Wednesday, June 15, 2016

e[lust] #83

Okkaaaaayyyy so I started writing after nearly a 3 year hiatus and my filthy little story was picked by the wonderful people at e[lust]. Who knew?!?!?! I feel very flattered and honoured. Please do me the credit of checking out the other stories and adding comments as we all like feedback. Thank you.
Rachel xx

Photo courtesy of Holden and Camille

Welcome to Elust #83 -

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 #84 Start with the rules, come back July 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!  

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

London Crows and London Kisses I am Her. She is Me. You Say You Want to Cook for Me  

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Unusual Liaison Community. Respect. Friendship. Fucking.

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Dirty Little Secrets *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!  


You Know O

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

My Bed Secular Submission My therapy from “hard limit” to “want” We Measure the Nostalgia The Cure and The Cause


Smut in the 6ix - Porn Conference & Gala

Erotic Fiction

Typing Errors La Belle Dame Sex and chocolate The Imprisoned of HIM-HER-THEM The Gift audience Becca’s Story Rope and Fixtures As salty as his cum... Dominating the Doctor

Erotic Non-Fiction

Teen Sex in Woolly Tights with 60s Beat Music Dear Sadist: Your Cruelty Is Your Love A male dom, the straight girl and the bi girl Owned, Leashed, & Beaten Jan 2015 Owned & Collared by Mistress Claire Rinse The Days Filth Away Power On Keeping tally

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Formative Kink Epic Fail: "Buck Rogers"

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

If it was easy anyone could do it What's a service submissive? Prescient Words

Writing About Writing

What if aspirational meant something else?  

Sunday, May 29, 2016

Unusual Liaison

I am looking up at him with my big brown eyes. I know what I am doing is illegal and yet it does not stop me; it thrills me.

I look up to see if he is looking down. He has looked down on me before but today the situation has changed and I am taking control. His eyes range from being screwed up in concentration, occasionally he casts them about to see if he can catch anyone's eye in quiet desperation. Of course no one looks, this is the London Underground in rush hour. Everyone is too focussed on their own internal worlds, hurrying from A to B. Even if he did make eye contact with anyone, we are British and it would be too impolite to ask for help.

He smells of alcohol, stale fags, with an unwashed manly stench. It repulses me and excites me as I suck his average sized cock. Everything about him is average and slightly dishevelled, as though he has come on difficult times which I am certain he has. Scruffy jeans, crappy trainers, second hand coat. Perhaps it came from a charity shop and that is why it smells as it does. No, I think he has just not washed in a few days. That thought makes me scowl but I am enjoying sucking him off too much.

This man has flashed me at least a dozen times this week, and to be honest I was getting pissed off with it. Most people are at armpit height so they have the wondrous joys of body odour to contend with. I am in a wheelchair so I am automatically at crotch height. I think this has excited this dirty flasher which is why I have received so much attention. I know he has done it to others, I have seen him. I am not sure what his motives are. Does he want to get laid? Is it a thrill of being caught? Is this his only sexual contact? Does he actually just hate women? All of these questions swirl in my mind as I slurp and suck.

Flashing is illegal, but then again so is sexual acts in such a public place. Indeed I have not asked for his consent before I started giving him a blow job and we are packed in here like sheep so he cannot escape. I am violating him, just like he kept violating me. That knowledge makes me feel powerful. It makes me feel as though I am getting a little bit of justice even though I know this is not right.

Looking down at me, his chin doubles slightly with little silver flashes of grey in his stubble. He is panting and nodding to tell me that he is going to cum. His chest heaving and eyes screwed he spurts averagely into my mouth. Everything about him is non descript, even his orgasms.

Spitting out his dick I look up at him with a sarcastic, 'don't fuck with me' smile. "Same time next week?"

He nods, still panting and breathless at this unusual liaison.

I reach for my wheels to make them go, out of badness and just because I can, I make sure that I run over his fucking toes.

