Pussy Eating - Fact or Fiction?

This is a weird one.

I was going through some old boxes yesterday (in between bouts on Second Life, of course), collections from college of old photos, letters, papers... exam results (eeek) and the assorted detritus that seemed so important back then and now... well now it's just funny, with melancholy bits attached.

But one thing that caught my eye was a survey that a couple of girls put together, then sent out around campus, quizzing people on where their sexual tastes lay in the real world and in that of the still-reasonably new and unexplored universe of computers.

Do you remember cyber sex circa 1999? When the message boards were thriving and people still remembered Compuserve? When even logging onto a page was enough to send your IM box haywire? And when the whole thing was still so new and exciting that even an online kiss with a complete stranger was an absolute thrill?

I'm not going to publish the whole thing... it goes on for pages and it does get a little samey. But the question that caught my eye... the one I'd like YOU to think about today, was...

WHICH DO YOU PREFER - CUNNILINGUS IN REAL LIFE? OR CYBER?

And the result?

23% of female respondents, among those who actively played online, said they preferred it in real life.

Which means... 77% didn't.

Some thoughts...

Cunnilingus is not like fellatio. Licking cunt is not like sucking cock. Different physical sensations sensations are involved, different emotional stimuli. Guys (and fiction writers) might like to think that a tongue only has to glance in the direction of a clitoris for the girl to be bouncing off the walls in the embrace of seventeen separate orgasms, any one of which could fell an elephant. But the reality, of course, is very very different.

Of course there are exceptions... that 23% to begin with. (Although, I can't help but notice that a lot of them seem to be bisexual/gay. A discussion for another time, perhaps?) But the fact is, or would seem to be, that a woman is far more likely to receive the emotional stimuli she needs from the act when it takes place wholly in her mind... the thought of what it could be like... than if it is actually happening in the flesh.

No surprise there. I recently read a paper that argued that the female orgasm is actually sparked by the same (still largely unexplored) areas of the brain as the male erection, and that unless there is also an underlying health issue, male Erectile Dysfunction and a female's inability to climax are essentially one and the same issue. The same psychological issue.

True or false? You can discuss that among yourselves. But the female orgasm is primarily an emotional response... which means the stimuli that cause female orgasm are also primarily emotional. Which, in turn, would suggest that a girl is far more likely to be turned on reading about certain acts than she might be actually performing them.

So maybe 77% of women really do prefer to have their pussies licked on paper, than by a real life flesh and blood lover?

Maybe, in this case at least, fantasy is more fulfilling than reality?

And maybe... well, maybe I should shut up and wait for people to start responding to this? But one final thing. I happened to mention this to a male friend last night, and asked him for this thoughts on the matter. His response? A very indignant "well, I've never had any complaints."

I'm sure he hasn't. After all, ladies, when was the last time you told your lover that he was an absolutely lousy lay?

The new 12 Days of Christmas

When I first posted this last week... well, I'll be honest, I ran out of energy after seven days. But then my friend Veritas got hold of it and dashed out another three days for me. So here, brought over from the No Words Spoken blog, are the full twelve days of Christmas... Enjoy!


On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
A hot and steaming facial!
And I wasn’t even expecting it
I thought we were just petting
I wasn’t even touching it
But suddenly he rose up
Gave out a mighty cry
And it splashed across my cheeks and lips
And dripped down from my eye

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
The best head that I’ve ever had
He started slow and teasing
Just lapping at my pussy lips
The tension stopped me breathing
I felt each delicate shift he made
Felt that loving tongue
Flicking wildly at my screaming clit
Oh God, I’m gonna cum!

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Eight sweet inches of rock hard cock
Slipped between my legs
Teased me with an inch or two
He likes to hear me beg
At first I tried to bite my lip
But he kept on poking faster
Until I couldn’t help myself
“Just ram it in, you bastard!”

