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Archive for February, 2009

I dreamed of how your hand felt inside me.

So vivid was the dream that I could feel your fist move, twist and turn, shaping itself into the perfect formation to spread and stimulate me from within.

I feel it even now, as though i was still lying beside you, still, pliant and obedient. Twitching and jerking from both the aftershocks of one gushing orgasm, and the tingles of another.

This dream was a case of art imitating life, not the other way around. You are constantly in my head, my heart, my ears, my cunt.

Dreamy, yes but real.

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No-one touches me like you. Only for you am I able to gush so copiously.

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“I love fucking you.”

When said as you lie, arms restrained, ankles held fast to his shoulder, as he fucks and spanks you, hard and furious, and all you can do is gasp and smile weakly, it’s one thing.

But when he whispers it into your ear in public,  causing you to blush like a neon sign, and feel the onslaught of  situation rainforest, it’s very much another.

Just FYI, I love fucking you too, darling.

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Warm, velvety tones that caress my soul and start my senses tingling even before the second coffee is poured, let alone drunk.  The caring concern that laces his gentle probing enquiries. His love for me, displayed prominently on his sleeve. What better way is there for an Elegant Slut to start a day?

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Arms secured, wrist to ankle.  Hemp binding breasts, above, below and around. Eyes, tightly and completely covered. Lying supine, prostrate… helpless? No, not helpless. Happy.

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Sugasm 159

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #160? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
The Annual Anti-Valentine’s Day Posting: 2009 Edition
“Ahh, Valentine’s Day. Sigh.”

Exposed
“We talk a lot about putting me on display, and it was even more intense in reality as it has been in fantasy.”

Yes
“At the edge of the precipice, my nerves rippling with electricity, i tumbled down into you”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Compassion: A Call From Baghdad

Editor’s Choice
Stairwell

More Sugasm

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I am not a person who succumbs to sentimentality often.

Not that my consciousness cannot be tweaked by a sweet thought, or a kind word. Not that I do not have a deep appreciation of art and how it variously moves me, in one or any of its forms.

But sentimentality — of the artificial, uniformly packaged and bound variety, such as that perpetuated across the globe on Valentines day — leaves me colder than the mouldy piece of cheese at the back of my refrigerator.

I make a point of not participating in any calendar-scheduled romantic events, partly because for many years i was not in love and it made me feel excluded, worthless and inadequate, and partly because being of Jewish German, Polish and Lithuanian origin, i have a genetic tendency to be stubborn, argumentative and “just-so” about these things. Why should I necessarily demonstrate my love for another on *this* date?

Moreover, does doing so on this date make it more special, or does it detract from every other day of the year, and the love that should be going on 24*7? As if this date superseded any other, or precluded myself or my lover from doing so publicly at any other time.

It seemed false and manufactured, two of my worst fears when it comes to feelings between my heart and another. The fear being, of course, that said feelings were not genuine; that they had been summoned specifically in order to display how another heart felt for mine as a public, almost staged gesture. Which would prove me right, or rather, would prove Captain Paranoia right. I carry him with me, he sits happily and persistently on my shoulder, swinging his feet in the breeze and whispering mean and cruel nothings into my ear.

“He doesn’t really love you. He never did. He’s just doing what’s expected of him in order to keep the gossipmongers down, or to make himself feel better. It’s about him, and the rest of the world, not you. Never you. You’re not worthy enough of the attention from another — and why would he or anyone else be able to truly love one such as you?”

Have you ever noticed how Captain Paranoia has a Santa Claus-like quality in that he manages to affect many people all over the world, all at the same time? No? Just me then. OK.

However.

When love is shown me spontaneously, particularly in light of the above, I accept it with no strings attached, and no second-guessing. It takes more than a single occurrence for me to be able to return the love as love per se, but i can and do reciprocate as honestly and genuinely as I can.

My Dom and my lover — the same man, in the event that this is the first piece of Elegant Smut you’re reading — sent me a poem today.

This is not an unusual event. We often exchange poetry, since we both share a love for language and especially the beautifully intricate way in which a poet uses imagery to suggest feelings, emotions, notions, ideas, pictures and sensibilities. Imagery that belies the fact that, were they to be communicated using plain speech, they simply would not have the same effect.

Either way, today, I choose to share this poem with you, with all due credit to the original poet and translator. The beauty of receiving the poem today, February 14th, the traditional celebratory date for the various Valentines who existed, but not as a “Valentine”, is very special for me. Much like everything he says, does or sends to me. Much like everything he is. Intended with love,  but not because he has to.

Thank you, my dear. Today you touched my heart, although have no fear, it was not for the first time.

El Alfarero (The Potter), by Pablo Neruda

Your whole body holds
a goblet or gentle sweetness destined for
me.

When I let my hand climb,
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter’s hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they relinquished
a form,
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand.

—Translated and © Mark Eisner 2004, from City Lights’ The Essential Neruda

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