Please scoot on over to @RebelsNotes to see who else is playing this Wicked Wednesday

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

How to remove anger

After spending the weekend at Eroticon I thought that it would be a good idea to try and write again. I feel old and clunky and out of practice. I have also lost my confidence so I will be back here sporadically. However, in the mean time here is one from my archives that I have dusted off for you. I hope you like it. Rachel xx

I am angry, so bloody angry. The molten lava spits in my chest, bubbling it's fury away there in it's new found home.
I want to tear the world a new arsehole. I want to smash everything. I have felt like this before, quite frequently really when the world is unjust or I am put upon until breaking point, or like today, where my body is bruised from giving too much. In the past I: have smashed every piece of crockery and glass wear I had, but felt no better. I have eaten my emotions only to feel fat and unfabulous with a side order of self loathing. I have tried kickboxing, running, and yoga (sometimes all in the same session); it stops the energy for the anger but does not calm me inside.
I sit at the top of my stairs unable to move, my rage confines me. I have a couple of hours as my son is at scouts. I swallow down the anger knowing that it will dissipate in the vast space of my heart. Perhaps I will feel more like the good mum I want to be by the time he comes home. I sometimes hate being an adult, I yearn for someone to take these problems away from me.
The rasp of the key in my door makes me sit up. Has my son come home early? Is he alright? Worry bleeds into me, my anger is temporarily shelved.
You stand there, all midnight and brooding. I look at you with hope in my eyes. Selfishly I want you to take my thoughts away from me, I want you to stop this anger in me, stop my internal civil war. I want you to help me. I want you to put me first. Ashamed of these feelings I make to stand up so I can take your coat and offer you a drink. Who do I think I am to put myself first? I admonish myself.
You raise a finger, just your index one, and indicate that I am not to move. You walk towards me, your training ensures that you are balletic in your movement, stealth like, threatening and sexy. Compassionately you touch my face, running your hand across my face and kissing my cheek. You smell fresh and clean and healthy. I never thought that smelling like that would be a turn on but simple smells do. I like well groomed men but not excessively so. The gentle strokes go through my hair. I close my eyes and look sad because I could not bear to be this close and my needs ignored, being invisible is my nightmare.
Fingers curling around my red locks gripping them so tightly that a few part company from my scalp. My closed eyes and sad face now screws up into one of pain.
"Open your eyes." Your voice has a timbre that is not to be messed with. You shake my head like a marionette until I comply. My eyes have watered with the pain but are brighter and more engaged than they were before. I look at you and you look proud, your melted chocolate eyes are kind and playful. A shadow of a smile passes over your lips before you kiss me.
That kiss is gentle and tender and leaves me wanting more but you pull away. My lips gravitate towards yours as they have needs too but your grip does not allow it. I try and move my head again but all you do is grip harder and force my head back. Your other hand is placed gently around my throat, squeezing tightly.
"Anything you want, you have to beg for. I have control. I have you. What I want and my needs come first."
A muted noise of agreement and acceptance comes from me.
Abruptly you stand up and drag me across the hallway, into the bedroom. I am not allowed to be upright enough to walk but my hair is being held too high to crawl. It is an undignified scuffling, shuffling, half crawling gait that I do to keep up with you.
Flinging me on the bed I land sprawled out, my feminine charm evaporated. I land face down and arse in the air. Your hand slaps down hard on my back, pressing me down so I cannot get up. I know what is coming next, the shy girl in me screams 'no' but the noise is trapped by my stronger self. You see my struggle. You know my shame face. You know it and you ignore it, or at least revel in the internal turmoil I experience as you lift up my skirt and peel down my pants. Naturally they do not come down all the way, they roll and crumple halfway down my wiggling legs and frame my bottom.
You put your face near my arse and inhale. My sweet musty citrussy scent is there, hanging tangibly in the air just above my skin. A suggestion of my depraved lust. My cunt lips sealed still, not allowing any moisture out. One of your fingers trips it's way along my shaved skin and parting my velveteen curtains to expose my pink degeneracy. I move more but you pin me viciously and feel me pant as I process this exposure of my sexual soul. I have been taught to hide this need in me, conditioned to. Good girls don't want sex, good girls don't show their need, good girls don't get a wide on. I think these things as you delicately finger me, my oily lubrication denying my social conditioning. With some surprise my first orgasm builds and pops out. It is unexpected and small but enough to break some of the tensing within me.
You allow me to rest on the bed for a few moments as you stand back and look at my dishevelled self. I am beautiful in my shambolic state. You adore this bit. The start of my unpeeling. Eroding the walls and polished veneer that I show the outside world to expose and explore my inner self, the vulnerable, sensual, sexual being that I am.
Flogging is a hard limit for me, as is whipping but you know that a good girl spanking is right on the upper most cusp of what I can tolerate. I want it but the line between a good girl spanking and punishment is infinitely fine within me. It is what you want. Pulling my over your knee I stiffen in fear. This is not playful fear where I am going to get some funishement, real fear, primal fear. I struggle in earnest, no play fighting, I need to get away and be safe. Again you grab my hair and whisper your craving for this in my ear. I am doing this for you, not for me. It stills me enough.
The first smack is hard enough to make my whole body shift forwards. I grit my teeth and bear it. I don't like this but want it too, I want to give to you. I feel the raw warmth in my exposed arse. I know what is coming and hope that I can be enough for you, I hope that I will not let you down.
The second blow is harder and makes me cry out. I can feel the sweat start to bead on my forehead and under my arms. I feel definitely less than sexy but I know that submission is not always about being sexy but rather it is about relinquishing control, taking control; not sexy but always deviantly beautiful.
Your rub my skin and dispel the heat and pain. Then you hit it again, not as hard as the other times but this time you do not stop. Smack. Smack. Smack. A metronome of pain and pleasure. I attempt to raise up my torso in a break from the hitting but find myself curiously drunk. No strength to haul myself up. Confused I shake my head to try and get rid of the cobwebs but nothing happens so I allow myself to flop over you again. I wonder what I look like. I wonder if my arse looks beautiful to you. To me it is imperfect but I know that it's alabaster round form contrasts nicely with your black hand; we both adore this contrast. Although now I suspect that it is pink, blushing from all the attention it is receiving.
You fish something from your pocket, not that I really notice in my blissed out haze. I only notice when I feel a cold metallic object on my butt cheek. Only when you are clear that you have my attention do you roll it around my skin to allow me to work out what you have. The coldness on my soft flesh is relieving until I realise that it is a sharp blade. Freezing rabbit like, I keep so still that you will not cut me but my treacherous cunt floods and the slick arousal shows itself on my thighs breaking through my lipped gate.
Scraping it across my legs you allow the blade down to my pants. Practical to the last I know that this knife will not be for decoration, it will be sharp and serviceable. This is aptly demonstrated but two small flicks of your wrist and my pants are history. My good girl is finally silenced as I am all wanton in your arms and will do anything you wish for. You run the blade back up my legs and I feel a liquid roll down, it might be sweat, it might be blood. The thought both thrills and horrifies me. The point of the blade stops, resting on my puffy pussy lips.

