Dry Spell

Readers, I am frustrated…

I have neglected my blogs for too long, for different reasons.

I have had a very challenging year or two, and it has most definitely impacted on my ability to get my thoughts straight in my mind, never mind getting them down in any coherent form that comes close to anything I would subject my followers to. (FYI: there is absolutely no guarantee that todays post will be any better, but my frustration and need to connect once again has overridden my internal quality control monitor.)

Health issues, both physical and mental, have plagued me and at several times have beaten me down to a point where some days getting dressed or showered has been a triumph. I am trying some new approaches which I hope will help me feel better and, fighting my realistic/fatalistic streak every day, I remind myself of the rewards to be gained from the changes, rather than dwell on how difficult they are to carry out. I have even, my lovely readers, made a chart that is stuck on my fridge! How very “self helpy” can you get?!

There have been days of wonderful positivity where I have wanted nothing more than to open my MacBook and write about all the good things I have in my life – a husband who is also my best friend, who knows all my darkest, ugliest secrets and loves me anyway, who makes me laugh til I cry, two beautiful dogs that bring me so much joy, a secure home to live in, enough money to always go to the ATM and not feel anxious, a garden built by myself and the OH which is peaceful and soul enriching to sit in… but I have not done so for fear of almost cursing my good fortune.

As for my fiction blog and my amateur photography, well, I have simply been feeling about as inspired as a used teabag. Walking used to be my therapy; ideas would come to me as I wandered through town, watching people and places, but I haven’t been out of the house much at all for quite a while, again for several reasons. Part of my new approach is to change this but it is proving more challenging than I thought it would be.

I read writing memes such as #Wicked Wednesday and #Kink of the Week but am left empty and frustrated at my complete writers block. I have entered the wonderful #Sinful Sunday, but only for the prompt weeks as I find right now I really need a push to produce anything.

Given my physical and mental health, I must admit that feeling sexy or sexual has been totally at the bottom of my list for a while now, which given that I am supposedly, (or at least, I once was), a sex blogger, is unhelpful to say the least.

I know it is a long process – lord, I have lived through 40-odd years of the fucking process. It is such a challenge to not get exhausted by it, by the fact that it never seems to have an end date in sight. They, whoever they are, say it’s not the destination that matters but the journey… easy to say when there is a sense that there is any realistic sense of ever reaching the destination, or when the journey is not constantly interrupted by obstacles and diversions. The OH, who I love more than anything, also has more than his fair share of stress and worry and believe me the only thing worse than one depressive is putting two together! He too had a run of bad luck healthwise this past year which has added to the stress and sense of fatigue.

I am hoping that by getting these, not so coherent, thoughts down today it will spur me on to return to writing.

I have found that blogging can be a two faced beast: recording how I feel can result in me reinforcing those feelings, and this is where the risk lies, depending on whether the feelings are positive or self-destructive.

Today I am feeling… ok. I have taken to playing positive music very loudly and it does help, although I am not sure the neighbours would agree.

Today is Friday and the weekend lies ahead and we plan on some serious rest time but I am hoping we will also get out walking, maybe even with my camera, maybe even lunch out.

As for writing… well, I will continue to look at prompts and memes and just hope that my voice comes back to me, (and as a certain quite dreadful writer puts it, “my inner goddess” finds her “salsa moves” again).

I feel a bit of a half person without her.

💋

Copyright, 2017, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

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The Kiss

I stare at his mouth while he speaks. His upper lip is fuller than the lower one. His mouth turns down slightly at the corners, giving him a rather stern expression that does not match the gentleness in his eyes.

I watch his lips move and wonder how they would feel on mine.

How would he kiss me? Would he be tentative, unsure? Or confident and insistent, dominant?

Would he lean down slowly, teasing me, breathing softly against my cheek before softly pressing his lips to mine?

Would he lick my lips before kissing them? Nibble?

