In my case, often.
Actually, I’ve been awake since 7, so, for me anyway, it’s horny hour number 10, not number 4. I’m wired that way. But Horny Hour is one of the those blog-hoping things. Lately, there isn’t a blog hop I haven’t hopped on.
The challenge: an original blog post using the words:
Martin was tormented to the point of near insanity on two fronts. First, olfactorily: The brownies had been in the oven over twenty minutes. The intense aroma emanating from the oven was making him drool.
Second, his fingers were beginning to tingle. His arms had been suspended over his head since just before the brownies went in. The leather wrist cuffs were attached to the hooks he had drilled into the kitchen ceiling the week before. There was just enough play that he could stand on his toes and relieve the tension. Looking down for like the thousandth time, he saw that his cock was still pointing straight up at his chin, quivering.
“Lizzie, please,” he begged his wife, her back to him as she beat the bowl of chocolate frosting with a long wooden spoon. It was the only part of her more voluptuous than her frontside: her backside. Like Martin, Lizzie was nude. Unlike Martin, she wasn’t cuffed.
“Stop fidgeting,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Almost done here. Your whining is intolerable.” He watched, entranced, as her ass cheeks shook as she worked the frosting.
“I’ve never come without being, you know, jerked,” Martin pleaded. “But I’m close.”
Lizzie shot him a hard look. “You’re under orders. You’ll have your orgasm when I say so.” She went back to torturing the frosting.
The oven timer went off. She leaned over, opened the oven door, and the rich aroma of fresh-baked brownies slammed into Martin’s nose. An instant later, his cock jerked in excitement as he gazed at his wife’s pussy and asshole, perfectly framed by her asscheeks as she maneuvered the hot pan out of the oven.
“It’ll have to cool before I can put the icing on,” she said, untying her apron. She faced Martin, breasts jutting, and hung it on his cock. “Hold this.”
She picked up a spatula out of the sink. It was wet and crusted with cheese from last night’s pizza. Hand on hip, she approached Martin. His cock twitched, and the apron fell to his feet.
“You fidgeted.” It wasn’t a question. Lizzie put the spatula between Martin’s legs, forcing them apart. Not that they could spread that far. Turning it, she lifted his balls and churned them. Martin whimpered.
Whack! His dick sproinged up and down. She hit it again with the spatula. A piece of cheese flew off and landed on his cheek. Lizzie laughed at his penis, smeared with cold pizza sauce and cheese.
Enough spatula fun. Putting it back in the sink with the other dirty dishes, she picked up the wooden spoon, laden with chocolate frosting. Martin’s eyes brightened.
She stood in front of him, just beyond his quivering dick and turned her back. Leaning forward, she reached back between her legs and smeared chocolate on his cock.
Martin groaned. His wife’s ass, just beyond his dick, all fuck-me-doggy-style, tormented him in its utter, undeniable and breathtakingly beautiful femininity. As she pushed and prodded his straining member with the spoon, her pussy swelled and opened. Her pussy musk blended with the aroma of brownies.
“Lizzie,” he croaked.
She stood and turned, wagging the spoon in his face like a finger. “I was going to let you fuck me. Then you had to say something.” A fleck of chocolate landed on his other cheek, just beyond the reach of his tongue.
She walked around him. Male asses really don’t compare, Lizzie thought as she surveyed his behind. The hips are too narrow. Not round enough. And that hair. Yep, she reminded herself again, women are the bearers of beauty in our species.
Whack! Martin jolted as she assaulted his ass with the spoon. Whack! Whack! His cheeks reddened and clenched. Incredibly, his dick got even harder.
Lizzie danced around him, and flung the spoon in the sink. “Poor boy, does he want to come?” she teased, leaning into him, her breath in his ear, her tits brushing his arm. “What would my wittle hubby give for a bwow job?”
A mangled syllable that sounded like “mrmph” escaped his lips.
Lizzie sunk to her knees. Placing her hands on his hips, she maneuvered Martin’s chocolate-smeared cock to her mouth. Slowly, tenderly she took him, her tongue swishing his glans as she sucked. Her hands slid down his bruised backside, and she pinched his ass.
The delightful taste of chocolate filled her mouth, quickly followed by the salty tang of Martin’s ejaculate. His hips thrust with each wave of his orgasm as he pumped his splooge into Lizzie’s eager mouth.
She stood, jism dripping down her chin, dribbling down her tits, and whispered in her husband’s ear.
“Next week, meringue.”
Sprayed! (in the kitchen)
Junie was in the kitchen, fixing dinner. No carryout tonight. We’re gonna have a quiet evening at home.
