Elust #91 (Some GREAT reads!)

Silverdrops toy box header
Photo courtesy of Silverdrops Toybox

Welcome to Elust 91

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 #92 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 ~

Forcing Growth

In Stitches

The Instrument and the Ornament

 

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Imagine? You Might Wish You Hadn’t!
she’s picture perfect

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Morning Stretch

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Amber alert
Spanking: Chapter One
‘How To’ Femdom Series
Play it safe
Formative Kink: “The Happy Hooker”

Erotic Non-Fiction

Follow Your Heart
Humiliating Raylene: Kissing Lynette
THREESOME – prepared
Leaving Questions Unanswered

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Genital shame in the news
Cock and Balls Sling Demonstration

Poetry

Chastity, No Boner: A Lusty Limerick
Roleplay (inna damp, dark alley)

Erotic Fiction

Portraits of You
Addicted
Words of Fuck

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Nothing good can come from this
UNCLEAN: Dirty, Sweaty, Filthy, Messy Sex

Events

GRUE

 

 

Elust 88

If Somehow The World Were … Different

Time carries on. It inevitably changes things. Us. Time is history … moving. We can fight the motion, but we can never keep up with the result. But moving on without a struggle offends human nature. It’s so … defeatist.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m on the brink,

Because …

I remember how I used to think”

“Would you if I asked?” she queries me.

She wants to know what I’m thinking these days. Where I’m at. Really, where I’m going.

“If you texted me more often, you could find things out,” I say.

“I don’t like to ask”. She infers, “Would I tell her the truth?”

“Yes, I only want to see a peek

But if …

You skirt the questions … I’ll just be weak”

Where once there were no secrets there is now caution and timidity and the fear of seeming weak or needy. Instead of brilliant clarity in the relationship, there now are only shadows. Shadows which hide, grey shadings to mask feelings. An illusory mist to dampen and lubricate previously sharp emotions. A veil concealing the feared imperfections.

While dormant, the intensity is there yet. She fears it. I don’t know whether I should get closer. Or go away.

‘No, it won’t ever be like before

Not now …

The Dark craves always for even more”

 

 

 

Between The Times (5) … Let’s Further Introduce Jessica

jane-fonda-1960s-hairstyle1It’s now way past time to get back to those times. This is a series on our young Marty. Some of the stories that laid the foundation for who he is … or perhaps more accurately, who he thinks he is.

Should you have missed the five introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here and here. And the two most recent episodes (all true by the way) here and here.

You just know Jessica is going to come up again, don’t you … ?

I left off introducing Jessica. Let’s do a quick review. Jessica was Peter’s wife. I had met Peter shortly after my arrival in London. Peter was a work mate of a fellow (Mick) who had befriended me. The crazy part of all this is that I had met Peter in the “City”, the square mile of old London (roughly between Tower Bridge and London Bridge on the north side of the Thames) that at the time housed the major British banks and financial houses. Yet unbelievably, Peter was a habitue of a pub where I tended bar in a far away section of London. The odds of that were catastrophic. No actually, I guess they were providential when you add Jessica to the situation. Are you up with me now?

Jessica would typically come into the pub with Peter on a Friday night. Or perhaps on a Sunday afternoon with their 4 year old daughter while Peter played football (soccer) with his mates on a nearby pitch.

Jessica caught my attention from the very beginning. She was a natural blonde beauty, usually wearing a mini skirt and her hair down and slightly bouffante-style. Think Jane Fonda in Barbarella.  It was the very late 60s after all. Think very Jane Fonda at this time. Small of stature, she nonetheless had a big presence. All heads in the pub turned whenever she came in. I know I wasn’t the only one who thought this … how the hell did Peter … not the best looking man on the planet shall we say … land such a looker like Jessica? Part of the story was their daughter of course. Peter had got Jessica pregnant not long after they had begun dating.

A couple of quick facts here. I was 19. Jessica 25. A much older woman in my eyes. Older, more experienced, more worldly in every way. But I was mesmerized by her.

And she was starting to pay attention to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Secrets Come

There is something very special when secrets are revealed. Without pressure or coercion. When they are freely given. They open you up. They release you. They free you.