Would he kiss me lingeringly, leaving me gasping for air? Would he pull back, open his eyes and look into mine? Maybe smile.

Would he open his mouth, his tongue prying my lips apart? Would he explore me? Would he be tender or forceful? Cup my chin gently, or would he grab my hair and pull my head back to stretch my throat? Would he be hungry for me, devouring my mouth with his?

How would his tongue feel against mine? Soft? Rough?

How would he smell? Does he use aftershave or just soap? Maybe I would inhale and grow dizzy on his own distinctive scent…

What would he taste of? Coffee? Alcohol? Smoke?

How would his stubble rub against my soft skin? Would he take care not to cause me discomfort, or would his passion make him forget himself?

Where are his hands? Still holding my face or head, or have they travelled to my waist, my ass, between my legs? Would he slide his fingers up under my top? Or down under my jeans?

Would I moan, hear my own heart beat drumming in my ears? Would I feel his heart against my chest? Would I feel him harden against my stomach?

Would his lips leave mine to explore, his tongue languidly tracing along my jaw towards my earlobe and down to my collar bones? Would I arch my back to give him easier access? Of course I would.

By now, have my hands found his hips, his ass? Would I be grinding against him, wet and wanting more? Of course I would.

Would he make me wait? Make me ask, beg even? Or would he step back, lift off his shirt and undress in front of me, revealing himself and leaving me in no doubt about his intentions? Would I follow suit or have him strip me?

Would he kiss my breasts, lick my nipples, suck them and bite them? Would his fingers delve inside me, spreading me, stroking me, making me squirm?

Would he take me right there, on the floor, laying me down and fucking me hard, or would he bring me to bed?

My eyes slightly glazed over, I become aware that he has stopped speaking. He is looking at me, waiting for my reply…

💋

Copyright, 2017, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

Holy Grail

“James’ Street station. Please stand clear of the doors.” The automated voice crackled as the train slowed to a stop.

Rain beat against the clouded window. He pulled his long legs in from the aisle to allow fellow commuters to disembark and watched more people pile aboard. The smell of damp flooded his nostrils as wet coats crammed against each other.

The seat opposite him creaked as a young woman sat down, shaking her damp hair out of her eyes. Sighing loudly, she slumped against the faded, worn fabric and sniffed. His attention spiked, he looked up, noticed she was pretty; small, blonde, with a pale complexion, except for her nose, which was pink from the cold. She sniffed again. He smiled and returned to checking his emails.

A sudden gasp from across the table stilled him. Looking up from under his brows he watched as her eyes closed and lips parted slightly. She froze for a second, a tiny frown furrowed her brow and her hand moved involuntarily to her face in a fanning motion. He tensed, holding his own breath and waited. Another rapid inhale of breath and her shoulders rose, her chest expanded and her head fell back, exposing her throat. His pulse quickened. Her face creased, she curled up slightly and the cutest noise escaped her as she stifled her sneeze. Slightly frustrated by the anti climax, he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. He enjoyed the illicit thrill of his secret voyeurism. To anyone else, this was just a girl with a cold, but for him… so much more.

She sniffed as she rummaged through her bag, producing a ragged tissue from its depths. His eyes snapped open. Once again, he felt her urge to sneeze build up. He sensed the uncontrollable compulsion for release battling with her need to rein it in. Her eyes were pressed tightly closed, allowing him to watch her quite freely; to see her face contort into a pretty little grimace and her chest heave as she fought to retain control.

“Ahhhhhh…” she breathed. His blood pumped, he felt himself harden and his heart raced, “Choooooooooo!” she fell forward burying her face into the tissue.

For that exquisite second, she was completely herself; vulnerable, exposed, her polite social mask had slipped to reveal her true self – her mounting tension and explosive release reminiscent of a sexual thrill. His cock throbbed, pulsing and straining against his trousers. He shifted his weight in the seat.

