sound of the faucet on. I got up slowly, finding her wiping herself clean, her face wincing slightly, the bloody toilet paper staining everything pink and red. She left to go dig in her purse for a tampon, I think. Looking in the mirror, I started to wipe myself off, and only now I wonder why I didn’t just go in the shower.

Looking at the toilet, however, the toilet paper accumulated, I couldn’t help but think of something pertaining to casualties, violence, and the loss of human life. It’s the cost of war.

I took a stab at innocence the other day, and yes, it’s as violent as you would think it would be.

I sat on the couch, too many things on my mind. The television was filled with flashing images accompanied by loud sounds. I can’t believe that these are now the cartoons that children watch. That kind of fascination fades too quickly though, and I had so many other things to think and worry about.

It must have been obvious.

The little boy had stopped playing with his action figures (a mixed bunch, Spiderman in mid web-slinging and a robot of some sort - they suddenly found themselves in peace, lying next to each other, the war they had been waging now over) and stood up, giving me a curious look. He found the remote, and turned the television off, the screen now dark. He sat down next to me.

“What’s the matter?” the little boy asked.

I was surprised - a strange mixture with amusement at his question, but more with the way he asked it. He invited elaboration with his inflection.

“I’ve got problems,” I answered with a sigh.

His feet barely touched the ground after he hopped up on the couch next to me. Spiderman and the robot lay on the floor, abandoned for the time being.

“Me too,” I was surprised to hear. But not really. He reminds me a lot of myself when I was a child.

* * * * * *

“I’m sorry,” she said, in her typical apologetic-non-apologizing way, “but if you want kids, it ain’t happening with me.”

I don’t really remember why we started talking about it. But I imagine it began with our hopes and aspirations, and took a sudden turn with her statement.

I’m pretty sure I want kids. I’m still pretty young, and younger still when this conversation took place, but I feel like it’s something beyond the primeval urge to propagate. I want to be a father. To tend to and take care of a person, to give them a fair chance at life. I know that sounds really pretentious and hokey - it really might.

My father was never a part of my life. He was there sometimes, working long hours in a taxicab while we lived in Queens. Or, doing whatever handywork he could to make ends meet.

But we never talked. He never cared about what I was doing, learning, or achieving. We never played catch, talked sports, or sat down, as a father would go from towering over his son to suddenly being on the same level.

The divorce separated us completely, and even after the incidental contact here and there - it was his death that really solidified the fact that he was gone - and never coming back. I heard about it long after it happened. I didn’t cry, and still won’t feel more than the faintest pang of sadness and pain. That’s the kind of dark, black, cold hardness that I have for the man who gave me half of my genetic makeup.

I think that kind of sucks.

Of course my life’s taken some strange turns here and there, and my mother had long ingrained in my head that I was to be the “man of the house,” and had to take care of everything. It forces you to grow up very quickly.

But as dead as my feelings were for my father, I can’t deny the feelings of wanting to be a father. Maybe it’s the desire to have someone look up to me as much as I want to look after them. I have a strong desire to teach by example, to influence someone’s life, to give them everything they need to make the right decisions in life.

And maybe, I have (this silly) faith that if I can do just anything better than my father did, to give them any better of a childhood - that the child would turn out to be a better person than me.

* * * * * *

She wouldn’t have it. No, she flatly refused, the joking nature of her voice only hiding the stern decision in her voice never to have children.

I’m not going to go into detail, like how I argued that I wasn’t implying that I’d wanted kids right then and there - or that I wasn’t ready to take care of a pet, let alone a child - or that I was simply too young and too selfish to put myself in charge of the well-being of someone else - or that I knew she wasn’t emotionally or mentally ready. But it didn’t lead to an argument. Only to the deflation of hope, the slow and sad bleeding out - as I resigned my opinion and let her talk some more while I blankly didn’t listen.

* * * * * *

“What kind of problems would a kid like you,” I said as I tussled the boy’s hair, “possibly have?”

He smiled weakly with his mouth but pouted with his eyes.

“I worry about Mommy. And where Daddy went,” he said, his voice quiet. I know those kinds of worries. I know that kids his age shouldn’t have these kinds of worries.

He stopped. Almost as if he felt that he’d said too much. And I looked at him, his eyes dropped down to his shoes, feet dangling and swinging back and forth as they bounced off the cheap chintzy couch’s upholstery. I wanted to tell him that it was okay, that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t have to hide behind his childhood, that the action figures and television shows and homework and dodgeball - that it’s all okay.

“Tell me something,” he spoke, still looking at his shoes. “Tell me something sad.”

I could have told him anything. I could have told him about my father, about my childhood, about my job, about the fact that I’d run away from my home because his father and I were in serious trouble with dangerous men, about the cuts and bruises on my face and body, about the fear I felt, about the woman with the scars who had materialized so beautifully in my life, about the women I’d left behind… all of it didn’t seem right.

“I think,” I started to say, the fate of this conversation sealed in its sorrow, “that you should be careful of anyone who says they love you.”

He turned and looked at me. His eyes didn’t question me, they didn’t judge the weight of my words, or wonder why I was telling him this sad sad fact. He listened.

“The people who say they love you, it’s dangerous. Love itself is dangerous, and you might not understand what I’m saying just yet, but I want you to understand that it’s not easy. It shouldn’t be and it’s the most complicated thing in the whole world. Your Mom will tell you that she loves you, and your Dad will tell you that he loves you, and they do. But you’ll meet people in your life that will tell you that they love you, and you might feel like you have to tell them that you love them back. And you might. You might love them as much as they love you, but for every love you have, you have to let them hurt you.

