Posts Tagged ‘orgasm’

UPDATE: Fleshbotted by the lovely AAG… happy holidays to you too, lovey.

The wail that bursts forth from me at the point of complete surrender is almost primordial in its nature.

Orgasm was not always a noisy experience for me. Borne of a combination of immaturity, and having my sexual learning curve experienced under mostly dormitory conditions, silence was a skill I learned to equate with reaching my orgasmic apex.

Not any more.

It used to be all about pleasure. My pleasure. Regardless of how much I enjoyed pleasuring a guy — and I really do take great pride in making someone else happy — my orgasm was about me achieving those pinnacles of wailing ecstasy.

This was before I discovered my G-spot, before I knew of female ejaculation, and loooooong before I knew what it was like to experience such a thing — and even longer before I knew what BDSM really was.

My first orgasm — my first real, hit-that-spot, “holy FUCK what was that?” moment, was with a boy from the States who I met on kibbutz. Until then, masturbation had been a comfort thing for me. This guy hit the spot, and had me shuddering silently into his shoulder, amazed that what had up until now been a passable way to spend a quiet afternoon could have such incredibly cataclysmic results.

In a good way.

But my reaction, while real, and quite noticeable to said boy, was silent. Like I said, dormitory life had a strong influence on the ease with which I allowed myself to express myself vocally. Or lack thereof.

Fast forward to my first fisting. Also my first ejaculation — well, the first that emanated from within me, as opposed to being sprayed in me, up me or over me. My verbal expression was less muted, but still more of an occasional grunt or cry.

Fast forward (again) to today.

Orgasms — despite the ritual fetish of denial that accompanies them — are abundant, lavish and — well, put it this way. there’s not a dry eye in the house. Or a dry anything, come to that.

But the vocal appreciation of same is on a whole new level.

The wails that burst forth from me come from a place that could be described by archeologists as newly discovered. Hitherto I had been completely unaware of the depth of emotion within me that was accessible.

The sounds I make now are an abandonment of consciousness, a wail directly from my soul. They seem to last forever, although of course they don’t — but an untold and unfathomable length of wailed joyous expression goes by before i am silent again, save huge, shuddering gasps of air that reinflate my lungs.

It’s a whole new level of ecstasy. A new experience on every level. I think it’s as much about with whom I experience this pleasure as the nature of the experience itself. The pleasure that the achievment of my orgasm gives the the one who permits me, encourages me and draws it forth from me, is palpable, fundamental and almost tangible in its nature.

Which makes the whole experience a hundred times better.

A thousand, even.


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Update! Fleshbotted by the lovely Always Aroused Girl, who, I daresay, was kept aroused by tales of my squirtage and so forth. Heh. Thanks babe!

Much of my time spent in the company of the Big Bad Feline is intense and wonderful. Well, all of the time spent with him is wonderful, but it’s the intensity upon which I wish to focus today.

He brings me release and relief. Not just when re-energising the Elegant Slut within, but also as a matter of course.

Here’s a great example:

The other day was a reunion, and consequent celebration, since i’d been away with the small people for a couple of weeks, sans feline.  It had been very tough to lock the elegantly slutty part of me away for a whole three weeks and concentrate on being “Mommy”, but I managed to do so, little realising quite how much it affected me. Until, when I came for the first time on that day, I burst into tears. The release, the very felineness of him, the love, affection, lust and passion that he showered upon me, and just being with him caused me to bawl like a baby, while simultaneously shuddering to a magnificent climax.

He has made a great impact upon me, what can I tell you? And I wouldn’t have it any other way.


I call him a couple of hours ahead of schedule, on a day when we had planned to meet anyway, and  inform him that I feel the need to push a limit.

“I feel the need for intensity. I need a release of some sort, and I’m pretty damn amazed that I can even recognise and articulate that, never mind that I have a legitimate and flexible outlet in which to do so. Will you help me? Does that fit with your evil, mean and rotten feline plans for the day?”

There is a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone, and then a question.

“Intensity, hmm? I’m surrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre I can think of something that will help you. Would you be willing to improvise with me according to whatever roleplay i come up with?”

I nod, and then, realizing that a nod is not audible, affirm this verbally.