“Haaaaaaaahhhhhh…” she sighed, her breath hitched. Once again, her face and body tensed.

He carefully, discretely activated the video on his iPhone to capture her rapture for his own private enjoyment later, as he realised, with increasing excitement, that she was the holy grail for a man like him – a multiple sneezer.

💋

Copyright, 2017, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

A Fresh Start

“Lizzy! Could you for pity’s sake stay still?” he roared, face flushed with frustration and anger. He flung the brush to the floor and paced, running paint splattered fingers through his thick auburn curls, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry, I’m really trying but it’s freezing in here. I know artists don’t make much money, but can’t you put on some heating?” she pouted, huddling into a tight curl, wrapped her arms around herself, covering her breasts.

He felt his blood pressure soar and fought the urge to march over and show her the back of his hand, “Stay calm, never strike in anger,” he thought.

“Take five,” he tossed a blanket towards her and left the studio to go for a cigarette.

Sucking the smoke deep into his lungs, his mind reeled. She was breathtakingly beautiful: her skin, like alabaster; perfect soft, generous curves; round, full breasts with small pale nipples and… that face! God, her face; it had haunted him in his dreams since the first day he saw her. Heart-shaped, with a tiny pointed chin, an upturned, elfin nose covered in a smattering of brown freckles, framed by a short, close-cropped boyish hairstyle, that only served to accentuate her femininity. He knew at once he needed to paint her.

She was quiet in class, rarely offering her opinion, preferring to sit and listen, take notes. Although, when he challenged her directly one day, she spoke articulately, and surprisingly passionately, about the piece under review, skillfully and convincingly defending her interpretation. He enjoyed watching the rose tint that bloomed in her cheeks as she argued her case.

She was proving to be a challenging subject, not only because of her shivering and twitching, but he was struggling to capture her essence, her energy; the indefinable quality she carried… her aura.

Stubbing out the cigarette with the toe of his boot, he turned to re-enter the studio.

She was gone.

“Lizzy?”

Silence.

“Lizzy!!!” he roared, growing more impatient by the second.

“I’m here! I just needed the loo,” blanket still wrapped around her, she walked over to her position and faced him, “I’m ready,” her chin lifted defiantly, as she discarded the wooly throw and stood before him, self assured and with a complete absence of inhibition.

He was aware of an ache at his groin; felt himself harden and strain against his jeans.

She lowered herself to the floor and began to arrange herself. Casting his eyes over the canvas beside him, he instantly knew what was wrong. He needed to portray her core self, reveal that incredible power she wielded quite unconsciously.

“No, not like that. Lie back. Open your legs for me,” he instructed, watching her hesitate for just a second before she acquiesced and parted her thighs, revealing a small dark V of hair and rosy pink lips.

His cock swelled.

He grabbed the canvas, threw it across the room and mounted a fresh one on the tripod, “Fresh start! Now, for god’s sake Lizzy, stay still!”

image

I was quite liberal with Leonora’s prompt… forgive me?

💋

Copyright, 2017, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

In Stitches

I was delighted to read these words, “Well, seeing as I’m planning on making a comeback to blogging in 2017…” on Charlie’s blog and was eager to join in her fab writing competition, #Freshly Polished.  However, when I DMed her and received my allocated title, my heart sank somewhat… “In Stitches?” I despaired, “WTF will I do with that?”

After about all of five seconds, a wee grin spread across my face, as a deliciously deviant idea popped into my head: a kink I am very interested in trying out one day… it ticks so many boxes for me – medical, clinical, pain, sensation play, power, restraint, trust, photography, exhibitionism… I could go on.

I really hope it pleases Charlie, and all of you, my lovely readers. Please do let me know in the comments if it works for you or if it squicks you out!

Here we go…


“Today, my pet, I am going to make something pretty for you,” he says as he taps my chin and places the ball gag in my open mouth. My arms are bound to the bedpost above my head and my thighs are spread far apart, my ankles tightly tied to them.