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A tit fuck like you won’t believe
So hot against my breasts
I held them tight against his cock
Felt his balls scraping my chest
Saw his face screw up with pleasure
Felt his rhythm quicken
Then splashing hot against my neck
And his cock was ripe for licking

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A hot cock up my back passage
On the kitchen table
He asked me how much I could take
I said “all that you are able’
I felt my tight flesh clinging to him
While his fingers fucked my cunt
And when we came hard both together
It felt better than up front

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
The chance to suck him long and slow
To relish every inch
To take him deep inside my throat
To feel my tonsils pinch
His helmet, grasp it, tease the tip
I love to suck him off
And when he came like a runaway train
I swallowed every drop

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A few days rest! And fuck, I needed them.!

*********************************************************
And the remainder of the song... the bits I didn't write, supplied by my friend Veritas....

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Her wrists bound discretely in leather and fur,
Crossed demurely as if to hide,
Her soft, silken and smoothed delights,
Onto my face arose,
A wry grin,
Oh' secretly wicked girl,
Your treats are plain to see,
As is your Honey glistening for me....

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Eight inches of heel, platforms and a naughty feel,
Slowly straddling me with a tiny smile
Eyes flashing, as she whispers,
“Come do me stud, for a good long while.....”
Thong slipped aside, I fondle and slip inside,
Eighty tiny mewls and she shuddered and sighed.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Nine tails o' cat as she kneels for a gentle lashing,
Gentle mewling with each soft caress soon reaches my ears,
Nine tails o' cat, laid softly with but a sting,
Her pant and purr allay my fears,
Breathlessly she betrays her secret fetish
The kiss of the lash she so doth relish,
Offered to her she kisses hungrily the handle,
As I press her back my cock erect, hers to fondle,
Before beginning her deep and ardent thrusting.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
Ten tiny toes,
Clad in sheer hosiery,
Nails all a glitter, sprinkled red, silver, gold and pink,
She slid them slowly along my cock,
She is, after all a bit of a kink,
"Baby," she cooed, "my world you rock"
So much to my surprise when she swiveled and settled,
Her wet petals and folds, so deliciously presented,
For a lick, a kiss and an oh so slow fondle,
Her silken sheathed toes wrapped astraddle my head,
Her body naked and pressing me down onto the bed,
Her warm breath caressing my cock and ball bundle,
“Merry Christmas, my stud,” She said with a smile,
Then swallowed me whole and bobbed for quite awhile,
My own tongue drifted,
tween folds and honey hooded,
Lingering, exploring, probing, "So good..."
She whispered I'm quite gifted,
As she shimmied and settle well down on my tongue,
her toes massaging me as I gave her head,
“You, my Sir, are quite well hung,”
She said with a breathless smile as she licked,
“I do so hope soon to be dicked.”

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
Eleven strokes to harden my cock,
She said with a smile,
As she jacked me for a while,
“I know you will do me oh so well....”
“I want you in me deep and slow, can't you tell?”
I groaned under her touch and managed a reply,
“Soon my anxious babe,”
“I'll bind you, each limb, with a black silken tie,”
“And fill you then flood you with that you so crave...”

On the twelfth day of ChristmasS, my true love gave to me,
Twelve Dreams come true,
Each a special treasure,
Each desire she said, “Just for you...”
She whisper'd softly, Of my love you should be sure,”
Whether with a glimpse of stocking and heel,
Or just a seductive fondle and a good feel,
She laughed with a sparkling smile,
“You can take me now, or in a while,”
“Get your camera, I'll pose,”
“be your New Year's delight”
Then she spread out sleek like a cat,
My cock long past phat,
Slipping home with a steady thrust,
She purred and mewled with happy lust,
“Merry Christmas, stud...”
She panted as I rubbed her hooded budd,
“And Happy New Year back my erotic friend,”
I growled with a final shudder,
“With your arms round me, no one can sunder,”
“And 'tis here, kissing your lips, I'll dally the new year to spend ….”