“So, it’s OK with you?”

No answer, save an evil feline snigger, and a low, ominous purr. (I love when he gets ominous.)

Fast forward to later that day. As always, I have stripped to his command, and then lovingly and carefully removed his clothing, and we are naked and facing each other. After the usual preliminaries, and an extra hug or two, just because he wants them, he grabs me by the hair, and twists my face to look at him.

“You have been abducted by the Big Bad Cat from the Great Ship Feline. You are my captive.”

Our eyes met, and I smile widely.

“I’m your captive? OK. So you’re my captor.”

“That is correct.”

My love of wordplay gets the better of me. Captive? Captor? An abductee of an evil, mean and rotten feline? Surely it would better read a “Cat-piv” taken by a “Cat-por”, or, to stretch the rules of spelling completely, “Catpaw”. I mention as much to the man holding me by my hair, looking deep into his crystal-blue eyes, and am rewarded by the twinkling smile that makes my senses tingle.

“OK, then Catpiv — get on the bed. On all fours.”

Fastening leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles, he secures me to the bed with canvas tapes.

“We alien Felines need to probe you for information,” he purrs, sliding his fingers into me. I gasp — usually he’ll start with two or three and work his way up through four to a whole fist. Today, there are four fingers curling into me and i can feel his thumb exerting exquisite pressure on the nubbin of skin covering my clit, moving it gently up and down but not actually indulging me by stroking the clit itself in any way.

The pleasure factor is immense, and it’s so early on in the game! I asked for intense, and intense is what I’m getting.

Once he has worked my cunt into a bubbling frenzy, loosening and relaxing the muscles enough, he slides his fist into me, and begins to pound my G-spot. I gasp, and cry out, and it only increases his efforts. Leaning over me, he reaches underneath and pinches a nipple until the pain crackles through me from stem to… well, clit, and then I feel him nibble on my ear. I gush, hearing the splatter onto the quilt, amazing myself at the quantity — I sound like I’ve let loose the fucking Hoover dam!

I struggle to maintain my all-fours position, as his weight is entirely on me. He senses this and removes himself, only to untie two of the four restraints and flip me over, so he can access my soft, white, under-side with greater ease.

And then he really goes to town.

I lose myself. Initially, I lose my first two or three layers of reality, and slip into a subspacial haze of happy bliss. He flogs me, not so much harder than before, but more. Just more. Then the subspace engulfs me and I float away, aware of all that is occurring, and yet detached in the best kind of way.

He beats my lily-white (though fast reddening) ass with a bendy cane, real cane, not bamboo, and then applies lavender oil and caressing strokes to ease the effects. He holds me tight, and kisses me, and generally plays an appasionata furioso, using me as though my body were a Stradivarius violin, and he were Yehudi Menuhin.

Lovingly he leads me over to the bed, and gently rubs the tender spots. Then, with no time to even think he snaps me out of my subspace, and orders me to bend over.

“Like this?” I ask, feet on the floor, hands down on the bed.

“Almost. Spread those legs further. Yes. Wider… yes.”

I feel the ice-cold glass slide into me before i register what it is. My glass friend, the handmade glass dildo… and he’s frozen it, god bless his evil cattish heart. I never stand much of a chance around my glass friend. Three or four thrusts into me and I’m moaning, a further couple (pound, pound) and I wail as though I’m a banshee, and the girl-juice (“cunt-juice” as he likes to call it) hits the floor with an immensely splashy clatter.

A pause for effect, as the thrusting slows, then stops, and he hugs me from behind.

“I’ve wet the floor,” I murmur.

He smiles, and the blue eyes twinkle at me

“Yes, but at least that means that there will be a dry spot for us to lie on, on the bed.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes. Time to indulge in the Cat-por’s favourite ritual. The post-coital cuddle.”

Intensity doesn’t get any better than this.

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“Give me one,” he says to me.

I am lying spread across the bed, arms and legs secured akimbo, a warm muffler as a blindfold across my eyes. 

He is half-sitting and half-lying on and over me, stroking my skin, pinching me and flicking me, mini-slapping me with various pervertible slappy devices (beer mat, bookmark, bouncy rubber cat toy) to the sound of me yelping in pain and then sighing with ecstasy alternately.

