Oh, Beautiful…

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. . . for spacious skies . . .

What. The…

for amber waves of grain

FUCK?!

My hand, just moments ago turning tender pressure circles over my clit, freezes mid-motion while my brain – the part of my brain that thinks having an orgasm would be a grand idea – tries to reason out this sudden intrusion of notsosexy song.

America, The Beautiful? Really? NOW?!?

Whyyyyy???

My singing-head-voice holds its silence at this question, so after a moment of concentrated breathing, I center my energy, concentrating on the ball of heat tightening behind my belly button and conjuring —

for purple mountain’s majesty

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

Stifling a laugh, I clench my my kegels in silent giggles at the ridiculousness of this pre-orgasmic patriotic mental concertina and press on – literally, pressing and stroking and teasing my swollen clit with firm fingers – figuring, What the hell, why not?

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Smack

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It is a Santa Ana burn, salted and gusty, that whips its heat through my veins, searing a hole in my gut and charring its dry scratch tight in my throat.

I am ablaze, dispassionately overemotional, cold with grief, and I want nothing more than to push this stinging nettle ache OUT.  Out of myself, past the nerve endings in my own skin and onto his, with palm-pinking strokes of my hands against his flesh.

He’s just given me an orgasm – one of my favorite kinds – and in it I have found, instead of relief, a jittery calm that will only be assuaged — if, indeed, it can be assuaged — by a very specific smacking sting:  I need to give him a spanking.

On his cock.

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Horizon Lines

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yellow and orange sunset over water on beach horizon

.

coin flips:  tails, you lose

days, seasons, life – all numbered

brilliant light winks out

.

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Wild was… Untamed. He wasn’t supposed to die.

      12 Comments on Wild was… Untamed. He wasn’t supposed to die.

gravatar for Wild (wildoats1962)

William {Wild} Rice:  February 25, 1962 – September 18, 2017

 

He was my friend.

One of the best I ever had.

I loved him.

And now he’s gone.

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Elust #98

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Steamy bedtime Elust98 header

Photo courtesy of Steamy Bedtime

Welcome to Elust 98

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

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Black and white

Underdressed

I Talk Sex – Female Sexuality and Education

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

You Don’t Know What Love Is

Writing for Free vs. Getting Paid

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Ropes, Silk, & an Egg

 

*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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Jeté

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colorful abstract painting titled "Jeté"

The colors dance behind my eyelids in bursts and swirls, splashing across my vision in vibrant variegated hues.  They overlap and spin, spattering their motley array of vivid brights and fade-in monochromes until, in the imbrication, an abstraction forms.

Joyous saffron, streaking upward in xanthous delight:  head high, arms outstretched, this joyous abstrusion – she, me – leaps across the stage I have created in my mind against the backdrop of pleasure that is my person.

My fingers lead, my body follows; plié, lift, twirl ~ press, bow, repeat.

My clitoris the instrument, my hands the prodigy.

Fingertips setting the tempo, I alone determine the dynamics.  Pianissimo crescendos through to the repeat then begins again… and again… through each movement.  Cut time, three-quarter waltz, invention precedes fugue, and all the while my heart – a metronome – beats erratic time against my pulse points.

I, the maestro in an orchestra of one.

A sonatina solo performer, I – alone – am the principal dancer in this ballet.

The chromaticity intensifies along with my touch, pressure against my pubic bone lighting each tincture to iridescence.  Streaks of color firework through my vision while my fingers paint their music, leading my body in this choreographed carnality.

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