“Love is painful. It’s hurts because it might not last forever, and because people change, and things change, and love can live and grow and die. These people that will say those three words to you, ‘I love you,’ they’ll want to tell you. They will want so desperately to say it that it might change things, it might make you think differently or feel differently.

“So anyone who tells you that they love you - you’ve done something. You’ve entered their life, and changed it. You’ve showed them a part of you, you’ve told them something, you’ve taken something from them, or given them a part of you. So you get it, right? Don’t show them something you don’t want to. You can’t hide from them, once they tell you that they love you. That part of you, it’s theirs. They love you because they want what you’ve shown them.

“I’m not making love sound so great, am I? But you have to try. And I want you to promise me, that you won’t end up like me - that you won’t be afraid to tell someone that you love them, okay?”

He nodded.

I sighed. I felt worse than horrible.

There was a park, only a block away from the apartment. I motioned to his ball, glove, and Yankees’ hat.

“Let’s go play catch,” I suggested. “While we have some daylight left.”

He hopped up, and grabbed his glove and ball, tossing the hat aside. It was way too big for his head, I now saw. It was his father’s.

I scribbled a quick note, in case his mother came home while we were out.

And so we went and played catch, him, for want of having a father, and me, for want of having a child, but really, so I could teach him how to throw and how to catch.

I slunk into my chair, letting loose a sigh.

It was definitely an exasperated sigh. A breath of satisfied dissatisfaction.  I forced myself to be disappointed and displeased.  And distracted.  I mean really - there was no way I would have made it back to my desk with a hard cock sticking out proudly in my pants.

Just five minutes ago, I sat in the farthest conference room - you know, the one everyone forgets is there sometimes - listening to her.  My ear pressed up to the phone, finding myself wishing I could be there - in the same room, on her bed, the distance evaporating into nothingness.

We had started innocently enough - talking about the day.  A friend was to take me to get ice cream later, a pleasant walk and some chit-chat.  And she had told me that there were errands to run.  But those were all activities filed under the label “to be done later,” because for now, in the greatest immediacy - we were talking about being together.

What a dangerous topic.

“Be here now, kissing me,” she typed hurriedly.  She then added it was useless.

“Close your eyes, fall into my arms,” I replied.  No, it’s not useless.

It’s too easy to be seduced by the memories.

And so that is how I found myself calling her.  She, escaping to her bed; me, escaping to that distant and far conference room.  We didn’t have much time.

It was enough to hear her voice - to have her hear mine.  Her hands over her body as mine in proxy, my voice soothing her, starting to craft a ghost of myself for her.  I listened eagerly to the moans and the sighs, the breaths and the cries, desperately putting myself right there with her.  My mouth on her nipples, twisting away with sucking and tonguing, as my hands poured themselves over every inch of her body.  My body naked with hers, the clothing flung off and away as fast as possible.  My cock lying in wait between her thighs slowly and surely closer and closer.

And of course, as I described the feeling of her wet pussy enveloping me in that familiar and sadly missed tightness, I let her sounds numb me to my physical surroundings.  What a fantasy - listening to her cum, loud-hard-fast in my ear.

It was so brief.  But I sat there in a puddle of aroused frustration, unable to touch myself, to address the hardness in my pants, and bit my lip.  This was torture, but I didn’t really mind.  With a sharp breath in, checking to see if the wetness of precum was visible in my pants, I got up, and scurried back to my desk.

I don’t mean to stare - really, I don’t.

It’s rude to point, and yet my eyes are doing just that; standing still in mid-step, locked not on your eyes (which have already drawn me in close) but instead on… your scars.

No, no, no - don’t turn away, please. Stay. Just. Like. That.

Just like that; I can see them for what they are. They’re not what you think, not anymore, anyway.

You’d prepared me to see them; I’d prepared myself. And yes, I caught a glimpse, up close. But maybe I didn’t really see them. Holding your hand, feeling your body so close to mine, somehow snared with a kiss in the middle of the street in front of people passing by; yes, I’m sorry I didn’t see them then - my mind was somewhere else yet exactly here.

But it was after we’d stripped our clothing off, the lust burning bright and hot like magnesium in a flare - after our bodies had touched, skin to skin, the tactile sensation in a strange way both extinguishing our need for contact and yet igniting further desires - after the kiss, the proximity of my face to yours - after the moving of our hips, the first touch, that initial pressure, the slow slide inward deeper and deeper into you - after the crushing weight of that initial fuck - after the gasping, the moaning, the clutching for sounds in your throat -

It was then that I looked at the quiet calm in front of me. Your disarmed weapons laying to the side, right next to mine.

I saw your scars.

They are echoes of a past I was never a part of. I’m only seeing them now, as they are in this moment, and will be in every moment after this one. They’re evidence - that life is brutal. That there is pain and it exists surreal, real, and unreal. That the pain leaves scars for people to see, to question, and to wonder about. But also that those scars will speak if you’re quiet enough to listen. If you stare, long past the point where it’s uncomfortable, and maybe then it somehow wraps all the way around the scale to the other side, where it’s so comfortable that the words come too easy. That you, and I, can be so honest with each other.

These scars of yours - they’re beautiful.

Shon Richards, of Erotiterrorist, has written a post for TWOH and it makes me giddy with honesty.

Lately, I find myself crushed by numbers.

I returned to find an overwhelming number of unread posts in Google Reader (my reader of choice). Even now, I’m weeks behind on several of the blogs, news pages, and other websites that I read. Of course a few have floated their way to the top, and I’m up to date. But others, I feel so hopelessly behind.

Emails too, I found, had accumulated. For those people I haven’t responded to - patience, please. I’m whittling my way through these numbers upon numbers… you won’t be forgotten.