She has entrusted me with several of her secrets. That very few, if any, know. Her thoughts, concerning her deep cravings, of her condition, her past, her activities, secrets concerning her closest family.

This is a very important beginning.

Leaving Questions Unanswered

I don’t dream very often. At least not dreams I can remember. But the other night I did and it was very impactful.

I know what was the impetus. I was chatting with someone about thighs earlier in the evening. And you know I really love your thighs. But I’m jumping ahead here.

In the dream you got on all fours. Then turned to look back and gave me your smile to which I inevitably melt. But in the dream that’s not the way I want you. I want you closer. I need you closer. I crave you closer. I can’t live without you closer. I feel as if my existence depends on having you closer.

It’s the intimacy with you I lack. Intimacy is chemistry for me.

These days we have no communication. One by one you cut our channels. This is torture for me, as I am one who needs to communicate several times a day. Suddenly I am exiled to blankness. Nothingness.

Then mysteriously, you added one app with me. But with no warning, you cut that one, too. I am baffled. And hurt.

I kneel behind you. And pull you towards me. Your long, muscular thighs resting on my quads. Taut athletic muscle on taut athletic muscle. Your absolute perfect ass with its firm roundness rests above my crotch, my engorged erection climbing up the small of your back. I begin to feel you as I feel myself.

My hand reaches under and feels your slickness. My palm dampens your landing strip with your own moisture. Then three of my fingers slip inside you. I feel your sigh of pleasure and we begin to reconnect.

I have missed you terribly, the contact, being part of each other’s daily lives. You know I live for this daily rhythm. But my rhythm and routine have changed lately … saying goodbye to old friends and embarking on new challenges. And the progress has been mixed. And it’s been painful. Most everything is difficult these days.

As you rise slightly on your haunches I enter you. We gasp in unison at the sensation, you filled fully by my erection, our bodies finally attached. I move my hand along your firm belly, feeling the ropes of your hard abs. God I love your abs! My other hand reaches for your long, smooth throat and wraps it lovingly. At this moment you are again mine, totally.

Slowly, ever so slowly you inch up and down on me, barely any noticeable movement at all. But I feel you. I sense all your being through every cell in my body.

You just walked away. Convinced that it was the only way for you to carry on … to be a better you. A more devoted you. Even though you were going to surround yourself with all that gave you anguish and misery and brought you down to where I found you, broken. I had thought you were healing, that you would acknowledge it.  But perhaps that only refortified the strength of your convictions.

I know it’s only a dream, but I see you so clearly. Your beautiful mouth opens and your jaw juts just a fraction. Your visage in profile is stunning, a marble Michelangelo in flesh, the depth, the expression to your face mesmerizes. There is no sound … no, this dream is absolutely silent. Your orgasm comes in surging waves as I hold you tightly, passing through you to me, a crescendo that ignites the rocket I have sheathed in you . I, too, then silently climax into the mists of our engagement.

Then you are gone. I awake in a sweat. You have disappeared again.

Why this? Your leaving still unanswered.

 

 

 

Of Bond and Distance

The Cousin was early despite coming from far. He walked into the funeral home alone, but hoping to find his two cousins. He asked an attendant if the family were here.

“Yes”, he said, “but I think they are in a room gathering before we start.”

The Cousin nodded, and exited the building to get some more fresh air after his long drive.

His aunt had been very special for him, a tough as nails woman who knew so much pain and suffering as a child. The Depression was a very unkind era to grow up in, and it was not uncommon for poverty and death to split families apart.  Though that background made her strict and unflinching, it never clouded her ability to show great love and kindness. When the Cousin was a boy, she had always been there for him when he needed her.

As he walked in the gently warming sunlight he recalled how he had been there for her too when she had lost the middle cousin, more even then her husband and other children. The Cousin and his aunt had had a bond together formed in tragedies.

And now she was gone, too.

The Cousin walked back into the funeral home. There in the lobby was his baby cousin with her husband. Standing beside her was another man the Cousin did not recognize. He was well dressed and sported a gray goatee with a full head of hair. Goateed Man was silent. But he watched closely as the Cousin hugged and kissed his baby cousin.  They spoke tenderly for 3 or 4 minutes, Goateed Man never yielding them appropriate space.

Finally Goateed Man, his deep blue eyes blazing fiercely addressed the Cousin.