The Ghost of Christmas Parties Past

Found this pic on Blue-eyed Vixen's ever-wonderful blog. Funnily enough, I remember a few parties along the lines of this one.

A Christmas Carol

A HOLIDAY CAROL
Okay, there’s definitely some wishful thinking going on in this one. Day four, to be precise. I don’t have the biggest tits in the world, and they were a lot smaller when I was at college. My boyfriend of the time was desperate to try a tit fuck,and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I was lying there trying to hold his cock between these two tiny breasts, and he was pounding away… and it wasn’t my fault he didn’t realize he was rubbing himself against my watchband, and actually scraping the skin off the side of his cock. He was hurting for days! And no, he didn’t even want me to kiss it better.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
A hot and steaming facial!
And I wasn’t even expecting it
I thought we were just petting
I wasn’t even touching it
But suddenly he rose up
Gave out a mighty cry
And it splashed across my cheeks and lips
And dripped down from my eye

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
The best head that I’ve ever had
He started slow and teasing
Just lapping at my pussy lips
The tension stopped me breathing
I felt each delicate shift he made
Felt that loving tongue
Flicking wildly at my screaming clit
Oh God, I’m gonna cum!

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Eight sweet inches of rock hard cock
Slipped between my legs
Teased me with an inch or two
He likes to hear me beg
At first I tried to bite my lip
But he kept on poking faster
Until I couldn’t help myself
“Just ram it in, you bastard!”

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A tit fuck like you won’t believe
So hot against my breasts
I held them tight against his cock
Felt his balls scraping my chest
Saw his face screw up with pleasure
Felt his rhythm quicken
Then splashing hot against my neck
And his cock was ripe for licking

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A hot cock up my back passage
On the kitchen table
He asked me how much I could take
I said “all that you are able’
I felt my tight flesh clinging to him
While his fingers fucked my cunt
And when we came hard both together
It felt better than up front

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
The chance to suck him long and slow
To relish every inch
To take him deep inside my throat
To feel my tonsils pinch
His helmet, grasp it, tease the tip
I love to suck him off
And when he came like a runaway train
I swallowed every drop

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A few days rest! And fuck, I needed them.!

Happy Holidays Everyone!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS... MERRY CHRISTMAS... JINGLE BELLS... AND ALL THAT GOOD STUFF...

TO EVERYONE!

THANKS FOR A WONDERFUL YEAR - AND HERE'S TO AN EVEN BETTER NEW ONE

XXXX

My Favorite Blog Posting of the Year

Maybe it's the festivities creeping up on me, maybe I'm still celebrating from the news a couple of days ago... see below. But I spent the last few days rereading all my own favorite blogs and wondering... if I had to pick one posting from one page that sums up everything I have loved about the last twelve months of my on-line meanderings, what would it be?

It would be this.... from Drenched and Delicious - the best-named site in sight, and a story so delicious that I wish i'd written it myself. Thanks, Drenched - for the words and for finding the picture as well.

On the somethingth day of Christmas...

It's the sheer casual appearance of the photo that appeals, the snapshot like qualities... so many so-called she-male photos are either obviously posed or even more obviously faked. But this one, fired off on what could have been an i-Phone, with nobody trying to look hot or sexy - well, it's just so matter of fact that it really ought to be real. I hope it is, anyway,

The Best Blogs of 2010

What better way of waking up could there be than....

...to discover you've made the 40 Sexiest Blogs of 2010 list!

Thanks to Red Region Inferno for including me in such illustrious and, of course, red hot company! And here's to an even hotter 2011.

Ambrose Horne and the Disobedient Chambermaid

Another excerpt from a yet-to-be published Ambrose Horne adventure.

"I apologise, my dear," Ambrose said softly. Or, at least, he thought he spoke softly. "What was that you were saying?"