I was pleased - very pleasantly so - to be featured in a post by the wonderfully diverse and visually stimulating Sexoteric Blog.  I’m honored, really.  Thank you.

Another aside (perhaps from a mind un-ready to let certain things be written), Liz Wired had written a post for TWOH (that’s “typing with one hand”) - however, it has since been deleted. Contributors there have full control of their posts, of course, and it must have been her decision to delete it. Further investigation finds that her blog, too, has changed - gone. A singular post remains.

Her old posts remain in Google Reader, thanks to its cache, small stubs left and un-linkable, un-readable. A shame for the written word, for it persists long after we are all gone.

Well…

The weight of her upper body condensed and pressing down on my chest; her fingernails pressing into my chest as she balanced herself with one hand on me, the other running through her hair, pulling it back and away from her face as she breathed heavily.

We’d tangled ourselves into a mess on the bed, arriving home after a night spent in the company of friends - a “couple’s night out” at that friendly restaurant just a cab ride away. Conversation light and shallow, nothing at all negative, but at the same time, unsubstantial, unsatisfying. Cocktails for the ladies, beers for the men. And of course, with the night winding down, the fragmentation occurring, the gossip between the women playing in a higher tone above the gruff and stoic discussion of sports between the men.

All of this - she was content. Okay fine, more than content. A smile lit upon her lips with me in tow. “We can be a couple,” it said, loudly, to anyone who would listen by looking at her face. At the way our fingers interlocked as I led her, or she led me, out the restaurant, onto the street. As we sat in the cab, her head resting on my shoulder, hand stroking my chest carelessly.

It wasn’t lust pulling me down onto the bed, my shirt half-unbuttoned.

It wasn’t lust kissing me on the lips, breath hard and loud.

She rolled on top of me, her hips pinning mine, hands deftly unbuttoning the rest of my shirt. I pulled her skirt upward, the fabric lifting up and over her spread thighs. Tugging at my undershirt with her fingers, she took a sharp breath as my hands squeezed her hips. She let her body fall forward, one hand landing squarely on my chest with her body weight balanced on it. Yes, we’re at the beginning again.

The hand in her hair now dropped and crossed her body, her face concealed. She pulled at her wrap top, revealing her bra, pulling the blouse off her shoulders and struggling to toss it off the bed. I reached up and squeezed gently, feeling the hard nipple through the pink lacy padding. Her weight on my hips started to cause discomfort. I didn’t mind - the heat starting to soak through the front of my pants, dribbling down deeper with each second.

Allowing herself to fall forward, the mess of hair interfering, we kissed. Her body leaning over mine, my hands quickly at my belt, pants, blindly pulling it apart, grunting quietly, wriggling my way out. Dogged determination got it down and around my knees, my boxer shorts thinly hiding my hardness. She leaned back and off me, to steal a breath, her hips landing again, her panty-covered-pussy suddenly pressing on top of my cock. With her hair covering her face, I couldn’t see her eyes widen or shut or wince.

Weight pressing on my chest. Fingernails digging in through the white cotton undershirt. My hands at my boxers, cock now burst free through the open fly; at her panties, thumb pressing into fabric circling around her clit, then pulling the thin material to the side.

Hot-wet-tight in one thrust.

I can’t say I slipped in, the panties pushed aside not giving me much room. In fact, cutting into the side of my cock with an artificial tightness. My face grimacing as she rocked back and forth, as I pushed my hips up and down - unable to synchronize - unrhythmic - out of tune.

Difficulty in pressing inward, but persevering, jamming my cock into her pussy. Feeling the spongy ridges and textures of her insides, the friction propelling us both further and faster into breathlessness. My hands chaotically pulling at her bra, a strap falling off her shoulder and down her arm, a breast pulled free, a nipple between fingers.

“I love you, [six]!” she spat, the half-exhaled words without control as she began to shake. “Tell me you love m- eeeeaaaah” she cried, each word dragging and crawling itself out.

In a strained sit-up, I bit the skin where her neck meets her shoulder. I managed a muffled sound - a half “mmmph” and grabbled her back with my hands, pulling her body as close as possible to mine, the shuddering of her orgasm rippling through her, my own now coming hard and fast, erupting with a gasp of my own.

The panties still cutting into the side of my cock, I pulled myself out and she rolled off me, falling asleep nestled under my arm. I closed my eyes, but didn’t fall asleep.

I don’t need to think too hard.

It’s right at the surface - so that’s scary to realize; just how close it is.

Like in a dream, where (supposedly) if you try and read (a book, newspaper, text), it just won’t work (because the wrong side of the brain is active [or something like that] and so all you see are jumbled up fragments) - when I recall your voice, it’s not really that you say much of anything that makes sense.

But it does make sense.

Your voice speaks to me in strange pieces of words and sounds. Phonemes and diphthongs slide to me and they don’t make sense but your inflection does. While I cannot discern what it is that my brain tries to fit together, the tones of your voice speak to me in a wonderful landscape of rising and falling notes; the ups and downs riding along towards the horizon. Steady streams of sounds flowing together and bending softly like grass ruffled by the wind. Pauses where the air is still and the sound silent. Then, times when the sounds plod together and end in one rising note - a question. And then a stretched note followed by delightful jabs into the air - a response, your laughter.

Maybe there’s one clear word, and that then could be stretched to two. Your voice, saying my name(s).

I can hear that, loud and clear.

My tongue falls flat on her; it spreading wide, stretching out and dragging itself across the pale smooth skin of her breast.

It’s salty.