Frankly, after all the outrageous sex we had over the last week, I needed a night off. Junie, my hundred-and-ten-pound, sex-crazed girlfriend, had outdone herself, fucking me senseless in just about every room in our apartment—the guest room, on the dining room table, even in the powder room. Everywhere except the bedroom, on our expensive new Euro-foam mattress that arrived last week.
Oh, and the kitchen. No outrageous fucking in the kitchen.
I could hear the banging pots and pans, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door, and whirring of the food processor.
I wondered what she was concocting. Not that it mattered. I’m an okay cook, but Junie was inspired. While I just threw ingredients together and hoped for the best, Junie had an instinct for the right ingredient that would elevate a dish to the next level.
“Michael, I need you.”
Yes, I’m your guy when it comes to taking out the garbage, grating some cheese, or some other mundane kitchen chore that won’t materially affect the meal’s outcome.
Junie stood at the granite counter, looking down into our large teak salad bowl. She looked scrumptious, poured into a tight pair of jeans, her hips cocked. The globes of her ass were exquisitely contoured by the fabric.
The expression on her face, though, was pensive. “It needs something.”
“Would you grate some Parmesan? In the fridge.”
“Looks pretty good to me,” I said, putting down the wedge of cheese.
“Something’s missing,” she said, tossing the salad with the wooden tongs. “Gotta think.”
Crossing the kitchen to the sink, she turned and leaned back against the ledge. “Michael, do the cheese later. I need your help. Something’s not right with the dressing.”
I looked into the bowl. Romaine lettuce, black and green olives, croutons, artichoke hearts, sliced mushrooms. The lettuce glistened with the sheen of olive oil. I inhaled the tangy odor of vinaigrette. Poking the salad with tongs, I scooped some up. “Tastes good.”
“It’s the dressing. It needs something. It’ll come to me.”
She followed me with her eyes. They had that glint, with just a hint of smile.
“Michael, get one of those little glass dishes for soy sauce, would you please? And pour me some olive oil. Just a dab.”
Sure. That’s what I’m here for. What the cook wants, the cook gets.
I placed the dish next to her.
“Okay, just go over there,” indicating the counter where the salad was.
I leaned back and looked across the kitchen at Junie, her back to the sink about six feet away. We faced each other. She held me with her eyes.
Her left hand crept up to her blouse, over the taut line of her breasts and to the top button below her throat. She started unbuttoning, moving down at a leisurely pace, one button after another. Her eyes never wavered from mine.
The blouse fell open and her hands went to her breasts, encased in a frilly white bra with lace around the tops. I never figured out why she wore the damn things. Her little boobs defied gravity.
Closing her eyes, she slowly ran her hands across the fabric of the bra. My cock started to strain at my jeans. I moved toward her.
I moved back.
While lifting and cupping her boobs, Junie massaged her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers. Her breathing picked up, deeper, a little faster. Her face was getting flushed. I could see her thighs clenching through the tight denim.
Pulling the lace down, Junie uncovered the tops of her breasts, exposing her erect, dark pink nipples. She raked them with her fingertips.
With a flick, she undid the clasp between the cups. Hefting her bare breasts in her hands, she palmed and pushed them into her chest with a slow circular motion. Her hips started to churn.
She dabbed a finger in the olive oil and coated first one nipple, then the other. After dipping her other fingertips in the oil, she swirled them across both breasts. Dainty. I could see the oil shimmering on her tits as she lovingly massaged herself.
I started to unbuckle my jeans.
“Stop.” Her eyes were still closed as her fingertips brushed her tits and nipples.
Releasing a sigh, Junie wiped her fingertips on a paper towel. She unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down, revealing a black thong. Dropping her hands to her mound and to the ridiculously narrow strip of fabric nestled against her pussy, she slowly outlined her vulva with her fingers.
On my side of the kitchen, it was pure torture. I wanted to bury my face in her snatch and lick her to an orgasm. And then flip her over and fuck her senseless against the sink, making her scream and squeal.
“Junie …” I think there was desperation in my voice.
“Just watch.” Her eyes remained closed as she continued to outline her labia, swelling out on either side of the narrow fabric of the thong. Spreading her knees for better access, she reached between her legs, cupped her outer labia, and squeezed. Hooking the skinny straps of the thong with her thumbs, she pulled it down.
Her pussy, shaved earlier in the week for a romp on the dining room table, was fully exposed to me. She ran her fingers along rim of her outer lips, stroking them up and down in languid movements. Bending her knees, she moved a hand behind her ass and up between her legs to her cunt. She circled the entrance of her vagina with a finger.