Every so often he leans over me, his face so close to mine i can sense the warmth of him. I lift my head, hoping to catch his lips with mine in a warm and passionate kiss — and every so often he indulges me. But not always. This is, after all, his game. He makes the rules.

And how I love how he does so.

He pinches my clit, until i scream in ecstatic agony — and give him my orgasm, right into his palm.


“Give me one,” he demands from me.

I’m free-standing, the requirement is that i stand upright and allow him to toy with me as he pleases.

But of course. Could it ever be any other way? 😎

There are the basic assumptive roles into which we naturally and easily slide — catalyzed by our opening ceremony, which sets the scene very effectively for who and what we are when we are together. This is a role-play of sorts, but one that goes beyond any role-play of teacher and naughty schoolgirl, or of adult male returning to her home the young, naive and inexperienced babysitter.

His hand contracts, and his  fingers slide further inside me. I struggle to remain upright, eventually grasping onto the bookcase frame nearby as the alternative is to allow my knees to buckle. I look at him, my eyes pleading for clemency, and his acquiescent nod acknowledges the reality of the situation, and permits my frame-graspage.

I lose control, and come, screaming my ecstasy, and gushing what feels like gallons of come down my leg and onto the rug. And collapse into his warm embrace.


I love how he demands that I *give* him my orgasm. I give him my submission, and I give him my love — and I do so with all my heart, love, trust, warmth and being. But give him my orgasm? What? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? That he gives me one?

Orgasms are usually perceived as something that we take from our partners. Furthermore, there is no requirement for love or even any feeling that transcends beyond base animal attraction and lust in order to achieve that particular brand of ecstasy. 

And yet, here he is, and he turns it on his head for me. “Give me your orgasm.” He sees it as a gift to him, and I find this fascinating, unusual and absolutely amazing.

To him, the fact that i experience the overwhelming sweep of bliss that streams through me like a light-sabre, then shudder as if undergoing (a very delightful form of)  electro-therapy and then (eventually) collapse against him, limp and sated, breathless and panting, is all evidence that I have given him a gift? So much the better.


Later, he presents me with a healthy and highly inviting erection — a result of some dedicated and willing attention from my mouth and tongue — and demands that I clamber astride it. He didn’t have to demand. I’d have done it anyway. However, he is in control, therefore the instruction must come from him.

It’s how we like doing That Thing It Is That We Do.

Agreeably, I situate myself above him and slide him into me. He grasps my arms, dictating my every move, moving me up and down faster and faster, hitting my G-spot as he himself drifts off before my eyes onto a cloud of ecstatic joy. He looks into my eyes, and whispers to me.

“I love how your cunt feels around me.”

I nod, I smile my special smile at him, my eyes never leaving his.

“I’m going to take mine now.”

“I give it to you with all my heart, my mind, my soul and my cunt.”

“I love you, my kitten.”

“I love you, Don Gato.” 

He comes, his all-but-silent “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…!” echoing around the room, belying its near-silence.

I love being with him, I love fucking him, I love him fucking me, I love how he tells me how he loves my cunt and how it feels to be inside it, I love how he touches me when i sit at his feet, I love the way his skin feels on mine…

I will always give him whatever he wishes. Orgasms and otherwise.

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Update: My song of love for both the Big Bad Cat and anal sex was Fleshbotted by the lovely Madeline. You’re such a love, Mads. Thank you!

It was the first time it’s ever happened to me, did you know that?

Anal sex I have had by the bucketload. (Although the imagery doesn’t work, the quantities do, trust me.) Until I met you, it was always accompanied by a certain amount of butt-clenching pain, and agony, prior to the experience dissolving into the fabulous sensation of having my ass ploughed.

I’ve had big cocks and small cocks in my ass. Small as in length — every woman knows that size only matters when you speak of girth, not length, but go tell that to a man. They never listen. You might listen, since you are who you are — and I love you immensely for that alone — but you don’t need to hear it, because you have no such insecurity. I’ve had men who knew what they were doing, and men who didn’t — although technically, anything that happened with the latter group cannot be termed anal sex, since as soon as I realised that they were clueless, I threw them off me and we moved on.