I’m holding my weight with my arms, mainly, our bodies touching because they (still) crave the skin contact. But I keep my weight off of her - mindful not to press too firmly down. I’m surprised, then, to feel her arms lower on my back, drawing me in. She cooed that it was okay. That she wanted me to rest on her body, to do what we’ve said we’d do, and that’s to sink into each other, deeply and completely.

I exhaled as my body lay on top of hers, as if the escaping breath could lighten the load.

I cannot see her face, my head turned to the side with my mouth open and my tongue still lapping ever so slowly, but really, my eyes are closed. But I can hear the smiling in her voice.

It’s so nice.

I’m not sure how long we stayed like this, the bedsprings compressing under the combined weight of our bodies. It was some length of time, that there was yet another type of intimacy. With the level of closeness redefined, she slid down, or I slid up, and there was certainly a kiss on the lips, a look in the eyes, and we picked up right where we had left off.

There’s a moment right before your eyes open:

It’s a strange slice of time, still dark yet mixing in with the last traces of the pictures in your mind. Like the early morning and twilight both sitting precariously on the fence between night and day, it’s dark and light at the same time, as if time could stop, think, and change its mind to go forward or back at will. It’s cloudy, confusing, and comforting. My senses stirring the real and the dream together; my body shifting ever so slightly, such that the sheets and blanket suddenly feel alien and warm.

Her body, curled up in mine. The naked skin of her back nestling against my bare chest. Her ass cupped gently by my hips, our legs folding neatly into each others’. My arm beneath her head. My other arm laid over her torso and softly holding her. That’s how I remember falling asleep - and let’s just for a moment, forget that we’d somehow found ourselves in a state of half-sleep-half-awake-sex during the night, our bodies willing themselves to join while our minds may not have consciously asked for it - and that’s how I remember waking up.

It fades away because my mind slowly swims upward, knowing that it’s only a memory. This bed was foreign, the sheets stiff and pressed - just like those in the oddly small hotel room at the end of the labyrinthine hallway - and that’s what triggered this seductive fantasy memory. That’s what made me suddenly wish to be back in there, to maybe open my eyes and find myself in another time, another place, and another life (maybe).

You see, when I was a child, I dreamt vividly. Other children were afraid of the dark. They were afraid of the monster under the bed, the boogeyman in the closet, and the other creatures out to get them. I welcomed such company. I was more afraid of falling asleep and dreaming. I believed that sometimes I’d wake up and find that the dream had become real. And that kind of half-dream-half-nightmare-half-life was something I struggled with. I never knew what life I’d wake up into.

So yes, in this moment right before waking, I suddenly was afraid again.

Where would I find myself? Everything was fading away like a Polaroid picture in reverse, going from clear captured moment to fuzzy washed colors and blurring into white. What was a dream, and what was real? The consequences would be sitting there ready to pounce as soon as I’d wake up.

I’ve learned that waking up, after finding this quiet, dark, and sad moment, is inevitable. It’s so fleeting, so tragically short, and it will always end. There’s no way to stay or to sink back down and rejoin those vivid dreams.

I started to notice the pain in my chest. Breathing was difficult, and I was later told it was due to several cracked ribs and the bruises left as visible reminders of those internal injuries. Muscles were sore and ached, the dull pains starting to peek around the corners of this fast fading last stand my subconsciousness was making. The quiet hum of the electronics crept in from the background and fluttered into my ears.

And like sand escaping through my fingers, the moment was gone, forever. And with a breath held, my eyes opened.

If you’re reading this post, there’s probably been a prolonged period of silence - no posts, no emails, no chats - from me.

I had known, for a while now, that there would be volatility in my life, and well, call it paranoia, or maybe a compulsion to be prepared, but I have had this post written and scheduled to have it published a week or so into the future - and as that date came nearer, I’d keep pushing the date back further and further. If I couldn’t get to a computer, then the post wouldn’t continue the slow forced march onward into time, and would finally be published/posted.

It’s an interesting idea, then, this post from the past, yet not really part of the present or future. I think the best way I can describe it is like a time capsule. Or is it a letter lost in the mail, arriving long after it was written? I’m not sure, really.

Looking back on some of this, I sit with my head in my hands and with a small sense of wonder. I had never imagined, in the beginning, eyes poring over other writers’ blogs and articles, that I’d have grown the courage to place my thoughts into words, and then take the leap of placing these words where they could be seen and read. For a private person, this is a big step.

And even though we try to persuade ourselves that the writing is for ourselves, that the audience doesn’t matter - these are thin white lies that stand as feeble protection from the otherwise sheer joy of communicating ideas, thoughts, dreams, wishes, hopes, fears, pains, and pleasures. There are so many writers that I’ve come to respect, admire, and to be humbled by.

I cannot express that enough.

At this time, I can’t tell you how I am. I can’t, now, tell you where I am, or what has happened to me. That’s another strange thing about a post written in the past to be published in a future I’m not quite a part of. So, enough about me; I hope you are well. I hope this post finds you, dear reader, wherever you are, in a state much much better than mine.

And I hope, too, that this is not the end. No, I’m hopeful, in my absence and speaking to you from the not so distant past, that this isn’t a permanent run of radio silence but instead a short and brief signal loss - and that if the dials are set just right, the knob turned slowly between index finger and thumb, the silence will give way to static, the white noise then giving way to a clear and audible tone.

I hope it’ll be me, saying hello, in the not too distant future.

Dinner wasn’t yet a concern, the two of us on the couch, a long day only now starting to fade.

She sat next to me, still in her gym clothes, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, the errant hairs (a little disheveled and twisted with dried-up sweat) that escaped telling of her cardio-heavy workout on the treadmill, bike, elliptical - her t-shirt with its sleeves rolled up over her shoulders - her nylon stretchy short shorts - the ankle socks still on her feet, as her sneakers were kicked off by the door. I do my exercising in the morning (reaching the gym around five), but I, too, showed signs of wear - my shirt half pulled out of my trousers, half unbuttoned, tie half unknotted, body half reclined on the couch.