“You have absolutely no idea who I am, do you?”

The unmistakable lilt in the voice along with its gentleness shook the Cousin to his core. Embarrassed him. Shamed him. His face flushed.

How could he not have recognized his own cousin? Impossible!

A  year apart in age , they had played as brothers when children, most times inseparable. Church picnics, Cub Scouts, sports teams. Running through the bush behind the cousins’ home, wild free spirits. They reveled in the other’s courage and daring, pushing limits, one always covering for the other when they inevitably got into trouble.

laughing-boys1It had been years since they had seen each other. Since the death of the cousin’s younger brother. And no communication in that long time interval.

Though best of friends as children, they had always been different, only the blue eyes the same. The Cousin with his mother’s, and cousin those of his father. Eyes than shone a warm and deep hue … until provoked when they turned an icy cobalt.

“Oh my God” gasped the Cousin as he grasped then hugged warmly Goateed Man.

“Where did the beard come from?”

His cousin just smiled back at him. “I’ve had it for a few years,” he said. “I look good with it don’t you think?”

“Yes you do!” the Cousin shot back

“You need to get one too,” said the cousin. “You were always the thinker in the family.”

The rest of the afternoon, as when they were 10, they were inseparable. They caught up on lives, laughed over their pasts and briefly became brothers again.

That evening on the drive home the Cousin couldn’t help but weep.

For his aunt.

And for his  lost cousin

A Promise Kept

As I was driving yesterday, the song on the radio flashed my mind back like the Enterprise going into warp drive. The song, the multi-octave range of the voice, its sweetness combined with its power. Theresa did the song even better than the original artist. It was one of her signature pieces.

I suppose the song hit me so hard and sent me reeling back because like then, I’m in a melancholic, reflective frame of mind these days. Then, it was a woman, too. She continued to reject my studied advances even though I knew she welcomed them. And she did eventually come around. If anything, when Marty knows what he wants, he is persistent.

I met Theresa in a European ski club.  She was definitely a torch singer. Her voice was magnetic, and the fact she had a stunning face didn’t hurt the attraction one bit either. She was English, very solidly built, shoulder length dark hair with eyes the color of Yorkshire coal.  I won’t bore you with the courting rituals, just know that they worked. Which was interesting because Theresa did not screw around on the road. She loved her husband deeply, and was devoted to her vocation, so wandering off the path so to speak was a very unusual experience for her. But for several days and nights that week she did.

Poor Robert! He had recently moved to the West Coast, and now we would see each other and play together but once per year. And here was I, abandoning our traditional pub crawling adventures to seduce and be seduced.  He was forced to come up with his own play activities. Robert, of course, well understood.

Each evening I would catch Theresa’s last set at the Club which would be followed by a wild night of sex and wine in her room. I so delivered on the promises she yearned for and couldn’t find at home. And her pillow breasts, sweet, thick lips, and hungry body provided the sexual respites I keenly wanted and needed. We craved what each could deliver, there, and at that time. All through the witching hours of the dark alpine night and through the morning we would have at each other.

Then I would finally arise, return to my room, get ready and meet Robert and the others on the mountain for lunch and a drink, before an afternoon of hard skiing. At the best of times I could barely keep up with him. His technique and finesse were far superior to mine. But I was fit and my legs were strong , so I  could stay with him and the lead group throughout the day. But not this year. My lack of sleep through the week hobbled me on the mountain. It made Robert’s hearty laugh all the more penetrating as he watched me struggle to keep up. I was the butt of his ribald jokes all through every dinner as he inquisitioned me on what happened through the prior night. My silence and knowing, Cheshire cat smile drove him crazy.

Finally the week was done. I was to leave and Theresa’s gig was up. We never delved into each other’s hearts. We dared not. The most hidden part of our lives and souls were not to be exposed. She made me promise to never try to contact her. It was just too dangerous she said. For reasons I’m not certain I fully appreciated at the time. But I was younger then.

And I’ve kept my promise.

Buttons, Toggles, and Switches

She has many outstanding features. Her figure. Her smile. All her physical attributes.

But right now the feature that is setting me off is her nipples. Not mere buttons, they more resemble toggles. Long, dark, and hard. Like on the dashboard of an MG TD.  The difference being that they turn me on, not that I use them to turn something on.

