“Patience is passion tamed.”

I’ve had some troubles finding a no strings attached/friends-with-benefits situation.
And now, I think I have found someone who fits the bill.
But making time to see each other is almost close to impossible.
However, we met up at 2 o’clock, Saturday morning, and witness the burning of a new star through the blue hue of dusk after a night of rampant conversation. It was the most fun I’ve had in a while.
And, where I usually just give up during an issue like this, I’m intrigued enough to keep moving toward his light.
He seems worthy of my fragile patience. And because he also makes me feel beautiful, I feel brave enough to share this photo.

photo (16)

A photo I took to send him, while I waited for his phone call that night.


See who else is being Sinful today…


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The Perfect Drug (2)

“Hey you,” she opened the door and stepped through an erotic wormhole. Where only moments ago she was submerged in dark light and rancid thoughts, here emerged a merciless sexual predator, whitened teeth ready for the first taste of his skin. But she had to keep her claws retracted, at least for now.

“Hey.” His eyes were cast down to her bare feet, and slowly trailed up wards as the door widened. His smile was subtle and admittedly adorable. It was moments such as this when she had to try her hardest to keep her composure. He looked at her with the eyes of a child visiting his favorite place in the whole word; she saw him as a means to a momentary distraction, medication for the pain. Even so, his lust for her was just as enticing and beneficial for her emotional sustenance.

She went about the social casualties that one would in this situation. As well informed as he might be, she was still slightly considering of his feelings. Poor thing, she sometimes thought. He knows why he is here and he is still willing to go through this pain. He must be more fucked up than I am.

She kissed him on the cheek and ushered him inside the apartment. He sheepishly stood in the middle of the living room, looking around and taking it all in. He was like a puppy in a new home. His eyes wandered from the small kitchen to the wall that held all her family photos. He inhaled deeply, smelling his surroundings. Trying to smell him; but she had made sure that a thorough house cleaning and plenty of scented candles would do that. As she closed the door behind him, she felt the blood rush and pulse in her finger-tips. For a brief moment she heard the swell of the ocean in her ears and she could see the top of her right breast rattle from the rapid beating of her heart. I can’t believe I’m doing this…I can’t believe I’ve taken it this far.

“So, did you eat?” A question just to break the silence and steady her breathing. The moment was here already, no sense in delving into guilt.

“Yeah, I had a little something earlier.” He responded, hands in his jean pockets. He stood like the solitary tree in a bad storm, wavering side to side. One good gust of wind, and he would come toppling over.

“I mean, did you eat dinner?” He shrugged his shoulders, still wavering. She knew that he had not. Just like her, his nerves had made it impossible to focus on anything else but him coming here.

She smiled as she walked toward him. For a moment such as this, many women would have preferred to wear lingerie or perhaps greet their lover with nothing on. But she was not like most women. After having showered, she chose for her ensemble the simplest of things: a pair of black spandex shorts and a teal cotton camisole. Her hair was still wet when he had arrived and when she helped him take off his coat, some drops of water fell, prickling the hair on his forearm. She gently pulled him down to sit on the sofa, before scampering away to the kitchen to fix him a plate of food.

In a moments time they were seated on the sofa together, with more than half of the food gone from the plate, two gulps away from finishing the first bottle of beer, and music playing from her portable media player. She just couldn’t help herself; she found the best fried chicken recipe she could find only to tweak it to his personal taste. As he licked the fork of its last remnants of mash potatoes, his groans of satisfaction told her that she had executed his favorite food with perfection. The beer was a given. He needed to calm down, and she was already buzzed; it was time for him to catch up. After quickly wishing his dish, she brought two shot glasses in one hand, a bowl wedged in the crook of her arm, and bottle full of golden liquid in the other hand along with another bottle of beer.

“Trying to get me drunk?” He let out a chuckle as he reached for the beer.

“Who said I was ‘trying’?” She placed the glasses and the bowl on the end table near him, where he could see the salt shaker surrounded by lime wedges seated on crushed pieces of ice. Straddling him on the love seat, she removed her top, her bare breasts inches away from the tip of his nose. She poured the liquor into one glass, and grasping the glass with her left hand she reached for a piece of ice with her right. His eyes were unwavering as she swiped the cold crystal across the tips of her nipples until the ice had melted upon her skin. With the same right hand, she sprinkled herself with salt.

“Lick,” were the instructions he was given. He took his hands and grabbed both breasts, squeezing them together until both areas of salt touched each other. His tongue came down like an iron to smooth out the waves of salt until her nipples were once again bare.