The television flashed white, then black, then blue with gold as the theme music fired up. The familiar words sounded and I allowed myself to smile - it was my favorite game show (ever) - “This… is… Jeopardy!”

She must have noticed.

“I remember, only a little bit,” she said, turning to face me, her head leaning back and resting on the couch, “that we had this in Germany.” The announcer was introducing today’s contestants. “It was fun - I haven’t really watched it here.”

A full smile now. “It’s my favorite,” I admitted. “I try and get all the answers right.” The announcer was now introducing Alex Trebek who - really, by now - needs no introduction.

“Are you that good?” she asks, the sides of her mouth curling up a little bit.

“They’re about to start,” I motion with a nod, the categories appearing on the screen after the tonal boops and beeps of the board place the dollar amounts of the questions on the board. As always, knowing the categories are vital to the correct answers (or questions, as the silly archaic eccentricity has persisted). I paid attention, and so did she, giving a “hmm” every now and then.

The game started, and I quickly fired off the first category’s answers. Of course it’s easier at home, not in front of a studio audience, being filmed for national television, and having to fight off two other intelligent people. She sat in silence, watching the television, watching me. The next category was started, and I continued rattling off answers. A contestant hopped over to another category before the current one was exhausted - the slightest irk elicited verbally from me - but I continued to answer. I oddly remember this category - it was about song lyrics from the 80’s. The category was finished, and the game hopped back, finishing out the half-started category… quotes I believe it was. It was where I hit the first stumbling block, a question I didn’t know. My mouth partially opened, and I’m glad I didn’t say anything. And then, quickly, another. Then, the first commercial break.

I was annoyed - at the answers I didn’t know, first, then at myself. It had turned into a game, now. She turned to me as the commercials began to play.

“Aw, and you were doing so well too.”

“I know,” I said, not hiding the disappointment like a bad taste in my mouth. “I try and get as many right as I can,” I repeated.

The show had returned, and it was now a moment to pause and get to know the contestants.

“Well don’t let me stop you,” she said, our interests not at all on what humorous anecdotes the three intelligent people on stage had to say. We looked at each other, only listening to Alex Trebek’s voice for the questions and answers. The questions started and I too, again got off to a good start.

Swiss Miss folded her legs beneath her, and leaned in towards me. She sat up and invaded my space, her hands on her knees slipping to the couch cushions, then slipping further, resting against my thigh. Her body pitched forward as the category was finished out, it was something musical I think. I hadn’t missed one since the commercial break, and she now felt my breath on her face as I answered more questions, eyes bright as I got them all correct.

Her head slid to the side of mine, obscuring the television; it was okay, we weren’t watching, only listening. Her nose tucked in along my jaw and brushed my ear as I answered a question concerning bacteria, antibiotics, or both. Parted lips toyed with my skin as her hand lifted and deposited itself in my lap. Her tongue, hot and wet, slipped out and licked a line from my ear down my neck, my eyes shut and voice still stubbornly answering questions. There was a question about Texas I nearly stumbled on, saying the answer at the same time as the contestant.

She bit my neck for that one.

I gritted my teeth and heard the announcement of the first Daily Double. I knew that if I were on the show, I’d be gunning for a true Daily Double - okay maybe that’s just bravado. I was much braver now, her hand a combination of stroke and grab, tugging urgently at me. The question mattered more than the wager - I do remember I got it right and the contestant got it wrong.

She sucked hard on my collarbone, my neck crumbling and twitching.

There wasn’t much left, two more right answers and then the commercial break, the applause matching the look in her eyes as she plucked her lips off me, letting her body twist and slide down, her head resting on my lap and looking up, meeting my eyes. Her arms were contorted, her wrists bent and her fingers nimbly pulling apart my belt, tearing at the button on my pants, and pulling the zipper down.

Her hand reached in to find me more than half hard, my cock mashed up against my boxer shorts, already moist from the precum she’d coaxed out. She turned her head and opened her mouth, pulling me out and then sucking me in. Her neck twisted uncomfortably, one shoulder digging into my thigh, her waist seemingly contorted in awful fashion with her legs folded and angularly hanging off the edge of the couch.

I pulled at her shirt as best as I could, yanking the fabric pinned beneath her, revealing her sports bra clamped down on her chest. I pulled on that too, the taut cotton-elastic not willing to yield; I only pulled harder, ripping it up and towards me, pulling it so the band slowly revealed more of her chest to me, a waxing moon of white creamy skin dotted with two nipples coming into view.

It probably hurt her.

I pulled and she sucked harder, her tongue doggedly rubbing along the side of my cock, her head sideways with eye contact broken.

The commercial break was over, and the categories were being read as she lifted herself up, ripped both shirt and bra off. The desired effect was achieved, as I had no idea what the categories were - a handicap, but then again, she wouldn’t play fair anyway, I thought to myself, pulling my pants and boxers off my legs, pushing my socks off my feet, leaving my shirt and undershirt on, but that too would change more or less after the first few questions, her hands feeling their way underneath both layers of fabric as her mouth returned to my cock, her breasts pushing against my thigh and knee. The mess of shirts and tie were easily pulled over my head and flung across the room.

I kept answering (correctly), my eyes long lost the battle to watch the television (I told you, the categories headings were important) and instead settling on her head moving up and down, her hand gently scratching at my chest, the smooth skin of her back as she let her hips slide off the couch, her knees on the floor and her body soon between my legs. She would tilt her head to the side, angling her eyes upward to see where I was looking; I think she was trying to catch me watching the screen. Meeting my eyes, she only sucked harder. It was a reward.