“Michael, take the olive oil.” Her voice sounded hoarse.
I picked up the dish and retreated to my side of the kitchen.
She plunged a finger inside herself, while her other hand vigorously worked her clit. She leaned forward, face flushed, her tits slathered in olive oil and hanging down. I wanted to take them in my mouth and flick my tongue against her hard nipples.
“Drop your jeans.”
I pushed them down. My dick sprang out of my pants, pointing up at the ceiling fan. I slathered olive oil on my cockhead and pumped my engorged shaft with my other hand, smearing the oil down the length of my dick and on my scrotum. I was in an advanced state of excitement, my balls jammed to the base of my throbbing dick. My eyes were glued to Junie’s pussy.
“Slower.” For a woman about three minutes away from a bone-shattering orgasm, she was telegraphing total control. I loosened my grip and stroked my straining cock at a leisurely pace, alternating palm strokes with light fingertip featherings.
The pressure in my balls and dick bordered on pain. My cockhead throbbed. It took all my will not to explode over the kitchen floor.
“Don’t come until I give you permission.”
Junie slid to the floor, her back against the counter, her knees spread, her jeans and thong gathered around her ankles. Her cunt was glorious in its wet, wide and swollen splendor.
Spreading her outer labia with one hand, she worked her clit with the other, making vigorous little circles on her hard nub. As her hand picked up speed, Junie threw her head back, groaning. Her hips started to rock.
“Don’t come yet, Michael. Michael, don’t… Michael… no…”
Her body shuddered as her orgasm broke inside her. Animal noises gurgled out of her throat. I could see the muscles surrounding her vagina contract and expand with each spasm. Her body rocked back and forth as the orgasm ran its course.
I clamped my dick in a death grip to keep from coming. I never wanted to do anything more in my life. But orders are orders.
Junie slowly stood up, a little rocky on her feet. Her juices had gushed down her thighs in a liquid stream. Without her pubic hair, her swollen outer labia looked enormous between her legs. I marveled at the size of her aroused pussy.
The focus came back to her eyes. “I want you to come soon, Michael. Just not yet. Stroke your cock slowly.”
She picked up the salad bowl.
“Michael, can you hear me?”
I looked at her. My mouth wouldn’t work. I was on the edge, teetering at the point of inevitability, the instant when the load of cum straining at the base of my dick would explode out of my cockhead.
“Michael, I want you to spray your jism now. Across the room to me. Do you understand? Nod your head.”
I nodded, stroking faster. My hand was locked vice-like around my throbbing and pulsating shaft. I gripped my balls with my other hand and squeezed.
“I want you to shoot hard, Michael. I want you to launch your load like never before. Across the room, Michael.”
Junie positioned herself about five feet in front of me, holding the salad bowl at her waist. I hadn’t seen her do it, but her jeans were up and her breasts back in her bra.
I pumped my cock furiously, my knees bent, my hips thrusting. I was beating off like a teenager.
“Shoot, Michael, shoot!”
Powerful waves of pleasure erupted in my groin as I exploded, jism flying out of my cock in a thick stream across the kitchen. Junie moved the salad bowl back and forth as my spunk arched through the air. I kept pumping my gushing cock furiously.
“Good boy, Michael, very good boy.” She really sounded pleased.
I sank to my knees, cock in hand, a white thread of jism dangling off the end of my dick. Sweat was dripping off the end of my nose. The waves of pleasure wracking my body ebbed.
Looking up, I could a line of my semen on the kitchen floor, gobs of creamy white. Junie held the salad under my nose.
Creamy white droplets of cum stood out against the dark green of the Romaine. While most of my load had ended up on the floor, Junie had caught my initial spray.
“Needed salt,” Junie said, putting the salad bowl back on the counter. “Now grate that cheese. I’m hungry.”
E-Read Erotica Reviews: This book is a very fun collection of kinky encounters between just two people, but wow, they slam home with intensity and sexual energy.
Women, reportedly the major consumers of erotica, are reacting in droves to the hit release of “50 Shades of Grey.” According to TheFrisky.com, PornHub has seen huge increases in searches for search terms related to BDSM.
“It’s women, in particular, who are suddenly way more interested in BDSM porn: Among women, searches for terms like ‘submission,’ ‘dominate,’ ‘BDSM,’ and ‘spanking’ are up 150-200 percent,” wrote blogger Rebecca Vipond Brink in PornHub Has “Fifty Shades” To Thank For Increased BDSM Searches.