The night is about to get a whole lot darker and is now full of deviant and licentious pleasures.

I wanted to say thank you to @RebelsNotes and everyone at Eroticon for encouraging me to get back into the writing saddle again. Who else is writing this Wicked Wednesday ?

Saturday, June 7, 2014

On Hold

My life is on hold. I have pressed pause. I didn't do this intentionally, it just kind of happened. I am in instamatic picture, freeze frame, whilst all around me are mobile; in motion, moving forward in the ever transient 'now'.

Love keeps me immobile. It chains me to stagnation. Insidious tendrils curved and caressed my feet, massaged their gentle way up my legs, and wrapped themselves around my body. The warm hug of love infusing my very soul encasing my eyes and making me blind to the fact that I am now stationary.

The subtle shift in condition from flowing and empowering love to being on hold was so delicate that I failed to notice. I berate myself. I call myself a fool and an idiot, loathing my trusting nature.

I disgust me.

Being on hold allows me the luxury of reflection. To work out how I came into this position. It is the same pattern of relationship played out again and again. The cracked record of my romantic life. Same men, Same relationship. Same trusting self. Same mistakes.

I truly despise me.

Love had freed me up and allowed me to be beautiful again. It allowed my natural song to be sung; sexual and wild. Free flowing and expressive, expansive, inclusive. It de-robed me from a tarnished existence and made me shine again. People noticed. They saw me sparkle, become effervescent.