I began to falter into the second category - classic television and shows I never heard of or knew only faintly. Her mouth left me and was replaced by her hand, sliding easily with the slickness of her spit, but a shitty consolation as I missed a question, another, got one right, and then fell silent at one I didn’t know at all.

She bit her lip and glared at me, my answers stumbling - but now correct, a fresh category. Her hand continued to move as I fired off more correct answers. She continued to tug at me, kneeling forward then up on her feet, climbing on top of me as her short-short-covered ass lay on my lap, my cock standing straight up in front of her pussy, her hand on it like a joystick, her thumb pressing down on its head.

I reached forward with my hand, she swatted it away as a category about finance (yes, I put that away easily) gave way to a category about Canada, and I answered with the wrong province. She only moved her chest towards me, her hand still guiding its way up and down on my cock, after I answered a question correctly, gently swaying herself in front of me.

The Daily Double rang as she leaned in close, whispering in my ear something that would normally make me laugh - “Fuck Canada.” It was instead an invitation to fuck her.

My hand reached to her pussy as she leaned in forward, her hand leaving my cock and both arms now wrapping around my neck. I forcefully pushed aside the nylon of her shorts and white cotton of her panties, her pussy wet and waiting, lowered onto my cock quickly. Twin gasps escaped our lips as she slid down, hips pushing into mine, her chest pressed against mine. She held herself steady and still, balancing on her knees while holding onto my neck and shoulders, breathing heavily against my skin, chewing on my ear, nails digging into my skin. I thrust upwards and inwards, mustering strength and grunting, working hard, teeth clenched and straining to hold on while sliding myself deep into her tightness.

We fell over, I don’t know who lost balance first but tumbling over onto our side and quickly - like a seized sailboat flipping back on keel - her body beneath mine and my mouth hungrily attacking what I could. Continuing to pump, continuing to move our hips in unison apart and together, the sounds of slapping skin muffled by her shorts, pressing against one side of my cock, making it all the more urgent, all the more hurried and stumbling. I held her tightly, my arms no longer holding me up, my weight on hers, my cock buried on the last rub all the way into her pussy as I came, my lower body jerking slightly as the couch obediently held our bodies.

The last category and even Final Jeopardy! disappeared from view and fell silent as she bucked violently against me, a half hushed yelp and breath interrupted. I stayed motionless, she squirmed and twisted beneath me, the fact that my cock was unable to go any deeper not stopping her motions. She was stubborn like that.

* * * * * *

Later, after we’d gone downstairs and returned from fetched a pair of salads from the cafe/deli around the block, I’d told her what the Final Jeopardy! answer was (”axis,” if anyone is interested). She glowered at me but then blinked it off her face.

“Fine, you win,” she surrendered, but like in Jeopardy! when there is a tie, both contestants get to play again.

She’d been drinking pretty hard.

She does hold her liquor well, and that’s partially due to her sorority days in college. She’d told me a few stories here and there, and while I’m not sure exactly all of them are true, one thing I know is that she did a lot of partying. A few of her sorority sisters were visiting; and perhaps to recapture some of that, she’d gone out.

And then there was a knock at my door, her voice, muffled behind it.

I had opened the door and she more or less fell on top of me, her arms wrapped around my neck and her body pressing in close. I could smell her perfume mixing in with the last traces of the drinks she’d gotten. There was a hint of gin, a trace of Bacardi. Splashes of a night spend shouting loudly at her friends in a crowded bar. No doubt she’d been eyed more than once, her tight jeans flaring over her strappy high-heeled shoes. She wore a brightly colored scarf as a belt, and another around her neck, her shoulders bared from her low scoop neck shirt, hanging just around the caps of her shoulders. I idly wondered about her time at the bars.

“Mmmm,” she said into my collar. “Hi.”

“[Bunny Slippers,]” I said, pulling her inside enough for me to shut the door. “Do you know what time it is?”

She pulled back, her eyes a little glazed over, lips glossy and forming a goofy smile. “Um… it’s [Bunny Slippers]-time!”

Breaking her arms off of me, she took a few steps towards the couch. Turning on one foot rather ungracefully, she reached her arm out to me. Her finger wagged first, her face confused. I could see it starting to flush pink, then red. She’d shifted her hand, now her finger curled upwards, motioning to me.

She squared her shoulders to me, one moving upwards almost in time with an inaudible song, the beat dictating her body’s movements. Her shoulder curling inwards and upwards, her chest starting to push forward, her bottom lip slipping underneath her teeth into a gentle bite, her free hand pressing flat against the outside of her thigh. And yes, that finger, making rhythmic curling motions.

I was within arms’ reach and she grabbed at my shirt, pulling her the last step towards me more than she pulled me to her.  Her face up against mine, she placed her lips on me and kissed.  It was sloppy, wet, and I could now taste the fading alcohol in her mouth and tongue.  Sickly sweet, it bloomed in front of me, pressing its way in between sniffled breaths.

One way or another, we pulled ourselves to the couch.  And her hands quickly shed the scarf, tearing then at my clothes.  Her breath quickened, her eyes narrowed.  But her movements were clumsy, her fingers awkward and leaden, trying to pull apart buttons and undo zippers.  And she started talking.