“And maybe some of them will find suspension and anal fisting and genital clamps and electroshock extremely arousing and look into safely giving it a try, and good for them; and maybe some of them will see that it’s well beyond their tolerance and will stay the hell away from it in their personal sex lives, and good for them, too,” Brink sagely added.
Here’s one erotica author hoping the surge in interest in kink translates into more sales. Those women who give the real thing a pass can always read about it, right? After all, the mind is the biggest sex organ.
Some content on this page was disabled on July 19, 2019.
So, let’s say your man has done well by you. He’s fondled you, made love to you, held off his orgasm, eaten your pussy, sent you to the moon and back, fucked you so senseless it’s all you can do to pull him in close and murmur in his ear, “Fill me up. Now. Please.” Then he fires a load of hot jism into your pussy and you collapse into a jibbering mass of spent nerves.
I’d say a guy like that deserves a special reward. And not just because he read my blog from a few weeks ago, “Men, the key to great sex? Please your woman.” That’s where I argued that woman are the sexually superior sex, that a woman’s sexual capabilities are virtually limitless and that men should honor that specialness by making sure that their lovemaking is centered exclusively on pleasing their woman.
Arrogant? Maybe. But the ironic pay-off is this: Treating your woman like the sex goddess she is will result in dramatically better sex for the guy.
After I’ve been fucked senseless by a man who cared only about my pleasure, I am grateful. I want to reward that guy. I want to do something memorable–something he’ll remember for the rest of his life.
I’ve got two favorite rewards I’d like to share.
The first is a blow job. Oh, not any blow job. A special blow job. First, some context: I don’t like giving head. I’ve got a small mouth, dicks don’t smell so good, the male member is cumbersome, and, contrary to the impression you get from porn, cum doesn’t taste good. That said, I’m not adverse to giving a little oral just to spice things up. But the men in my life knew (I’m into ladies now) that I just wasn’t a blow job kind of girl.
But after a really memorable fuckfest, something kicks in. I simply must have that thing in my mouth. I want to suck and lick and fondle and cajole that hard dick into delivering me a load. I want to hear that man scream. I want to make him happy.
To make a blow job special, I do this: Just before we go to bed for the night, I drink three tall glasses of water. Yeah, good for the kidneys. But even better for the bladder: three or four hours later it wakes me up, usually in the pre-dawn hours, as my unsuspecting lover sleeps.
After relieving myself and a quick clean up (why I have a compulsion to brush my teeth before a blow job I’ll never know), I slip back into bed. I find that sleeping cock and gently wrap my lips around it. I take it in my mouth and hold it. I wait–usually no longer than twenty seconds, and it starts to grow. That’s when I roll him on his back and begin a slow, slurpy ride on his awakening cock.
Trust me, if you’ve never woken a guy up with a blow job, you will be amazed at the reaction. He swims up to consciousness with this delicious feeling between his legs. Before he’s fully awake, he’s got your head in his hands, his hips are rocking and this guy knows at a deep, deep level that this is going to be a great fucking day. I use my mouth, my lips, my tongue, and both hands. I massage his balls. I get his hard cock soaking wet with my spit (oh, I forgot: bring a towel from the bathroom). I also make sure I’ve got a trimmed fingernail and some lube handy. I’m gonna get all stinky-finger with him and jam his turbo button just before he comes.
I’m a dirty girl.
That’s option one. A side note: If my pussy is sore from our lovemaking, option one is the only option. Option two invariably ends with more penis-in-vagina sex.
Option two also requires a bit more preparation, although it’s not a big deal if you’re into light bondage. Here’s the overview: You are going to tie him up and tease your guy into a froth he’s never experienced by using two powerful senses: sight and smell.
It goes like this: Tell him to take off his clothes (you stay dressed). Order him into the bedroom and tell him to lay down on his back, arms and legs spread. Your demeanor is no-nonsense. You’re not answering questions. Just giving orders. By the time he’s flat on his back, his dick should be hard, throbbing and pointing at the ceiling. What’s she going to do to me?
Using rope or cuffs or whatever you ordered from the internet sex shop or picked up at Home Depot, bind his ankles and wrists to the four corners of the bed. No talking. Just do it. Then undress. Couple of options here. You could do a striptease, if you like that kind of thing. Or just casually take your clothes off. Ignore him. Take your time. Men are intensely, insanely visual. You are trying to drive him mad. You will succeed if you don’t rush it.