I’ve enjoyed anal sex — usually eventually, rather than the whole way through — in reality. In fantasy, it has sent me over the edge into the rainbow abyss of fabulous multiple orgasmic delight many a time.

But this was the first time that I came.

How you managed to hit my g-spot through the membrane that separates it from my anal passage; how you took the time to find the exact correct angle to which you needed to apply pressure; how you made me come over and over before that so that I was poised ready for another; how you carefully and diligently fucked me until i literally burst with joy, flooding the sheets and shaking as though I’d had a TENS unit applied to my clit (we’ll do that next time, darling 8-)); how you knew what and how to do what you did to me… I don’t know how you knew, or how you always know.

You know just how to touch me — whether with a gentle hand or an evil, bendy cane. You know the words to say. You know the songs to sing. You know how to surprise and delight me with  unexpected purple rain. You have a wealth of knowledge that many would envy, and which is the admiration of all who witness it.

I’m so lucky to have you in my life. So very blessed. Thank you, my darling.

Welcome home.

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Something I wrote a long time ago, and thought I’d take out and dust off for your entertainment. Enjoy!

I came for you

I suddenly found that i would be alone at home… Had you been available, i would have called you and given you the on-the-spot report, and panted and moaned and wailed your name into your ear.

As it was, i was unable to, since you were — for reasons best known to yourself — unavailable.

You were in my head, though. Just as sure as your hand was in my cunt earlier, so your face, your image was in my head. I kept replaying what you said this afternoon, about how you didn’t want to live your life without seeing me, without kissing me, touching me, fucking me. That this fact, despite being concerned that you weren’t the kind of person who could do “that” again, was obliterated at the thought of not being with me again.

That you said that endeared you to me more than ever.

As i replayed it, i pictured the look that i saw in your eye today, when you finally caught sight of me. That glorious combination of lust and desire, and the almost-certain realization that your hopes of satisfying one or both would be granted in the very near future.

As i touched myself, i remembered the feel of your hands on me. The whispered sound of your voice as you described myriad series of wild fantasies running through your head. The way you looked into my eyes as i softly, slowly and deliberately stroked your upper thigh, bringing your thought processes to a crashing halt. You caught my gaze so intensely because you were incapable of anything else — and you were right to surmise that i liked that. I did, I really did.

As i slid my ever-faithful Rabbit into my cunt, still so slick and moist from your touch hours earlier, i remembered how it felt to be held close to you, to feel your hands run through my hair, and your breath caress my neck. To feel those butterfly kisses across the top of my cleavage and a cool hand slide between to stroke and fondle my breast. I recalled the warmth of your hug, and how wonderful the breadth of your shoulders felt as i lay my cheek on them, and kissed you softly up the side of your neck. Then later, when your wandering hands had distracted me to the point where i had lost the focus to do anything at all, how i sighed and moaned into the soft skin in the corner between your neck and your collar bone.

I love that spot on a man, and i especially love it on you.

The buzzing of my trusty vibrator stimulated me until i moaned aloud — surprising myself. My apartment has very thin walls, and usually my long and feverishly abandoned self-love sessions are guardedly quiet. Today however, it simply wasn’t an option. The pent-up arousal and desire and frustrated, held-in orgasm erupted forth from me as though a dam had burst.

And as i shuddered and came, and felt the juices leak out of me like molten gold, i called your name. I saw your face. And pictured everything I’d do to you as soon as the opportunity arose.

The opportunity, yes… and you.

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“I cannot think of a poem to recite. Please, please, please may I come?”

He thrust his fist into me further, as my plaintive mew unfurled weakly into the dusky half-light of the evening.


“Rotten, mean, evil sodding cat!”

“Why, thank you!”

This was on the verge of the eighth orgasm of the session.

Number eight followed hard on the heels of the three previous caterwaul-inducing, knee-tremblers — all of which were great, although the one immediately prior to those three was the one which caused a tsunami-like effect on what Purrrrrvert had originally referred to as “your rainforest of a cunt”.

He had a point. After all, it was hot and very wet.

And every single fucking one of those orgasms was earned. Seriously. He started light: ten words for cat. We progressed through the alphabet backwards and other mindfuckable evil missions, until he came up with the brilliantly cruel idea of reciting a poem backwards.