Except for my collar, I am naked for him, just as he likes me.

His fingers grab my nipple and he pulls, stretching it deliciously, making me arch my back for more. A chuckle from him as he says, “Just wait, my love, just wait…”

I expect to be blindfolded, as usual, but am surprised to find he has decided to allow me to watch today. He leaves me for a minute and returns, placing something on the bed beside me, just out of my sightline. From his jeans pocket, he takes black latex gloved and snaps them on, smiling down at my confusion.

He touches my breast; it feels completely different to bare skin on skin, it catches slightly, creates a dragging sensation that I am yet to decide if I enjoy or not. It feels… clinical. The thought of that word, the imagery it brings to my mind, provokes a trickle of wet between my spread legs and my nipples tingle.

Gently, tenderly stroking my skin, he lifts the mysterious plastic device and places it against the delicate skin of my breast, above my nipple. I hear the click nanoseconds before I feel the pinch as the staple pierces me, inhaling sharply in shock and fear. The fear passes quickly as he presses it against me again, a centimetre or two below the first clip and this time I brace for the sting.

Blood rushes to the surface of my skin, I feel flushed; adrenaline racing through my veins, counteracting the shock of the violation. The puncture only bites for a second and, rather than hurting me, leaves me yearning for another, which he promptly delivers.

I tense slightly just before he reaches my nipple, anticipating a much sharper pain.

He runs his gloved fingers over my cheek towards my parted lips and traces them, “Are you enjoying your surprise, my love?” I nod, my eyes pleading with him to continue.

He moves the stapler to my other breast and repeats the ritual until, once again, he stops short of my nipple. He closes his lips over it and sucks. It is already hard, but he pulls it further, stretching it, making me squirm as the wet between my legs increases. Releasing my stiff, swollen nipple, he takes it between his finger and thumb and carefully applies the staple gun to it. The clip pinches as it closes around the peak, like a hard flick but more intense. I groan. Saliva drips from my mouth, down over my chin. He caresses my face, “Good girl”.

My other nipple receives the same treatment; first he prepares her, playing enough to make her stand proud, glistening in the low lamp light, before piercing her. The combination of discomfort and pleasure is exquisite; my nipples have never felt so sensitive or alive.

He sits back, kneeling between my open thighs and traces his finger across my wet lips, sliding it into me, his eyes on mine as he strokes inside. A swell of heat surges through me from my groin, to my nipples, to my scalp.

“Now for the decoration,” he says, producing from his pocket a long, thin, satin purple ribbon and grins devilishly at me, “You trust me, baby girl?”

One again, excited by what he has planned, I nod vigorously, my eyes wide and eager.

He threads the end of the ribbon through the top staple and laces it to its twin on my opposing breast. My skin is hypersensitive and the ribbon chafes slightly as it rubs against me.

I watch his face; the intense concentration on it, as he slowly creates a corset of beautiful purple thread linking my breasts together.

All that remains is the final clips in my nipples. I tense with apprehension as he glides the ribbon through. It grazes against my engorged tip; a sensation unlike any I have ever felt before. Sweet torture that makes me crave more.

My cunt throbs, my mouth waters. He pulls the ribbon ever so slightly, drawing my breasts towards each other, creating a valley for the spit that dribbles over my chin and pools on my chest. He ties the corset in a bow and sits back on his heels to admire his work, watching my chest rise and fall as I struggle to control my breath.

“My pretty baby girl,” he murmurs, as he lifts his phone and takes some photos of me, angling it downwards, a look of pleasure on his face as he breathes, “look how wet you are!”

