I undertook two challenges in April.
First, was my own challenge to post a piece of original erotic flash fiction every day for a whole month; I got a lot out Molly’s PhotoFest (post an erotic photograph a day) and felt my understanding of my camera got better as the month wore on. I hoped my writing would do the same if I posted a story a day.
But … two hours after I made this pledge public, I saw that there was the A-to-Z challenge, and instinctively signed up for that. A post every non-Sunday day on a different letter of the alphabet.
Only on day three, and six posts later, did it occur to me, that I should have merged the two ideas, but had already started basing my A-to-Z posts on my sex life, so I was resolved to writing 56 posts for the month of April.
Quite a big challenge … 😉
So, on the first weekend, I sat down and started dividing my time. I used Google Calendar and added time for “SS Comm” (SinfulSunday Commenting), “WW Comm”, “A to Z Comm” as well as “Write Flash” and “Write A to Z.” I had personal time, private time and revision time scheduled! I became uber-organised.
I gave myself 60 minutes to write my A-to-Z posts, and 90 to write my flash fiction pieces (although two were already written in March!)
And I am delighted that I managed to finish it, but am glad that my evenings are less busy! I even found time for a review of Flying High, as well as four entries to Molly’s SinfulSunday.
I am very proud of some of my stories; there are a couple particularly that I’ve re-read and am not overly happy with, but equally there are a couple that I am delighted with. 😉
So, my question, to other bloggers, is how would you, or how do you, divide your time? I used Google Calendar but am interested in other ideas!
The 56 posts are …
And then there’s the young brickie: Ryan was sent to pick up some paint one day and got his treat, despite the size of his order. What he lacked in pounds sterling, he made up for as his trousers fell to the floor. My dungarees offered no resistance as the young man stood akimbo, his proud cock jutting into the shop, waiting for me to allow him to take advantage.
I knew what was coming; it wasn’t just the plastic roses. There was only three teabags not four on her tea-tray, and she had had problems connecting to the complementary wireless. In short, the room was not to her expectations and she had every intention of ensuring that I knew. She was going to give me a “tip.”
“Thunderballs. Jack Thunderballs.” She gave a cursory smile, as her eyes focused on a big spender a few tables away from the bar. “I trust you will have a good night, Mr Thunderballs, but I have …” “You’re watching Gregori,” I voiced loudly as she went to move away from me; she froze. “He’s staying the night in room seven-zero-two.”
The fair-haired girl was unfazed by my presence: she leant over to the floor, to deposit her cleaning box on the carpet, ensuring that her short frilly skirt, rose seductively to reveal dark fishnet stockings and deliciously creamy thighs under her black lacy trim. I grunted appreciatively at her impromptu display, watching open-mouthed as she adjusted her skirt, to reveal the peachiest, most beautiful arse, split with a thin black thong.
I could see in her eyes she wanted me to: she needed the affection and attention, the hot pleasure dripping from her cunt as I would coax a climax from her expectant opening. I pressed her shoulder over the small table and her hands instinctively gripped the top of the furniture. She was gaspingly desperate and guided my cock into her slick hole.
She licked her lips as I sat down, feeling overdressed in the presence of her beauty, but she passed me a bottle of her family’s fresh cider, and knelt down in front of me. “I wanted to do this on your eighteenth birthday,” she said with a wink. “Imagine you’re eighteen again.” She began to lower the zipper on my shorts, licking her lips as butterflies fluttered around my belly button. “Enjoy your cider,” she whispered, reaching inside my boxer shorts to grab my erect dick. She was gentle, her touch delicate and sensual, as I took my first swig of the alcoholic drink.
The one, who the devoted husband would experiment with; the one whose erecting cock, blessed with ridged veins and a bulging purple head, was aching to be kissed. The one who had guided him to his first visit to a gay sauna.
His eyes fixed on Rick’s cock, as he dropped to his knees to admire it; he had never been this close to another man before, and moved his head slowly to kiss the tip of his dick.
Sometimes, they keep their hands and wanton desires to themselves; I don’t like those gigs so much. Normally they can’t. Maybe the bride wants one last fling, the maid of honour sees something she can’t get from her respectable husband or a wild guest just wants a wilder time. By the time my thong gets tossed into the raunchy mob, the inhibitions are long gone.
She wanted to go further, and I obliged: I kidnapped her walking home from work, bundling her unceremoniously into a van and ripping her clothes into shreds as I tore them from her body. Eight masked men had their way with her in the warehouse as we assaulted her, striking her bare skin with our terrifying arsenal of whips, canes, floggers and crops.