“Don’t let them go; keep your hands right there,” she purred. His eyes were level to the deep crease of her chest that he’d created, and with his mouth at the bottom of her fleshy ravine, she poured the small glass of spirits down the center into his awaiting mouth. Once the glass was empty, his tongue continued to lap up the remnants of alcohol on her skin, a man inebriated with the taste of her skin and with the knowledge of fucking her.

She realized then that the only one who needed the elixir was her; to numb the thoughts and the guilt about him, the one out on a trip, oblivious to the event unfolding in the home they shared together. It’s too late…oh fuck it’s too God damned late…

She poured another glass while his lips moved upward to her neck, catching the drop of liquor she missed as she swallowed it down. Gripping the bottle by its neck, she reached out and grabbed the throw pillow nearby, tossing it behind her and sliding down to the floor, wedging herself between his legs. Her left hand unbuttoned the copper fastener and her teeth clasped onto the zipper, exposing the cotton navy boxers he wore underneath. Her lips rubbed softly against the bulge of his erection, and the smell of soap and men’s cologne filled her nostrils. She began to hear the words and thoughts fizzing out.

If he found out, I’d be dead. He would be so hurt…why am I doing this? He doesn’t pay attention to me like I want him to…but he doesn’t deserve this, he’s a good man…what the fuck am I doing? I need this…just someone to please me, touch me, fuck me…

She placed two fingers over the opening of the bottle and sprinkled it over his exposed member. With the rise and fall of her head, the images began to flash across her mind faster and faster, a reel set to fast forward. She could feel herself dampen as she shoved the thoughts away with the tip of his dick at the back of her throat. He took the bottle away and drew a long swig, a small drip descending on the corner of his mouth. She flicked it away with her thumb and placed it on her tongue, savoring the heat of both substances.

She continued until he grabbed her hair and jerked her mouth away from him. Her right hand reached out to grab it once again, but he was faster. He swung her arm behind her and pinned it there, his body so close that she could feel the faint vibrations of his heart beating.

“I think you’ve had enough fun,” he whispered, his voice ragged and rough. “My turn…”


Part 1

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Morning View

How our body parts say good morning to each other,
Once my beloved has finally chosen to open his eyes.




Posted in Henri, Life, Marriage, My story, non-fiction, Sinful Sunday | Tagged , , , , , , | 18 Comments

I’m soft

Yes, I am.
I have curves, ranging from the mounds of my breast to the Everest of my thighs. 
It took so long, and still is, to love the softness of my body. 
But, as challenging as it is, I won’t stop until I see the beauty in every centimeter of my skin. 
The uniqueness of a scar. The exact coordinates of every tiny dark mole. 
I am soft, and squishy. Slippery when wet.
If your hands are cold, slip them between my thighs. Constant radiators of heat. 
And beware of lying your head on my thighs or bosom.
They are better than any sleep aid. 

Enjoy my softness.



See more softness…


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Play with your food

We need food for everyday survival. But how about using it for fun every once in a while? Food and sex for me go hand in hand, because I need both of them to survive. So why not combine them every now and then?

I’ve used donuts, chocolate, ice cream–I’ve even had Henri’s dick in my cereal! Having normal vanilla sex? Add some vanilla ice cream and Bam!!! Kinky shit will ensue.


There is something dirty about it, as is with most sexually exciting things. Please believe that once he dipped his sweet cock into my chocolate crispy cereal, I devoured it with extra gusto. See, it’s what Sir calls the Slut Factor. Take something normal, everyday, and add an element to kink to it, and there I go, panties wet and pussy aching. Adding to the moistness is the fact that he is there, watching me eat cereal graced by his manhood with a flinch. It gets the horny hormones pumping and I’m on my knees in-front of him in no time. Married couple looking to spice up the bedroom without adding bodies? Try food! You’re bound to already have something in the cupboards that you can spare to have fun with.

As great as it is using food together, it’s just as fun using food alone. I admit, I have fucked myself with a vegetable or two (maybe three?). The first one for me was a large steroid injected looking carrot that Henri had bought home for my homemade chicken noodle soup. I left it out of the fridge to come to room temperature, took a knife and sculpted the vegetable into the closest resemblance to a penis, and sat on my bed to watch some porn and masturbate. Henri had come home and saw the phallic carrot discarded in the garbage can, while the soup simmered away and I lay peacefully quiet in bed, smiling knowingly at me. He said “looks like you had fun,” and went about his business.