I became curious once more, keen to explore and understand my body. how it worked, how I came. That had always been a problem, my orgasms. From hurried, selfish lovers who used my body and kindness as some form of masturbatory tool. To me being too generous, placing their needs before my own. I found myself in a situation where I could not come, unable to work out why but the ache and the longing of release being ever present and very real inside me.

It was this that pushed me forward; this that drew me to him. He was the key to unlock the mysteries of my body and mind. that old jaded euphemism, hackneyed, common and worn out but so apt here in my situation. A key and a lock.

And yet here I am locked down again with the same desires. It was my lust that made me realise I was chained yet again. It is not a desire or an ache within my loins that stirs in my now. Rather an energetic force that propels me to movement and makes my shackles chafe. I look at people and try and keep my lustful wolfish smile from my lips. Disguise is my friend. That glint of desperate need in my eyes is not so easy to cover and the more astute amongst my friends see it, a few comment on it.

My desire to fulfil my sexual needs is tangible and heavy, both hot and cold. A weight and the price I pay for loving a married man.

I want to break this bondage, to walk away and set us both free. The old adage of you can't help who you fall in love with is hollow and to subscribe to it means that I am a powerless victim. In my mind I recall the powerful, prowling lioness that I can be and claw at this victim stance. Yet when he calls my name I go to him, compelled because of love.

There is no imminent resolution. No quick fix or snappy answers. Time I know is my true rescuer. Time will help me unlock these chains. Time will empower me to allow them to fall from my body. On the other hand, if I blame time for my emancipation, do I also accuse time for binding me again next time, or do I blame love? I know the person I will blame the most will be me and my humiliating inability to learn from my mistakes.

In the mean time I remain on hold.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Trigger Warnings

Rebel's prompt this week is about trigger warnings, and to be honest I have been pondering which way to go with it. I don't usually follow the prompt but this one seems right up my street as I write erotica and illness, necrophillia, domesitc violence, murder etc. so most of my work could have some form of trigger warnings on it. Indeed on some of the ones I feel are more extreme I put something up at the front about people of a delicate disposition should look away.

There were several ways I could have gone with this. I could have written something heinous that set off some people's triggers. I could write about censorship and the compulsory trigger warnings on writing and books. However I was taught that if you are going to comment on things then 'add value'. I think if I went down that route then I would not be adding anything to the argument, just adding hot air.

Thus, I wanted to talk about something that I am passionate about in the frame of trigger warnings. I want to talk about intelligence.

In my working life I come across people if all shapes and sizes and intellects including learning difficulty (IQ of 80-90) and learning disability (IQ of 80 or less), as well as exceptionally brainy people (IQ of 150+). I need to communicate to all of these people, using a variety of different methods. I do not have any difficulty in communicating with them in a way that makes sense to them. One thing that I do not do, I never do, is dumb things down. I treat them like articulate human beings, because they are. Individuals with a unique sense of self and self identity.

I see trigger warnings on things on Fetlife where it may or may not be appropriate. What I find is that the 'trigger' is usually insignificant to me as a reader but of huge import to the author. I find them an irritation because they preclude me from thinking and making my own choices, if I want to read the article or not without explaining explicitly what the content is. I find that mildly offensive at the time and very offensive when I reflect upon it.

We title things to give people an idea of what the contents are. There is blurb on the back of books, DVD's, games and so on to give us more of an idea of the content so we can make an informed choice. That is why they are there so we know approximately what it is all about. Our curiosity takes us further if we want to. What is the point of getting a book if I already know what happens in it?

I am a huge fan of series like Wonders of the Solar System and Blue Planet. They cover topics that I know nothing about but pitch it at such a level so that I do not feel stupid but that it is engaging and educational. It is poles apart from Americana-esqe programmes which dumb things down to the lowest common denominator, instead or presuming that their audience has some modicum of intelligence. Spoon feeding is a huge turn off to intellectual engagement of the subject, at any level and at any age.

So let's examine the lowest common denominator for a second. The average IQ is 100 and I have yet to meet a person who does not want to be considered as an individual, a unique being. From that it is the right to make their own choices, what they want to wear, what they want to watch, what they want to read. They customise social media sites to suite them such as Twitter and Facebook. No one has a Twitter account full of Conservative party announcements when they are interested in elephant riding and not politics. They choose. They are selective.