Now you’re nude. Stand at the foot of the bed and slowly start to touch yourself. This is a show. Run your hands over your arms, your belly, your breasts, your ass. He will be watching intently, his throbbing dick in the foreground, your glorious femininity at the foot of the bed. Ignore him. If he speaks, ignore him. Don’t speak to him. Just touch yourself. At some point, start to masturbate. It doesn’t have to be real (that comes later). This is a performance with the goal of getting your guy into a froth. Stick your finger in your mouth. Suck on it. Get it wet. Then slowly take it and put it between your legs. Spread your knees. Spread your labia. Thrust your hips. Make sure he can see everything you’re doing.
When you’re awake down there–pussy lips swollen and separated, vulva moist, it’s feeling good–get on the bed, right next to his head. Straddle him and put your pussy right on his mouth. You can face him or turn around, whatever is easiest. Swirl your cunt in his face. Grind. The goal here is twofold: to get your pussy very, very wet; and to smear his face with your juices and his spit. This is where the olfactory element comes in: With every breath he takes, he’s going to smell your pussy. Get it in his hair. Get it on his ears, his nose, his cheeks. Then go back to his mouth and get licked some more. Spread that wetness around.
Paint his body with your juices. Slide your cunt over his chest, his nipples. His arms. His hands. His thighs. His knees. When you get dry, go back to his mouth and reload. There’s one part of his body you’re not going to touch: his dick. Ignore it. Yeah, you’ll probably knock into it occasionally with a hand or leg, which is unavoidable. Just don’t touch it, don’t kiss it, don’t make it wet.
You’re still not talking. He may be begging you for relief. Ignore him. His dick will be throbbing and he’s going to feel like he’s going to explode. But he won’t. Stick to the plan. Keep smearing him with your juices as he watches your glorious nude body slide over his.
After about a half hour–longer really would be cruel–masturbate again. But this time for real. For humanitarian reasons, I suggest a vibrator. It’ll be faster. Straddle his chest, his face inches from your pussy, and go to work on your clit. This is fiendish torture for men. Good. That’s the point. He’ll thank you later. Profusely. Vocalize. Scream. Make him watch the opening of your vagina pulse with your waves of pleasure as you come.
After your finished coming, get off him and put away your gear. Make sure the room is clear of any heirlooms or valuables that could be broken in a sexual frenzy. You have two options now. First: mount him cowgirl style and fuck his brains out. He will probably explode quickly. If he’s a real ass man, do it reverse cowgirl. This is the merciful part of his ordeal. The pressure gets relieved.
The second option is to release him. Careful! Start with his ankles. Make sure that after unbinding his second wrist that you’ve got a clear path away from the bed. Release and step back quickly. The goal is to make him come off the bed after you. You don’t have to run out of the room (that could be fun, but, really, let’s not get carried away.) Just back away from the bed. He’ll spring up after you. What happens next? Depends. One thing is for sure: You’ve unleashed an overly aroused, testosterone-crazed male. He won’t want to hurt you, but he probably will. You just unleashed a caged beast.
He might spin you around, push your head down to the floor and start fucking you from behind. He’ll hold your hips in a death-grip as he plunges deep in your hole, your arms flailing. He may push you on to a piece of furniture, a dresser or table, knocking everything off with a shove of his arm and start fucking you face-to-face, your legs wrapped around his waist, your head back, him between your legs. He may push you against a wall, hike you up by the waist and lower you on to his dick. He’ll slam you into the wall, fucking like a banshee, while you scream and crush him in your arms.
One guy grabbed me, pulled me back to the bed, and dragged me across his lap, his engorged cock pushing against my stomach, as he wailed on my ass with his open hand. Then he slipped an arm beneath a knee and opened me wide, splayed to him as I screamed and hollered as he spanked my asshole and pussy with his open hand. Next, he threw me on the bed, his tongue thrust down my throat as he plunged his cock between my legs. I had to reach down and guide his thrusting cock to my pussy. He fucked me furiously, pounding me into the mattress.
Damage? Hell, yes. My ass was red and streaked with welts, my throat and cheeks were scraped by his beard, my thighs were bruised and my pussy was so sore I couldn’t fuck for a day. For the first couple hours, it even hurt to pee. I had bite marks on my neck and shoulder. The brute.
Worth it? It was the most memorable fuck of my life. He never forgot it either.
How do you reward your lover when he/she has been good?
Hey Did You Know I Write Books
Indie Publishing With A Personal Touch
Quality erotica for discerning readers...by the award-winning authors of “The Hazard Chronicles” and “The Promise Papers.”
Burn Bras, Not Books