I’ve also used food to emphasis my oral abilities. In the beginning of  our relationship I used the most accessible objects: lollipops, popsicles, my finger, his finger, ice cream cones, etc. Whatever was free or could be bought for pocket change at the corner store would quickly turn into an edible blow job session. As the years grew (and my oral skills developed), food foreplay grew into cucumbers and carrots. But my all time favorite has always been bananas:

Playing with food creates great intimate moments between two people. The picture with the cereal was meant to be just a personal moment that we happened to capture. But even Henri thought it was too good not to share. Please share with me either good food ideas or some kinky food related events from your history. I’d love some food for thought fuck ideas.


This is what happens when I eat yogurt



Posted in Henri, Life, Marriage, Masturbation Monday, My story, non-fiction, Random, Relationship related, Sex | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

A Different View

When life gives you a different view
Take off your glasses (if you wear a pair).
Squint your eyes until they water.
Distort your vision and paint a portrait.
Move your head, from left to right,
Spin upside down, tilt your head
Until it hurts.
Put glasses on (if you don’t wear a pair)
And do the same.
When you feel that you have seen every angle
And have felt every possible emotion
That this one chance has given you,
Savor it.
Life rarely lets you look twice.


Here we are, Sir and myself, resting after an intense orgasm denial moment, inflatable anal plug inside of me.

He is taking pictures of me, taking pictures of us, grateful for a moment to breathe.


More Sinful Sinners


Posted in Life, My story, non-fiction, Poetry, Self-love, Sex, Sinful Sunday, Sir Dre, Submission | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

March 21st, 2014 is the First Anniversary of Boobday!

On this Boobday, we celebrate the one year mark of this special weekly meme, brought to us by the lovely and boobalicious Ms. Hyacinth Jones!!! At the time that Hy created Boobday, I had yet to display any photos of myself, minus one photo I had taken of my own breasts the year before on National Cleavage Day. I thought, “I showed my boobs once, I can do it again.”

And it was that simple, at first.

Then, as the weeks went on, I noticed that ladies began to get really creative with their weekly submissions, and it forced me to try and think outside the rectangle of a snapped photo. But up crept my insecurities. I didn’t want to show any other part of my body except a convienently cropped photo of my breasts. After awhile, that can get boring, so I just stopped submitting for a few months. I went three months trying to figure myself out. When you spend a lifetime not loving yourself, it can take almost a whole other lifetime to change it. Luckily, I have some good, honest friends.

But the one thing I learned, beyond anything else, is that no one can make you feel beautiful. They can do it for awhile, for a moment, but the person who can make that feeling last is yourself. Sir, Henri, the men I’ve flirted with or fucked, they can only make me happy with myself just long enough until I wake up the next morning feeling like a pile of dog shit. I didn’t post pictures here sooner because of those very reasons and so I had to shift, change and stop being so afraid. I had to understand the cold hard fact and that is big or small, I still wouldn’t be attractive to everyone. But I didn’t need to be. I had to feel myself as beautiful first; the rest would eventually follow. 

I have a sexy husband (seriously, I wish I could share his facial photo because my husband is a hottie); a difficult to attain Dom (who put me through the bondage ringer earlier this week and left me wet and wanton for the remainder of it), and no matter what I say or do, a few fellas who keep messaging me and telling me how they miss me and “God must have broke the mold when they made you!” which, as much as I can complain, I don’t. Its a massive ego boost to say the least.

So with this weeks’ prompt, I make another bold photo submission. My legs have always been an area of debate. They are the biggest part of my body and are either absolutely adored by men or looked over. It gave me the lifetime moniker of Thunder Thighs, and no matter how much weight I lose, they will always be the most dominant part of my body. Now, I don’t mind it that much. When Henri gets cold in the winter, he tangles his legs in mine and warms up. When my son is sick, he lays down on my lap. When Sir and I play, my thighs recieve the brunt of his slaps. And when I’m bored and lonely, I carress my creamy soft thighs, just because I can.


Hy has a knack for pics in jammies and I’m always in jammies.

Boobday for me is more than boobs. Its acceptance of the female form, by women, for women. As is written the first paragraph of Hy’s State of the Boob Union:

I created this meme for the women out there who felt ashamed of their bodies, who struggled to feel beautiful or sexy.  I wanted to make a space for women to share images of their bodies that they had crafted with care and which imparted a part of themselves.  Then we, their community, would answer back that Yes, you are beautiful.