Oh wait, yes I can! And I will.

I’m getting impatient.

A River

I grew up near a small river. Though small, the current was swift and its embankments were high and steep. There were far mightier rivers not far away, wider, a stronger current, and more history. But this was our river. It, too, had a history. Since the early 19th century, mills and factories had borrowed the power of its flow to give thrust to their machines. In return, the mills had heavily polluted the river’s waters.

Way upstream were mighty cataracts. Further downstream it was calm where it emptied into the lake. But through our neighborhood the river took an in-between way … too fast and caustic to swim in, but in many places clear enough to see the bottom.

I loved to study the river, follow its current, watch the swirling eddies. I knew the bank on our side of the river well. The secret trails, the good copse of bushes where a 10-year old could hide, smoke and not be caught or seen. I knew the river’s course, every turn, each narrowing and widening of the banks, driving the river’s flow. The river’s course and flow never changed.  But every drop of water flowing by me was completely different than the moment before. Nothing, and everything changed. What was real? Was it  real? Did the river change before my eyes, or was it a constant?

I don’t think I ever came to a satisfactory answer.

Should I see her as a river? Accept that as she flows, everything changes? Or should I believe that the course, level, and flow are constants?

I don’t think I’ll ever come to a satisfactory answer.

Paris Nostalgia

Based on some conversations over the past couple of days, some memories of Paris have come back in a huge deluge. This was during the time of my travels as I was leaving my teens.

The cars on the old Metro lines still had wooden touches. When the doors closed, thin, metallic bars would somersault over to latch the doors, snapping to with a bold clic that could be heard across the carriage. It was practically Edwardian they were so old.

metro21

I was on my way, hopefully to see her again. I was staying at the Auberge de la Jeunesse. We slept in dormitories of 6 or 8 beds and paid 5 francs a night if I remember correctly. It was there I had my first café au lait. In the youth hostel they served it from bowls, along with your croissant. I remember my first taste of the café as if it were yesterday. The smoothness, the richness, which contrasted sharply with the chicory-infused coffee I had been exposed to in England at my last job. This was so delicious.

I had seen her, met her, talked to her the day before. I had caught her eye. She had grasped my fluttering heart. At the first glance she reminded me of Amy, her long, dark hair and relatively short stature served to bring my angst to the fore perhaps. She worked in a record store on the Left Bank. Her name was Françoise.

There is something I need to explain here. About Marty and Gallic women. They have this “thing” … apparently. An affinity for each other. That can turn into an attraction. And then a craving. It is often a full on irresistible force. So it started with Françoise. I’ve named her Françoise because she was a virtual clone of my then favorite French chanteuse, Françoise Hardy. That’s Françoise Hardy at around this time at the top of the post. Now, I’m sure you all can get a good feel for why Marty is drawn to these femmes fatales, but exactly what pulls them Marty’s way remains one big mystery. Perhaps it was the crooked smile or the flashing soft blues, possibly the fractured way he attacked the French language. Who’s to know? Certainly this recipe was much less successful with Teutonic women during my wanderings. They were probably put off by the lack of direction and purpose. Success with them required much greater diligence. But never French-speaking women.

But back to our story. I had entered the record shop the day before and was checking out the available LPs of French artists with whom I was familiar when Françoise approached, asking if I needed some help. One look at her and she was immediately subject to full-on crooked smiles and my best possible version of fractured French.

We hit it off and now I was on my way to visit her near the end of her work shift. We would get a glass of wine, perhaps later dinner … and then who knows?

In short, the wine was good. Dinner was fabulous. I learned that she would soon have her 22nd birthday. She lived at home with her parents.

But the following day she would have off from work. And we would meet at the nearby garret shared by her older sister and boyfriend. I learned more of French music and Françoise became much more knowledgeable about the American music scene than she had been.

And I would learn to make love to a vital, nubile young French woman. Without hesitation, with no prospects of a future.  I would understand that what was offered was but of that moment. Yet it would be timeless and unforgettable.

Françoise was the first French woman I had ever bedded. Fortunately and grâce à Dieu, she would not be the last. When I left Paris 2 days later, I was on a roll.