“I wanted, mmf,” she started, before planting another kiss on me.  She kept talking.  “… To, um,” one hand pulling at my pants while with the other trying to pull her shirt upwards.  “… We’ve been kind of, um,” another dive at my face, my hands now helping her, slowly.  “… Yes, um, I wanted to know, aaah,” her hips pressing against mine. “… Uhhh, if you think of me as, oooh,” my hands making contact with the skin of her back, palms smoothing their way upwards to her bra clasp.  “…. [six,] um, if you, uhh,” her hands fumbling with her jeans.  “… if we were, mmm,” her lips again placed on mine.

It was chaotic.

Her hips grinding on top of mine, the couch becoming less and less comfortable, the words peppered in between the movements of her body and mine.  And then, suddenly - “Uh, give me a sec!”

She sprang up, wobbly, and dashed off to the bathroom.

I was in a state of partial dress, my shirt half open, my belt undone, my fly open, but the button of my pants not.  I got up, if only to rearrange myself.  Her purse lay on the floor by the door.  I walked over to it, and heard the faint buzz of her phone.  Picking it up, the phone buzzed again, and curiosity getting to the better of me, I reached in and checked the display.

It was from Dani.  And there was a line of text, a preview of the full message, as hinted by the ellipses at the end.  It read:

“Hey babe, hope u got there ok.  Did u ask…”

I placed the phone back in her bag, and the bag on the table by the door.  And I scratched my head.

I was too far away to hear anything, so I can only imagine - she swore under her breath, as I’ve seen her to do, clicking the mouse rapidly, her index finger furiously tapping away under the clicking that quickly blended into one continuous note. Her arm and wrist move in circles, the cursor on the screen unresponsive to the wild motions of the mouse scurrying across the desk. She sighed, I think, and placed her hands in front of her, the palms of her hands on the edge of the desk, pushing her chair and herself away, wheels moving softly over industrial carpet.

She slid off the chair, more or less, her knees held together, bare skin touching, her skirt (short and tight) only curling up a slight bit; it was a moment later that she was now kneeling, the heels of her feet separated from the soles of her pointy-toed-high-heeled shoes. Her back had arched, her grip now on the arms of the chair, the buttons of her blouse strained against the threads. From the right angle, you could have seen the white bra beneath the blouse. From the right angle you could have seen the pale skin peeking out from fabric pulled apart and barely held together.

A puff of breath out of the corner of her mouth hit the wisps of hair infringing on the corners of her face. The hair rode upwards and danced, lithe and curling atop the air until it floated its way back down. A futile exercise. She bent over now, hands and knees on the carpet, crawling towards the back, trying to reach the computer lying in the dust-bunnies and crumbs in the underworld forgotten by the light of the fluorescent bulbs above. She held her breath, the dust thickly caked in the furthest corners threatening her idly.

She straightened out her arm, now balancing only on her left hand and her knees. Then, stretching further, she reached out as far as she could, mindful of the dust and grime, her opposite knee lifting off the carpet. It was a precarious balancing act. Her back straightened and then hyper-extended, arching away underneath the fabric of her blouse. Her leg lifted higher and higher, skirt pulled apart, open, wide.

The power button was in reach, and her fingertip barely reached it as she was stretching as far as she could. She bit her lip. And stretched some more.

The screens went black, stunned almost by the sudden loss of power. They flickered only once more in the dying throes of pixels gone quiet. The computer itself stopped humming, if only for a moment, then lurching back to life. The fans whirring again. The harddrive noisily clicking and humming, droning away under the startup routines. “Windows XP,” the screen announced in a black background.

And her foot hit my leg. The shoe jostled off her hanging leg, the sigh of relief she had just expelled suddenly held in mid-air.

Slowly she crawled backwards, her butt wiggling its way out first, her head coming out from under the desk, her weight now on her knees as her feet nestled themselves under her butt; one foot naked, one foot heeled.

“Save me,” she said, looking up behind her wire-framed glasses, her lips parted just enough, my eyes continuing to roll off her face and bury themselves in the darkness of her cleavage. From here, I could see all the way down her shirt, to the white lace that hugged the curves of her breasts. “Save me from these spreadsheets.”

I kind of cocked my head to the side, and I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not an Excel expert,” I said, as I reached down to help her up and onto her feet. The shoe lay off to the side, and I knelt down, picking it up, and offering it to her foot.

“My prince,” I could barely hear her whisper.

“This isn’t a fairy tale,” I said, her foot now fully in the shoe, placed gently back on the carpet. I stood up, and nodded my head to the screen. “There you go,” the login prompt cheerfully reminding us that all communications and actions were being monitored and access was granted only to the appropriate individuals. I turned around and left her to her spreadsheets, the familiar grid of lines horizontal and vertical, the cells small and rectangular, capturing as much data as they could possibly hold.

She’s not easy to please. No, I have to work at it, and work hard.

My muscles ache, and I’m forced to hold myself in strange positions - my legs pushing off the headboard, my arms holding just the left side of my body up - and hold my breath at times, my lungs burning as I starve myself of air.

Gasping, deep breaths, finally. Clinging on, finding hair matted and wet, soaked strands sticking to her face and neck. She bats away at it, in quick, jabbing futile movements. I watch it, amused, but really more focused on other things. Really, my mind is elsewhere.

And perhaps it was when she swung her body around, twirling beneath me, that I considered this moment replayed in the future, that I began to falter, the actions of my body derailed from the thoughts in my head. She didn’t matter anymore.

Hips pushed up higher, she grabbed a pillow and folded it in half, shoving it beneath her. Leverage, balance, whatever. I continued to move, pressing myself deep, pushing until I hit bottom. Wild eyes stared back at me, her neck craning over her left shoulder.

“Push it in my ass!” she spat, the gasps filling in the slender spaces between her words.

My hand was holding her right at her tailbone. My thumb positioned between the converging roundness of her ass cheeks, I let it slide further down, pressing harder at the same time.