A groan escapes me. I want his mouth on me, and reading the need in my eyes, he dips his head and traces his tongue up along my inner thigh before he takes my aching clit between his lips and sucks gently, licking and lapping at me while his fingers tug on the ribbon, stretching my skin further. He slides two latex covered fingers inside me as his tongue brings me to the edge and back, time and time again. Every time I squirm or move, the ribbon rasps against my skin more. Feeling close to delirious, not quite sure where I am or what is happening anymore, I feel him tug the ribbon at my nipples as he flicks his tongue and I am vaguely aware of crying out as the sweet pain/pleasure combination finally tips me over into an orgasm that rips through my entire body.

As I struggle to breathe, almost choking on my own saliva, he kisses his way up to my face and removes the gag. I gulp in air while he smooths back the damp hair from my forehead, whispering to me, telling me how much I have pleased him. He brings a glass of cool water to my lips and I sip, trying not to swallow too much at once, and then gently unties my restraints and massages the marks left by the bindings.

Curling me up onto his lap, kissing the top of my head, his fingers once again wander down to the corset he has crafted for me, strumming on it gently, as if it were a guitar, “I think we should leave this on for a little while pet, don’t you?” and I look up at him, “Yes, Sir.”

💋

Copyright, 2017, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

Her Struggle

She lies before me, face down, stretched across the spanking bench; her wrists and calves strapped firmly to the legs by leather bindings. The skin of her back and buttocks shines beautiful, pale white, her exposed cunt smooth and pink.

“Are you ready, little one?” I ask.

She breathes, “Yes, Sir.”

*

He traces his hand across my ass, stroking me gently, running it up along my spine to grab a fistful of my hair and pulls my head back, stretching my throat.

Slap! His other palm connects with my bum, making me catch my breath. He releases my hair and allows my head to sink back down as he begins to caress my buttocks with his leather belt. Gently at first; warming my skin, sending shivers through me. I moan, “Oh thank you, Sir, that feels so good.”

*

Her ass is turning a fetching shade of pink. I strike her harder. She squirms and moans out loud.

“Count,” I tell her.

*

“One. Thank you, Sir,” I sigh as his belt stings my skin deliciously. He thrashes me as I count and thank him, building the force gradually, but certainly. My ass feels red hot. Each strike makes me whimper and twist against the velvet padding of the bench. My thighs start to tremble against the hard wood and, as I writhe, the leather bindings at my wrists dig into my skin. He pauses to caress my burning cheeks, murmuring under his breath, “That’s my good girl.”

I can feel myself growing wet.

*

She has begun to struggle against her restraints, which she knows is pointless as they are firmly buckled. I smile, knowing she enjoys the feeling of the straps cutting into her wrists and calves. More marks for her to admire later.

I lash my belt down on her glowing bum, leaving a clear stripe of burning red.

She whimpers loudly. Her cunt has started to glisten with arousal. I lick my lips and focus. It would be too easy to just take her and fuck her right now.

*

He hits me harder than ever and I sob, tears sting my eyes as surely as his leather stings my flesh. I feel my cunt throb and seep warm, wet want.

“What do you want, little one?” his voice is deep in his throat; he is unable to conceal his desire.

“I want you to hurt me, Sir. I want you to fuck me, Sir.”

*

I take one final swipe with my belt, marking her already scarlet skin a deep, dark crimson. She cries out a guttural, primal sound of pain and pleasure and spasms against the bench, the leather strap bruising her calves.

I kneel down and touch her cunt. It is hot and wet; swollen.

“You have been a very, very good girl,” I say, as I unbuckle the binds on her legs and spread her thighs wider. I bury my face in her, drinking in her unique scent, devouring her with my lips and tongue. She tastes sweet and salty at once; her sweat mingled with her juices.

My little girl moans and grinds against me as her orgasm forces her to cry out again, her flavour intensifying as she comes, before she slumps, exhausted and spent. I tenderly kiss her bruises, her skin hot against mine, and move to untie her wrists.

I look into her eyes; unfocused, cloudy, heavy lidded.

I lean forward and kiss her mouth before I lift and carry her to the bed, where I will show her how proud I am of her.

My girl.