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Elust #90

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Welcome to Elust 90

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


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Conflicted part 1


Happy Endings


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Please You to Please Me

How to suck my cock – part 1 (attitude)


~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Visions of Sugarplums

*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!

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Window Display

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With two fingers inserted at his waistband behind his buttoned fly, I pull him forward toward me.  The silver glint of his belt buckle winks up in the dusky light, teased to bright reflection by the late afternoon sun rays streaming through the window we are standing in front of – shades up, curtains open – and, sneaking a peek at his surprised countenance, I give him a wink of my own.  Is she really…? is written clearly in his expression, and with a lick of my lips and a flick of his zipper, he has his answer.

Oh yes she is.

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Bringing Him To Heel

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man holding woman's foot wearing high heel boot

Do you like high heels?

I already know some of my husband’s feelings on heels – or, at least, his feelings about me wearing heels – from the way he responds to me physically when I don certain pieces of footwear,  but I’ve been contemplating the subject in a general sort of way lately, and I’m curious as to how (or if) he thinks of them.

And so I ask.

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Oyster Pants

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The bulge in his pajama pants is growing under my gaze, and when I give him my “come hither” gesture he does so with a sheepish smile.

“What’s that in your pants?” I ask when he reaches my side, wiggling my eyebrows lasciviously before reaching out to stroke him through the soft flannel.

He looks down.  Looks at me.  Smiles.  Looks down again, watching his erection lengthen through the fabric under my touch.  Looks at me again.

“Oysters,” he says.









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Stinky Legs

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Sometime around sunup:

I am half-awake, sprawled diagonally across my bed, arms akimbo, tank top twisted, legs uncovered, pajama bottoms pushed up to my knees.  I hear the soft tread of his feet and the murmur of his voice as he shuffles articles – things that have been strewn around my body as I slept – and mumbles to himself.  He moves the book I was reading last night out of its resting place by my left knee, so as to prevent my bruising it (or myself) unintentionally then rights the Kleenex box that’s laying on its side half under the pillow beside my head.  He picks up the zip hoodie I discarded in the night and places it in the clothes bin.

These movements are familiar, easily distinguishable by sound.  My eyes are not open, but I can “see” what he’s doing.  I can’t discern what he’s saying, exactly, though I assume it’s his typical good-humored remonstrations regarding my “man traps” – those things I leave strewn about me ere I go to sleep every evening, the movement of which would alert me to the presence of a man (him, to be precise) and therefore allow me to ‘trap’ him (and yes, he quite enjoys being ‘trapped’, thankyouverymuch) – and general commentary about the skewed positions I get myself into during nocturnal hours.

Most of these things come through as “mumble mumble book mumble laundry mumble mumble weird sleeper.”

But then he says something that comes through loud and clear.

Having picked up my discarded tissues (I’m still sick, thus the Kleenex as a sleeping companion; it’s easier to just reach over for one to blow my nose when I wake up stuffy than it is to tromp to the restroom in the middle of the night), he stands at my feet, rubs his hands over my unshaven calves (seriously, I think the last time I shaved was like seven weeks ago), and says “Stinky legs.”

Something in my half-conscious mind latches onto this phrase as an incredibly odd thing to say, and I question my auditory acuity momentarily.  Stinky legs? I think to myself.  Is that really what he said?

“Stinky legs,” he repeats, then walks out of the room.

Hmmm, I think.  He said it again.  I’ll have to ask him about that when I wake up.

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