McDonald's now famous warning sign of 'hot contents' when you buy a hot beverage is not a warning to protect people, it is a legal back covering exercise. I do not know of anybody, including people with learning disabilities, who are not aware that a cup of coffee will be hot. It does not come as a surprise to them. Therefore, it is not out of concern for the customer, it is out of concern for themselves, much like trigger warning where the concern is to relieve the uncomfortable feelings of the author.

I am all for warnings about explicit lyrics and age ratings as there does need to be some regulation; some way of knowing if it is age appropriate or contains offensive material. To be able to read my blog you have to acknowledge that you are over 18 and readers are warned that it contains adult content. I am for correct descriptions of things, accurate blurbs and titles. I am all for individual choices. The UK Mental Capacity Act states that we have the right to make unwise choices (I love that bit about it, it always makes me smile). Trigger warnings take away that right to choose, they take away any level of intelligence to make a judgement whether or not we want to read or watch something.

I am pro choice, pro intelligence, pro individualism.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Love and Scars

"Oh dear." 

It was a statement, a social comment, and a hug all rolled into one. The syntax was slow and delicate with the vowels protracted and soft. The tone inflected in it was critical but playful, telling me off but in a gentle manner. Cosseted, akin to a mother gently berating a child so that they know where the boundaries are. 

"That was silly now wasn't it?"

 The muscles around my mouth twitch into a suggestion of a smile as I ram the remnants of the chocolate biscuit into my mouth, my guilty pleasure and source of chastisement. The swallowing of evidence is not an attempt to hide it, rather a rebellious defiance that I actually have finished the whole packet of biscuits and loved it. My head is held high in mock defiance bordering on outrage at this accusation. 

I cast my eyes down knowing that I have broken my diet, tempted by dark chocolate digestives. I know she is right. Guilt does not consume me because she makes me feel loved. That warm effusive love that permeates everything: your whole being, your hair, your soul, everything around you, rooms and soft furnishings, the sky and birds and cars. All encompassing in the invisible stability of gentle love. 

I turn and inhale to say something, to reprimand her. Witty quips jostle for first place in my brain, tripping to the tip of my tongue like school children fighting to be first in line. 

I look and she is not there. Reality becomes a mirraged haze for a second. An Escher picture where I don't know which way is up. Then it reasserts itself; she is not here, she is dead and gone. Cremated. Memories of her funeral and wake swim lazily to the surface of my brain. Pain stabs at my heart. The quips wither, drying my mouth with their corpses. 

A sigh chokes down the tears and grief. Another sigh calms the sudden ache in my heart. The third deep breath reminds me that I was loved and that it is not the love that has died, just my best friend. A flicker of a smile flashes across my mouth as tears collect in my eyes blurring my vision of the detritus of gluttony that is the empty packet of biscuits. 

Screwing up the empty wrapper I put it in the bin. I smile at the weird juxtaposition of grief and love. Had I not known her I would not be so sad, so empty like a gutted fish at her loss. Her unbelievable sunshine that she brought into my life. It is almost an oxymoron the pain and love combined; that the love she showed me and the love we had for each other keeps burning, never ending. I hear her commenting on things that I am doing, I smell her perfume as I walk in the room. All of these things calm me, they help me through life. I talk to her, long conversations about both the frivolous and the serious. I talk out loud like a mad woman, schizophrenic in nature with only me hearing the response. I know she is dead and it is only my imagination, a construct in my mind but I talk to her none the less. Bollocks to what anyone else thinks, I embrace this insanity of grief and love. 

With her or without her, if I had been given the choice to not know her and not feel this pain; I would choose pain every time. Always pain. Because with it came something special, a mutual love and respect that is uncommon and is the be cherished even if it was cut short.

As always the beautiful Rebel hosts Wicked Wednesday, please check out and comment on the other wonderful entries.

Saturday, July 27, 2013


My lover and I broke up. Mutually for the most part of it but I have never felt so completely broken in my life. The competition said one word....this was and is the only word on my lips and in my mind.

Sinful Sunday

Post script: this image was taken a few weeks ago and I (and my ex-lover) are both much happier now. I promise :D