From her position stretched across the eminent detective's lap, her naked pink buttocks poking pertly out from the raised folds of her disshevelled skirts, his companion of the evening presented him with her most scornful pout. "I said, if you are going to spank me that hard, you could at least have the decency to listen to the slaps." She reached out and, rather more roughly than a woman in her position ought, snatched at the thin cord that stretched from Horne's ears, to the tiny box-like contraption in his breast pocket. A cacophony of sound erupted from two miniscule buds... they looked so much like nipples, she thought to herself, albeit disturbingly white nipples... as they ripped from Horne's ears.

Horne glared at her. "I was listening to that."

"Well, you should be listening to this," she replied and, reaching behind her, she delivered a resounding slap on her own bare bottom. "What is that noise-some device anyway?"

"Tis but a trifle that I concocted in my spare hours," Horne told her. "I call it an iPod... think of it as a portable gramophone, with neither disc nor crank nor even horn." He paused, sensing that his words were already bemusing the poor simple woman. "And much more besides. A marvel of the modern age, as I'm sure you will concur."

And, somewhat more brusquely than he intended, he stood and the poor girl tumbled to the floor. "And I will have you know that, although I currently employ it, as you say, for 'noise-some' pursuits, it is also an aid in manifold other tasks too. A portable library with neither librarian nor silence, a portable cinematograph, with neither projector nor audience...Plus," and here he puffed his chest proudly out, "I myself can be found within the myriad marvels that are concealed within."

And, with a few deft swirls of his finger, he called up from within the miraculously minute bowels of the device, a written account of his own adventures - "published," it seems, as though it were a book, but so unlike any book she had seen before that the very sight sent her swooning to the floor.

"It is the devil's work," she whispered as she regained her senses a few moments later.

"It probably is," Horne answered slowly. "But I would wager that scoundrel Holmes would sacrifice his own grandmother to Beelzebub for so signal an achievement as this. Now, if you would reassume the position, I believe that a certain amount of punishment still awaits you."

"I do hope so," the girl smiled softly. "And maybe while you spank me, I will investigate your iPod further. Do you have any Motorhead?"

THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF AMBROSE HORNE ARE AVAILABLE NOW AS APPLICATION IN THE I-TUNES STORE! CLICK HERE FOR THIS MODERN MARVEL.

Ambrose Horne and the Copulating Colonials

an excerpt from the yet-to-be published STRANGE CASE OF THE COPULATING COLONIALS

An Ambrose Horne adventure

The mercury had been boiling around 100 degrees for so long now that Amelia – or plain old Miss Am’ee to the folk she was currently vacationing with – had forgotten what it was like to feel comfortable. No matter the hour, be it first light in the morning, or deep into the darkness of night, the heat pressed down like an unwelcome lover, and her ears felt as though they would never shake off the whirring and chirruping of the local insect life.

“Another Mint Julep, Miss?” A smiling servant, one of the half dozen who seemed forever to be hovering within arm’s length of every guest, stood with one of the delicious concoctions already prepared; and Amelia nodded. No matter how bizarre it sometimes felt to be wading through a glass of crushed leaves and ice in search of the sugared bourbon that was so liberally applied, there was something so exquisite about the ensuing concoction that she could scarcely wait to get home to London, to introduce her friends to the same delicious libation.

London. It seemed so far away – well, it was far away. Nine days it had taken to even cross the Atlantic, and another three to journey down to the plantation that Amelia’s father had recently taken possession of. And all the way, the sun had grown hotter, the bugs had grown louder, and the conversation of the locals that they met grew ever more incomprehensible. “Ah do declare,” Amelia whispered mockingly to Jennifer, her traveling companion and maybe, although not even a Yankee would have ventured it to her face, something more than that. “If their speech became any lazier, ah swear they would all just tumble onto their backs and stay there.”

Jennifer smiled. “I like the way they talk. So much more glamorous than anything you hear in London.” She demonstrated one of her own impersonations now, of the cackling old crone who sold flowers on the street corner back home. “Tuppence a bundle, my sweetie? A nosegay for that gay little nose of your’n?”

