Or something like that. God, I love the Divinyls, which is why I'm choosing their song as the theme for my next contest. And the theme is... (wish I could insert a drum roll for you) auto erotica. That is, self loving. Or one of these many other interesting terms. (We should probably do a poll for favorites. I kinda like "nulling the void," but that's just me.) What should you do? Well, write me 250 words. Some of those words should be sexy. All of them should make sense. Slap a title on the top, and post your piece here by Friday the 27th. Stay away from bestiality—unless you are a dog writing about self-loving. But I don't think all that many dogs read my blog. Avoid underage sex. You know, I worry sometimes. Each time I write about the no-no's for my contest, I'm putting my name out there with bestiality, underage, and incest—and yeah, that's the last barrier. Don't write about incest. Every once in awhile, someone decides to try to slip something past me. I may get up early. I may stay up late. But I am able to read. And I don't want to read about you and your uncle. All right?
Oooh, clearly someone needs more coffee. And that someone is me.
If you need any inspiration, and by "you," I mean Ms. Kristina Lloyd, please click here. This is a pornographic picture called "I Touch Myself" done entirely in cross stitch. Who knew?
XXX,
Alison
P.S. Also, I do not know what the Visual Masturbation quote above actually means. But I like the flow of the words.
P.P.S. Also, don't forget to vote.
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Imagination
I imagine the last time we were together: We don't have long. You can't stay. It is only for a few minutes.
Your hand slips under the hair at the back of my neck and you pull me forward. You kiss me and it is insistent, like you are trying to convey everything in that one moment. Then, you push me back and suddenly you are on top of me. I am overwhelmed by the full effect of you. Your body spreads along the entire length of me. I am helpless. I am protected. It barely matters that we are still dressed. I can feel how we fit together. As you grind against me, I can hardly stand it. I can hardly breathe. I could stay here forever.
My imagination has engaged by body. My fingers roll and pull at my nipples as I yearn for an ending alternative to the reality. Sensitive and erect, my nipples send out signals and I contract involuntarily. I am already dripping from the memory. My hand becomes your hand, sliding under the waistband, through the curls to my clit, causing my heart to race. My fingers become your fingers, merciful and eager to relieve the longing. The friction increases. The intensity mounts. I imagine you on top of me, inside me, all-consuming. The waves rush over me.
In reality, we could not. We did not. But, imagination is a powerful thing. In my mind, we did. And the mere thought of you is enough - for now.
Exercise Routine
Colleen strode up and down corridors, walked down and up stairs. It was a no-fuss form of winter exercise, and the unbroken layout of the huge apartment building—square doughnut around a courtyard—was ideal.
There were so many anonymous doors, each of which could, in theory, cloak anyone Colleen might imagine.
And imagine she did—a variety of skin-lovely women as innumerable as the apartments themselves. Passing 314, for example, she would visualize a proud-chested redhead reading in only her stockings, crossing and uncrossing her legs. As she walked on, Colleen would become more aware of the tickle nested between her own thighs.
Turning the corner by 528, she’d tell herself that therein thrived a fluffy blonde bouncing on a stationary bike—naked beneath an oversized rugby shirt, her bareness wet-kissing the seat.
And 709, she consistently supposed, housed a pair of lovers, faces buried in each other’s pussies within an IKEA-configured bedroom, oblivious to her footsteps.
Colleen would feel her gusset riding up into her crevice—and decline to adjust herself, despite the privacy of deserted corridors. And she would become so sentient inside her panties that she could barely stroll back to her own 848 without moaning her neighborly lust into the empty hallway.
One form of exercise always led to another: Colleen in her little bathroom, sweatpants at her left ankle, right foot mounting the rim of the tub ... madly rubbing and plunging, with hundreds of mysterious doors opening for her closed eyes.
Please Pass the Butter
She digs her high heel into the toe of my shoe. “Take it out.”
I take my cock out under the pristine white tablecloth.
“You were not supposed to call me. Don’t you dare put that cock away.”
I stroke my cock. She peeks under the table. Nods. The waitress arrives and asks what we would like to drink. Mary orders for us and waves her off.
“You’re such a little slut. You have to call me? To feel loved? Wanted?” She leans in. “Harder. Are you afraid you’re going to break it?”