She moaned her approval. She wiggled her butt. She spread her legs apart, her hips resting on the pillow.

My thumb met resistance, but it was brief. She cried out as it slid in, the pressure around it tight and unyielding. Coming more in waves, oscillating between snug and vice-like. Burying her face in the other pillow, she came. I felt wetness beneath me, soon, my finger released and feeling myself falling to her side.

Her legs unfurled and our bodies found themselves next to each other. She had brought the pillow back up, and we lay there, heads at the foot of the bed. It was late, we both had to get up in the morning, our bodies surrendering, my sweaty head laying on top of the drenched pillow. It was a discomforting way to drift off into sleep.

I’m humbled again with a pick in the top three. Yet, a friend had written to me, “I think you have a winner this week.”

Does she know something I don’t? She probably does.

Thanks to everyone making Sugasm what it is.

This Week’s Picks

My life as a Female
“His reply was instant: ‘You are a man’.”

A view from a man, posing as a woman, posing as maybe someone else altogether, on Adult Friend Finder. What, really, then is there to find? A lot.

Crisp
“I found my eyes unable to leave the curves of her ass, everything else out of focus.”

I have plans of making this into a TWOH entry.

Ripping yourself a new one
“What’s the most ludicrous porn scene you ever saw?”

An objective look at pornography. Really, it’s objectively subjective.

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
How to Choose an Affiliate Program

Editor’s Choice
Cream and Sugar

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Friday.

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Feeling safe
How Butch is Butch and how Femme is Femme?
Of Art Nouveau & Sublime Curves
Say Hello to Nanna, Nonno.
The Secret of Polyamory
Why Flirting Doesn’t Work

Sex Work
New At Nuts4chic - The Story Of Justin, A Male Escort
No Tact

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Blow by blow (1)
Door Number Two
Fellatrices: Phantom Blowjob
Flight of Fantasy
Fun at glory hole
Gay Threesome
Good Friday
Is there a polite way to ask a girl…
Reawakening the Temptress…It Must Be Spring
So long
Sometimes it pays to love the one your with
Teasing…
Therapy
To Avoid Waste, One Must Be Profligate <<< This strikes me as my favorite.
An Unnecessary Journey

Sex Advice
Impertinent Question: Do You Role-Play in the Bedroom?

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Half-Nekkid with New Pumps
Hardcore double penetration in gangbang
Hot Blonde from Petter Hegre
MC Nudes: Luciana, Nina, Susana Spears & Zoe
Peaches in lingerie
Spanked Naked in Semi-Public
Sum Myself Up in Six Words?

Sex Humor
Discovery of Coital “Safe House” Debunks Sex Research Findings

BDSM & Fetish
Catalina loves Kinky Tea Parties
Hypnosis, spanking and sex
My first master
Object of His Attention

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Of Ilsa and her ilk
Sabrina Fox Bound And Forced To Cum On Sex And Submission
The Whole Chicken’s Blatantly Self-Promoting Anniversary Contest

Squirming on top of me, she signaled her anticipatory pleasure. “Mmm,” she let loose, the inflection rising at the tail end, rising as much as she wiggled her rear upwards.

My left hand lay against her shoulder blades, meant to keep her bent over, but really, I didn’t press at all. My hand against bare skin, her bare skin against my lap, her squirming only now nudging against me, urging me onward. I held my breath (and I know why) in the empty air and my right hand rose.

Slap!

The sound reached our ears before the impact registered on nerve endings. Her skin buckled slightly, my hand falling flat on the curves of her ass. I didn’t let my hand rest, as I would have liked to; as I may have wanted to sooth it after the blow landed. No, my hand rose again, and I can’t remember if I took a breath, but I’m sure I did, as she flinched below, silently.

I waited until I could feel her inhale, sipping the air through her clenched teeth and curled lips.

Slap!

Cracking like a whip, my palm searing against her skin, almost a flash of light before the sound, heat following, radiating from the point of impact. I could imagine a crater the shape of my hand, the skin white to a reddening pink as the blood rushes upwards and into the skin. Still silent. An errant squirm as she regains focus on the rest of her body, the sensation fading from her ass to other parts pressing into my lap.

My arm raises again, bent at the elbow, fingers straightening, straining backwards. I can almost feel the tendons and muscles in my shoulder flex backwards, pulled and drawn back like the tensed cords of an archer’s bow.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Three blows, rapid-fire, landing cleaning on her ass, and even I held my jaw firmly, eyes locked on my target and concentrating intently on just how it feels. Her breathing audible now, ragged gasps of air not between clenched teeth but a slack jaw, winced eyes, and an open mouth. Each inhale held and let loose in bursts, as if the air simply would not leave her lungs without the heaving effort from her chest.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Redness in equality, both cheeks of her ass now in varying shades of flushed red. I found myself breathing heavily. I found my eyes unable to leave the curves of her ass, everything else out of focus. Nothing but the pale white skin and the gradient of red in the shape of my hand. I bit my lip as my mind traced her words until they stood out in clear, large, boldfaced fonts, “it has to hurt you as much as it hurts me.”

My hand stung. My palm had grown several shades pinker, almost luminescent in a blur - I caught just a glimpse of it as I brought it back upwards. Into position.

Slap!

Slap! Slap!

Slap! Slap! Slap!

I thought I could hear her moan (or was it a gasp) somewhere between the assault I lay upon her curves. I couldn’t be sure, my mind lost in the intensity; unable to determine whether it was my hand that was spanking her ass or her ass that was spanking my hand. The blood beating and pulsing through flesh reddened and plumped, the skin stinging and stung. I couldn’t tell who was breathi