Sinful Sunday 375: exposure

This week I’ve mostly spent under the radar: an upcoming exam combined with crazy work schedule means it’s all about keeping going. Ten more days, nine, eight… work, study, sleep. I haven’t even been on twitter much, to respond to the ridiculously nice comments left by a heap of people about my shortlisted photo from last week’s Sinful Sunday. 

It all adds up to not feeling like my full sexy self, bright and confident. Instead fading into the background a little. 

I’ll be bouncing back soon, and I can’t wait until things get back to normal. When I’ll feel like turning the lights up again.

To find out who’s been exposing themselves this week, click on the lips below. 

Sinful Sunday
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Sinful Sunday 373: underneath 

One of the rituals @fireandhoney and I share is my daily shower. Usually via Snapchat, it’s both a chance to share in daily life and personal intimacy. And I wanted to celebrate that in this month’s Prompt Week theme. 


Find out who else is bubbling under this week by clicking on the lips below. 

Sinful Sunday

Rise

It is like love, she told me. You wait for a while, create the conditions, show patience and desire and it comes literally out of the air. With her sticky fingers she popped the top of the Kilner jar of unpromising white glop that bubbled and burped on the shelf. Feed it, she said, and the air will fill your bread with life and your life with bread, as she chugged another measure of flour into the jar, labelled LOVE, and mixed in an equal amount of water.

By three months she had taught me to learn by watching. Back-breaking mixing and the delicacy of shaping. She showed me how to watch not just her, but the swelling and rising of dough in tubs and proving baskets. Spring tests, window pane tests, float tests will all give you hints, but the only truth is the knowledge you retain inside you. What you gain by watching, waiting and understanding from the touch of your fingers – how to shape a ball by twisting and tucking under. Keeping the tension inside until it is ready to release in the oven.

After two more months I asked her to show me the sourdough, begged her to let me feel its pungent mystery in my hands. To learn the turns and folds and feel its sensual ripples as it sways on the bench. But not until I had watched enough could I start to turn that pot of sticky beginnings into a skein of sour strands, the stretchy gluten that only time can build.

In another month we became lovers and turned our inured fingers on to ourselves. We seized handfuls of each other, squeezing and forcing the spread of our flesh with weathered limbs and splayed fingers, gathering and grappling the tempered skin. Watching and touching, testing for the response with our fingers, swelling with the tension inside and bursting upon release.

With time, the magic comes out of thin air. We prime our starter with practised, patient hands and pull yeasts from the sky that surrounds our little house.

Elust 103

Welcome to Elust 103

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #104 Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

The Friend and The Acquaintance

The dress rehearsal

Lake Malawi

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Color Me Kinky

A Slow Burn on a Summer Night.

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Voodoo Me

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Cervical Orgasms: the deep erogenous zones

Erotic Fiction

Snow Day
Bad Dream
Heaven is a Place on Earth
Fucking Women
Laura’s Christmas
The Scent of a Woman
More than Friends: A Night Out
Eloise ~ Part one ~ Under my skin
Helios

Erotic Non-Fiction

Pain is confusing
I Don’t Want You to Hurt Me
Chemistry
There’s Many a Slip Twixt…
First Experience
Mixed bag/into my own eyes
Swinging 1
Lust and Will
Hot sunshine

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Mortified
Stop Worrying and Learn to Love Fellatio
I come from sexual assault
A life in three tweets

Poetry

-02.02.18_00:18-
The Four In the Morning Fuck

Blogging

Why Do I Blog?

Writing About Writing

10 Things I Will NEVER Write About

Faith

You’re sat cross-legged in the chair watching me prepare myself for today’s session. Your instructions were clear, but you wanted to be sure I would follow them closely. Having showered and cleaned up thoroughly, my balls freshly shaved and my anus douched with water, there seems little doubt as to the focus of today. But I am taking nothing for granted, as I stand naked before you, fastening my collar with due reverence, and attaching the leather cuffs to ankles and wrists under your silent gaze.

And now you are before me, nearly a whole foot shorter but your calm presence radiates control. My knees buckle a bit, but you catch me by the elbow, and I’m suddenly light as air. Short/tall, clothed/naked, D/s. We might seem in opposition, but we are simply two sides of the same coin. Your hands slide to my wrists and you raise them to place a kiss on the back of each fist, before clicking the catch that now binds them in front of me. Still holding my hands, like a couple pledging oaths at a wedding, you say to me:

“Trust is hard earned and easily broken, Little One. Yours is precious to me, but I will be testing you today. The flip side to trust is faith. Faith that I will never harm you. Do you have that faith, my precious boy?”

I am looking directly into your eyes, suddenly struck by their blueness. This causes me to pause and miss a beat – I see the flicker of a signal in your face. Does he believe? You seem to be asking. I blurt out, stumbling over my words:

“Yes, Miss, my faith is never, I, yes, Miss…”

“Good.”

My inarticulate pledge is enough, it seems, as you lead me to the bed. Patting it like you would for a dog, you say:

“Up here, good boy. All fours please”.

I amble into position, encumbered by my tied wrists.