I stroke myself harder, faster. The restaurant seems louder. Bigger. Brighter. Bolder. Now that my cock it out and I could be spotted by anyone.
“Open your hand.” I open and she plops a butter pat into my palm. It’s room temperature and pale yellow.
“Faster, pussy cat, come, come,” she says and laughs.
I close my eyes. She pinches me. I force them open, getting closer. I have to be aware, she says.
“You’re so needy. You even need me to come. Sitting here next to you! I could announce your perversity to this entire room.”
I am right there. So close.
The waitress is back. Mary leans in and says sharply. “Did you know--”
I come. Warm semen sliding over my buttered fist. She’d going to tell and the thought is too much for me. The orgasm gushes out of me.
“--that I would like more lime in my drink?” she says and laughs again.
The Big Picture
The words flash across the screen.
SHOW ME.
My pulse races. It’s time.
My office door is locked. I’m “on a call” if anyone should be looking. Slowly, I spin my leather chair to face the window, skirt hiked to my waist. Across from me, four blocks away, a blue light flashes once, twice, in a tenth story window. He’s ready.
I put my feet up on the ledge, parting my legs wide, revealing my trimmed bush to anyone who might be watching. No matter. I knew he was, with his telephoto lens, at its maximum setting. I know he can see everything I choose to show him clearly. Like my almond shaped nails trailing along the insides of my thighs, my middle finger seeking out my clit, which is already straining upwards, plump, begging to be touched.
I moan as I make contact, sending a spark up my body. My fingers move down my moist slit, descending along the wetness in slow motion, making sure he gets an eyeful. Using both hands, two fingers find my hole, sliding in and out to their own rhythm. My other hand pulls my lips apart so he won’t miss a thing. I imagine that every window has a set of eyes on me, that they are all doing the same thing. My fingers move faster as I picture faceless hands stroking hard cocks, pummeling wet pussies, heads thrown back, coming loudly, with me.
Right now.
Fuck I hope I'm photogenic.
Pulsating Jets
As the sun crept around the heavy hotel drapes, we snuggled. Sleeping clothed is unusual for us. Though sometimes we wear something to bed just to have something to take off. But thanks to a screw up in reservations we had to share a room with your business partner and his wife. They weren’t happy about it. Neither were we.
While our roommates snore, you caress my arm, slide over my tummy, brush my upper thigh. I can feel your arousal nestled against my butt. We rub feet together, wordlessly communicating the longing we both feel. What I wouldn’t give for a wall and a door right now. But you break away and get up to shower. I don’t dare join you.
I lay touching myself as I listen to you turn on the water and adjust the spray. The sounds emanating from the shower are subtle at first. Could easily be mistaken for washing hair or soaping arms. But soon they become more regular, last longer than it should take to wash any single body part.
Listening, I see you in my mind’s eye, water coursing over your body, your hand moving faster and faster. I wonder what images are jumping your synapses. I hardly breathe, straining to hear. Part of me is sad, wanting to be your fist, be the water. The sound is insistent now.
Then, just the steady sound of the shower, the gurgle of the drain.
Feverish
When I wake up the bedroom is nearly dark. I am facedown, tangled in sodden sheets. He is here, leaning over me. I smell the winter air coming off his leather jacket, feel his heat underneath. His lips graze my neck, then my hand resting on the damp pillow. He inhales sharply.
“What did I tell you?” His voice dangerously soft.
I search my brain. I had come home from work, shaking and feverish…he had tenderly tucked me in, said he had to go out for a few hours…
Oh.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“What did I tell you?” Enunciating carefully. Menacingly.
“To wait for you.”
“And was that too much for you?” His breath is hot in my ear. “Couldn’t keep your fingers out of your cunt for four hours? You little slut.” The last word lands like a slap and, simultaneously, he rolls off me, flips me onto my back, and retreats to the chair beside the bed.
“Show me everything you did.” His legs are sprawled, his hand resting on his thigh, close to his crotch. I recall waking up sometime that afternoon, flushed with heat and need. What I had done then. What I had thought about while I did it. The fever suffuses me again.
I offer the only protest I can think of. “I don’t know if I can come while you’re watching.”
His hand moves slowly, languorously, coming to rest at his belt buckle. The threat is implicit.
“I said, everything.”
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