Amelia giggled. “Well, maybe one of those fine Southern gentlemen will sweep you off your feet while we’re here, and you’ll end up the lady of a house as large as this one.” Jennifer, however, sniffed disdainfully. “No, I’m London born and bred, and that’s where I intend to stay. Foreign’s a lovely place to visit, but would you really want to live there?” She swatted at a cicada that was hovering close to her face. “Besides, can you imagine how much you’d have to spend on fly paper?”

They fell silent and sipped their drinks. Three weeks they’d been there, and the only word Amelia had received from home was a note from her governess, concerned that she might be shirking her lessons, and a longer missive from Ambrose Horne, asking whether she might look up an old friend of his from Cambridge, who had sailed to America to make his fortune, and was now running for Governor of the very state she was visiting.

She agreed, although a voice in the back of her mind cautioned her against becoming too involved. Any friend of Horne’s, she knew, would have something more than friendship on his mind when they met and that was not the point of this visit. Or, at least, not the primary point.

TO BE CONTINUED

It could happen to anyone!

another in my occasional series of Second Life-inspired tales...

We hear a lot about playing safe on the Internet in general, and Second Life in particular – any game that demands such immersion and offers such emotion will inevitably have its bad side, as well as its good.

We seem to be going through a quiet period right now so far as Internet Horror Stories are concerned… just the usual rash of concerned Nigerian businessmen asking for your banking details, and credit card companies offering you an Erection That Will Never Die. But there are also occasions when it’s difficult to go a couple of days without one trustworthy source or another unearthing a new Real Life Incident designed to scare us all into regarding every new acquaintance with suspicion. Could she be the Noobie Island Mangler?

This was written during one of those periods.

It is not a confession… it’s not a true story… it’s nothing but a short piece of fiction, a piece of salutary satire that reflects as much on the game’s potential for harm as it does on our own fear of somehow being harmed.

Make of it what you will…

**************

She’s weak, she’s strong, she’s whatever I say she is.

She loves me, she feels me, she does what I tell her to.

Sometimes when I call her to me, she says she has other plans. I accede to them gracefully without a word of dissent. She has me, she thinks, where she wants me. She does not know that I have her.

Sometimes, on those occasions, I will beg a boon. May I visit you, my Lady? And I stand and drink in her beauty, bathe in her radiance, dance in her spotlight. For that is what she requires of me and we all know, what my Lady craves, she shall receive.

I give her all she desires. And, in return, she gives me herself.

I live in her dreams and I fascinate her. I walk in her reality and I satisfy her. I step between the two dimensions, virtual and actual, as though the barrier were butter. And, when she tells me that she has never felt this way before, she believes she speaks only of her role in the game. That the words she types are the moment’s alone and, once they are spoken, they are forgotten. But she is wrong.

All of the memories that she laughingly gushes, all of the dreams that she whispers in pillow talk, I preserve them in pixel, animation and script, so that when she steps into the world I have invented, she steps into a world that she knows and loves.

“Why, there is the church I used to walk past to school.”

“Why, there is the stream that I fell in while playing.”

“Why, there’s the old post office where I used to buy candy.”

And the words that she says to me in that half-forgotten landscape become a part of her memories of that land, permanently seared upon her soul. They can not be discarded as the passion of the mind, for we are not playing a game here, my Lady, or rather, we are not playing the game you believe. When you see that church now, you will see me in the doorway. When you think of that stream, you’ll feel my hands helping you out. When you remember that candy, you’ll be tasting my sweets.

You say you love me, and maybe that’s a game too? That’s what you tell yourself, but I know that you do.

Who knows your deepest secrets, your most fiery fantasies? Not the man you call your husband.

Who do you look for when you first log on, and keep looking for on the nights I don’t appear?

Who is waiting in the back of your mind when you turn away from your computer and return to reality?

Who is the first person you say more than “good morning” to when you arise every day?