“Wider, please” you say, tapping my ankles with two fingers. And I realise this position is going to tip me over, which seems to be part of the plan. I fall onto my forearms like a planking position as I slide my feet wider. I flinch slightly at the feel of cold steel, as you fix the spreader bar; you take this for nerves and begin to stroke my raised ass along its flank, as you would a spooked horse.

“It’s okay, Little One. This is what faith feels like.”

You push my knees in slightly, opening me up, a cold draft upon my vulnerable points of entry. By forcing my head down, there is no chance to see what you have planned. I have to take on trust what is coming, and show good faith by not recoiling, but feeling a part of your intentions.

 

 

The Waiting Room – part one

As I check in, my eyes idly scan the book for your name, perhaps the very definition of a futile gesture. No names, ever. One of the rules we wrote.

This hotel was built for anonymity, the globalised designs of carpet and jalousies could be anywhere in the world. As such, they were a blank canvas on which to paint fantasies. An imagined illicit carry-on at the Cap d’Antibes instead of Croydon. A chance to dance and disrupt the dull monotony of modern life. This moment has been 10 months in the making, the culmination of a correspondence, when words are finally made flesh.

The click of the entrycard beckons me into the most neutral of spaces. A purgatory of bare bulbs and hairy carpets, furniture bolted to the extremities and at its heart a pristine bed, supporting a plain-wrapped package. I unpack my overnight bag and affect to soften the edges with personal effects: razor, shaving cream, two glasses, gin, a lemon with paring knife and mixers.

A buzz from the bed reminds me of the parcel I’m ignoring, which is vibrating as though possessed. I slit the end and withdraw a tremoring tumble of rags and a small screen, now insistently serving me messages.

“If you’re reading this, then I guess there is no going back. Like any contract, though, there is a cooling off period. If you’re feeling uncertain, unhappy or reluctant, then now is the time to pack your bags, drink the gin, and leave. No questions asked. No harm, no foul.

“If you’re still reading this, you can open the first message”.

With a handful of thumbs I manage to swipe to the next page. There’s just an image that is hard to make out at first. Then I ‘see’ it. It’s a fist wrapped around a knife, with a single drop of blood making a stalactite from the bottom of the final knuckle. There’s another message.

But first I need some support. I crack the seal on the half bottle of Tanqueray and pop the metal capped tonic. Unconsciously I thumb the blade of the knife, as the bubbles burn my throat.

“Let’s talk about needs. The ones we symbiotically share. The heat that rises in me when you show me scars you made for me. I need to hold you down hard, and for you to need it. My need for your pain is as intense as yours, an interlocking helix of hurt that makes me savagely horny. I will crush you and feed off your delirium as I overpower you with the need to fucking rip you apart, force you into me and grind myself into you until we both bleed.

“Still there?”

I take another drink, to soothe my throat which is now blisteringly dry. This is starting to feel hyperreal – that feeling where something so anticipated is actually happening and it’s too much to take in. The room, the message, the fact that she is somewhere within mere metres of me after all this time. I’m suddenly aware of my own physicality – my heart, now racing at the BPM of a runner, the sweat forming at my temple and my back, the prickly heat that is building all over me, I panic, I have to get out of these clothes.

And as I peel off my shirt and slip out of my trousers I notice the solid feeling in my cock that’s been there since I read that last message. It feels responsive to my touch, and I hold it as much to ground myself as the sensations it sends shooting through me. I stroke it gently, drawing long pulls as I paw at my nipples. Now I’m scratching, I want to gouge away the flesh to expose myself to you – show you the wounds that prove I’m worthy of your arousal. I pinch and claw at my bruised chest as if to get closer to you, and now I’m scared this is not calming me, I’m starting to feel fearful of the power of the feelings that are opening me up to your hunger. I shut my eyes, the sweat rolling and my heart pumping, and imagine your fingers in my mouth, pushing them deep into my throat to load them with spit before you force them inside me elsewhere, and I gasp and seize the edge of the bed to stop shaking.

The screen flickers and the next message catches my eye:

“Get the razor. Shave yourself – balls, cock, perineum. I want you smooth to see every mark I’m going to make.”

This helps. Running the razor with care over the pitted undulations of my balls and the smooth expanse of my body all around them. The clean, cool feel of my now subsided member, is like flesh against leather as each gentle movement brings new sensuous contact between my balls and my thighs…

“Now get dressed.” 

It’s now I notice the rest of the clothes that spilled out of the bag with the tablet, that are gathered in a pile on the bed. I was told all clothing would be provided, so I lift a pair of silk and lace, claret red knickers, bra and stockings & suspenders to match. I find I can fiddle my way through the underwear and have surprising deftness with the stockings, from watching former lovers. The spring and snap of the suspenders raps my thighs lightly when I put them on. I stand up and feel almost bound by you. The sheer clinging figure-hugging fabric presses wonderfully against my renewed cock, and I’m conflicted with feeling, because the submissive in me is making me burst with pride and excitement. I want to run in my Slut Uniform to show the world I’m yours and yet I also want to just kneel and wait your instructions. Sat quietly on the bed, knees together, head bowed, like in a waiting room sweating on a diagnosis.

“What are you waiting for?”

What am I waiting for?
To be continued…