And so, I submit this photo for Hy’s first Boobday Anniversary, and for all women who have yet to see that we are beautiful. All of us.



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March 14, 2014 is Boobday!

I took this picture before the events of earlier today, and it is so fitting.

I went to meet up with a man whom I’ve been speaking to for a month. It was, to say the least, not a successful hook up. Until or if I hear from him again, the details of today will for now stay hidden away in the small bedroom of his apartment. The one thing that has been proven again today is that I am a Cock Slut. Oh man am I! We may not have had sex, but sucking his dick was a pleasure for both of us, that’s for sure.


Right now, at this moment, I really love this photo for many reasons. I am grabbing my favorite body part with zeal; this is my body to love or to hurt, and only I can affect how I feel and see myself. This photo is me, fearless. I’m snarling at the negative, and saying ‘fuck it!’ with style. I could have the let the meeting from today get to me negatively, and usually I would do that. Start over thinking, saying to myself that it was my fault, there was something wrong with me, blah fucking blah. But whether or not our uneventful meeting had to do with me or not, I can say with no anger or hurt feelings “easy come, easy go.” Or I could also say I had dick for brunch, which is more like it.

Have a great weekend and don’t forget to say ‘fuck it!’ at least one time this weekend, preferably with a wicked snarl.



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The Perfect Drug (1)

She is self-contained. Nothing can get in or out without her acquiesce. Her smile can be vibrant when she allows it; and the light that glimmers in her eyes is as sporadic as a blue moon, but no less luminescent. There are moments when a flicker of innocence passes by, during a joke she hasn’t heard before, or a new song whose lyrics add words to the emotions she won’t display.

She is a bird forever in flight. An unsolvable algorithm.

If she ever loved you, you would never know.

Her mind is unstill. There are constant thoughts and memories, a microscopic film reel in the ethers of her brain that tick and flash across behind the thin shell of her eye lids. The problem with fearing no one is that it leaves only yourself. And she became, in every sense of the phrase, her own worst enemy.

We can’t all be perfect. 

The smoke curls of her cigarette danced against the phasing lights of her flat screen. Ghostly figures in an intimate Tango against the cold winter’s night. The lyrics of the song playing on the radio sends shivers down her spine and culminate up to her middle finger, now tapping the neck of the bottle wedged between her thighs. It was her choice of poison for the night.

She kept the lights off, but all the noise and darkness in the world couldn’t shut off her mind. The bottle of whiskey helped the most; it dulled the noise to a steady mumbling and the pictures would fuzz into a blur, and for a while the images dulled enough for her to fall asleep. However, this process wasn’t quick and tonight, like the many previous ones before this, she needed a faster remedy.

He has been her newest drug; the fastest cure she has. A human soporific that works in half the time, is guaranteed to work and doesn’t taste bad when going down. And because he was just as addicted to her as she was to him, he was available whenever she needed him.

It was difficult and confusing and beautifully tragic, depending whose eyes you were looking through. To possess the love of a good man is rare; and still, the one thing he would not physically provide was the medicine she needed to feel better. Not all the time, but most of the time. It was as necessary as eating candy; not always the best thing for you, but still part of your daily food group. Without it, there was nothing to take away the images and voices. And since he would not, she found someone who would.

It takes a certain amount of sacrifice to do this, she sometimes thought. Hurting the man I love, my family, and friends who will disappear out of my life purely because they don’t understand or don’t accept this. Hurting him, the one who bears the brunt of my disregarded passions, frustrations, and love—so that I can sleep another night and survive another day.

And sometimes the guilt crept up and grabbed her wrist, shaking her into a momentary station of reality. But these epiphanies are short-lived; the hunger and need drives over all guilt and selfishness and it stops for no one. She has stolen trust, vomited stories, starved reproach all for the sake of the sweat on his brow.

The buzzer rings, and before answering the intercom, she smoothed the wrinkles on the duvet laid across her bed.

If there is no rest for the wicked, then I might as well keep myself busy…



Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Life, Wicked Wednesday, Writings | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

March 7, 2014 is Boobday!


I am transparent and intricate.
Follow the thin thread of my design.
Can you see where I begin
Or imagine where I end?
Covered in petals, I grow in the dark.
Etched under the needle of Fate,
My beauty is finished.
Classical and timeless,
I am replicated, over and over.
But someone always remembers me,
Once in awhile.





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