And the last you say “goodnight” to when you go to bed at night?

I cannot be dismissed like the lights you switch off behind you as you climb those lonely stairs; I cannot be brushed away like the hand of your husband as he reaches for you in his half-asleep horniness. I cannot be blacked out like the computer image that you stared at since the moment you got home, and which is branded upon your retina when your eyelids close to sleep.

I eliminate your friends, because they do not understand us. One is a liar, one is a cheat, one is malicious and the others are meaningless, We do not need them, for we have one another. And if your rl friends, too, try and turn you against me, I don’t care. They tell you that I exist on the Internet only. But to you, I simply exist. And that is enough. For now.

She gets wet to my words, she orgasms at my command.

I control her.

She speaks words and emotions that no other lover has ever heard.

I possess her.

She tells me of her oldest dreams, and I make them come true.

I own her.

“Build me a castle where I can be Queen.”

“Build me an ocean where I might swim.”

“Buy me a gown that I may look lovely.”

And I hasten to obey because that is what she asks of me, and the gifts grow as extravagant as my generosity.

At first she chooses, but soon I make the selections, dressing her as I wish to dress her, in the styles that I choose myself. And, as the styles and what they say slowly change, so does their nature.

“I have a gift for you, my lady, as exquisite as you are. May I have an address to send it to?”

I know where she lives

And she falls deeper under my spell, darker into her own living nightmare – the nightmare where she has lost all control, while thinking that she rules the world.

The game is slow. It may take weeks, it may take months. But the play is as exquisite as the end result, and why hurry the perfection of my art?

“I crave the touch of your hand,” I moan as our avatars grind in poseballed perfection.

“Then let me touch myself,” she says, and she types a long gasp with suddenly moistened fingers..

“I long to hear your voice,” I whisper, as our pledges and promises tumble out in mad passion.

“Then let me whisper your name,” she replies, and she switches on her microphone, “just for a second, while there’s no-one around.”

“I need to glimpse your flesh,” I gasp, as her fingers flash the words that tell me what she wishes.

“Then let me give you that glimpse,” she giggles, as she activates her cam and shyly flashes a breast. And I type a long moan as I speak of its beauty, as she clicks on the box that brings my cam to her screen, then types her own liquid longing for the image she sees.

“Touch me,” I breathe and her finger snakes out, to run down my cock as it hangs on her screen.

“Kiss it,” I whisper and she inclines her head, her lips to the screen of the laptop she bought so she could manage the household and play online banker.

“And fuck me,” I cry as she lowers her lens and I look and I listen as she rides her imagination to orgasm – the imagination that I created in my very own image; the imagination that will follow her wherever else she goes.

She asks if she can text me when she is not near her laptop. I give her my number. Her first notes are shy, all fingers and thumbs, misspelled abbreviations like a child’s first code. But they will grow.

I pay a few dollars for an online subscription. Her phone number becomes an address, and a search result in Google maps. I study her neighborhood and then tell her of my home… that has the same color siding, the same kind of garden, the same favorite trees. We aren’t simply one in love and devotion, she breathes. We are one in spirit too.

I agree and I bring us closer still. And closer and closer, until I could almost believe that I really do care for the woman who grinds on the carpet when my buddies come round to watch the Internet show. Whose moving image is “live” on the web, you can search for it now if you like… yes, I’ll wait. It’s called “horny housewife calling my name.”

Her photos are seeded across a dozen more websites. I’ve even posted the audio for the whole world to hear, because a beauty this rare should not be kept to myself. It should be shared with everyone who appreciates her talents.

Including, should they ever mouse in the right direction, her husband… her son… her employer… her friends.

But that is another game, one that I will not be here to play, because I will be playing another by then. I will have tired of her, her neediness, her love, and I will do so in the knowledge that I can move on.

And that she can not.

Fucking vegetables

From the top

No words... just one of those lovely images (or maybe it's the angle) that you cum across on the net periodically. Yum.