Her smell of her fear permeates the cell; her face is riddled with terror. She’s new, she’ll learn. I’m going to fuck her up but not kill her. The whip indicates my dominance, a hard smack across her thighs reinforces it. She screeches; the sound of her pain is nothing but blissful music to my ears.
Take Maria at University, for example. She was a biter. No penetration was complete without the crazy minx sinking her teeth into the flesh of the man as he pounded his cock into her. His screams would increase as she neared her orgasm. The flailing cries of the aroused man, in pain and pleasure, totally rocked her boat. We had a very short-lived relationship: I had bite marks all over my arms.
A chastity cage was the first condition of their reconciliation. The cold steel snapping shut over his cock drove home the reality of his predicament. He begged, but she remained resolute: her patience stretched taut by his vociferous pleading, whimpering as she slid the stout padlock closed on his genital liberty.
She looked divine. The dominant pose of her body, staring away from me and shunning my presence as I looked into her cold lair. The gloved hands, ready to probe my body with malign intentions. The touch of her buttocks, her fingers already prising the buttcheeks apart to receive my kisses on her bud: suddenly that was all I was good for. That’s all I wanted to.
But for a moment, she was not interested in the bed; sliding the dress from her body and facing her new husband in her expensive white lingerie: she had never adorned such fine garments for their play before. His blue eyes undressed her further, imagining her smooth skin underneath her lacy panties or the succulent orbs hidden beneath the unwelcome straps.
She gasped, groaning with every slam of her cock against my bud. She gripped hold of the back of my thighs, digging her nails into my flesh as she panted; my own body betraying my violation. My prostate swam with sensation; stimulated for the first time with a strap-on, as she pounded. Intense. Instinctive. Visceral. As her deep thrusts drove through my concerns and inhibitions, her body shuddered and pulsated.
It was her weekly gift, and that evening was particularly intense: no quick rub around her clit, but over an hour of delicious solo love making, coaxing repeated climaxes from her deliciously lithe body: the gentle curves, the succulent breasts that I would do anything to feast on, and long, toned legs. Today, they were encased with the mesh of fishnets. I wanted her.
While an e-stim device can be used for BDSM play, it can also be used to coax climaxes and orgasms with minimal pain. I bought an ElectraStim EM60 Flick while I was the Erotica Show in London last year as my first foray into the world of erotic electostimulation, and although I like to give the device to my wife for her to control, we don’t use it for its more painful possibilities.
Because, the truth is, I like playing with my plumbing. And it’s good for my health too: men who masturbate regularly are less likely to get prostate cancer later in life. It also helps relieve depression, provides a cardiovascular workout and lowers blood pressure. Plus, I’ll know if I get any strange lumps or tenderness, because my hands are never away from my groin for more than 48 hours! It’s good, clean fun.
I love being naked. I like the feel of warm sun on my bare skin, or the cooling breeze wafting over my body. I adore the liberating feeling of nakedness, unshackled from my clothes and free from restriction. I love seeing my wife in all her glory, at home and doing normal things, naked. It’s refreshing and lovely.
Indeed, at no point in my life have I ever had sex to produce children; they’ve been by-products of a soup of uncontrolled lust and irresponsible carelessness. But, from Gaia’s perspective, the overriding reason to give me dangly bits below the waist, and an appropriate slot in the female gender, was to create babies: to reproduce, and continue my line of genes.
Back in the nineties, it was the newsgroups: I spent a lot of time reading them with the tales posted. I found incredible authors such as Rachel Ross, who could write about topics that were well past my red lines and make them sexy and enticing. I found Victorian books, especially Victorian erotica to be loaded with fantastic prose that relentlessly coaxed vivid scenes in my mind.
My wife can take me to the brink of orgasm and leave me on edge. I will be desperate, anxious, squirming for a release as her hands slide over my lubricated cock. She knows the pleasure it’s causing, and revels in the power in her fingertips. She will stop and kiss, before bringing me to the cliff-face again and again.
Although it may sound quite a hardcore, savage activity, dripping hot wax onto a submissive is a wonderful experience. The warm liquid shocks as it lands, and then has a unique feeling as it dries; akin to a contraction against the skin. But I never get a chance to focus too much on each droplet, as another is very quickly behind it, sending a spark of pain and me into a dreamy haze.