I flailed — physically and mentally.

“What happens if i don’t do it? I cannot think of a poem to recite.”

His eyes gleamed with an evil glint I’d not actually thought possible from such adorably blue and loving eyes.

“Then, my darling bratty pink tabby cunning linguist, you…. get…. punished.”


“Er…” (very tentatively) “What kind of punishment…?”

A turn of his head, and a small cough. (Incidental? Unclear.)

“You do not wish to know. I can assure you. Bratty is as bratty does, but bratty also pays a price.”

I gulped. And then it hit me. Bratty! Of course! Who else, but Lewis Carroll?

“Because he knows it teases
He only does it to annoy
And beat him when he sneezes
Speak roughly to your little boy”


Through my blindfold I could hear the pleasure in his voice as he benevolently gave me permission to come. I could also feel the enthusiasm in his fist as he sent me over the edge into another quilt-soaking paroxysm of ecstasy.

A few moments of warm relaxation, enfolded in his adoring embrace, jointly catching our breath, and admiring my bound, round breasts, protruding from their brisket perma-tie surrounds. And then the whole thing started again.

As you know, he has made requests of me to write for him in the past, and further drilled-down those requests by specifying the number of words in each piece. Apparently, we’d moved beyond the realm of request-by-remote.

“You want to come, kitty-cat?”

A mute moan, and a whimper as I focused my mind on random traffic junctions in order to take my mind off the fact that I was perilously close to climax, but was not yet permitted to let it rip through my body.

Purrrrrvert has but two rules for me — that I notify him when close to orgasm, and that I do not come without permission. Naturally, I obey them both, although sometimes it really is by the skin of my teeth.

“What must I do this time?” I asked as civilly as I could through gritted teeth.

“Write me a piece of… oo, let me see — twenty-five words.”



Which brought me to this.

“It’s twenty-eight words,” I confessed humbly.

He smiled — again benevolent.

“This time, I’ll let it slide. Call it poetic license.”

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Thank you and a very happy new year to the sexiest chick on the planet for fleshbotting Elegant Smut again…

It’s not merely titular. That’s how i began the new year — a thundering orgasm, self-administered.

By choice, I might add — my children are asleep in bed, and at nearly-forty-holy-FUCK-that’s-ridiculously-old years of age, i wasn’t really in the mood for mindless alcohol consumption and partying of a non-specific nature simply because 2008 became 2009.

Call me boring if you dare. I make my own way, and my own fun. Haven’t you read this blog at all, people?

I decided instead to reflect on what the past year had wrought, in particular the most recent part — less recent is pretty much all documented here. Kinda — and what the year ahead had to offer. Then, at the suggestion of a dear and very horny friend — I wanked myself into 2009.

And what a way to start the year it was.

2008 saw my first kiss with a woman, way back in April.

Christmas 2008 saw me develop that further into my first girl-girl fuck. It’s an odd way to celebrate Christmas, in particular because that’s precisely what I don’t usually do (celebrate Christmas, not fuck — i fuck quite a lot). But they did, apparently, if the gaily decorated Christmas tree was anything to go by.

And I made her come.

The first time my lips and tongue touched moist girlie flesh — and I made her writhe in ecstasy above my face.

While her husband fucked me until I gushed…

Kinda proud of that, I am. Heh.

It’s the most bizarre sensation — the absorption of the various simultaneous occurrences by my just-hanging-onto-reality-by-a-thread brain. Mouth: enjoying the taste and smell of a beautiful woman. Bazooms: being manipulated, manhandled and pinched by both his and her hands. Cunt being pounded by a long, thick (and need I say rampant?) cock.

Now i understand the meaning of the phrase sensory overload.

In describing the event to aforementioned dear-and-horny-friend the conversation went thusly:

Dear-and-horny-friend : how was your Christmas?

Sapphire: non-existent, darling — i’m a Jew.

Dear-and-horny-friend: Ah but c’mon you must have done something. rescue me here

Sapphire: Well, i had sex with a husband and wife who had a Christmas tree in their living room — how’s that?

Dear-and-horny-friend: Dang, you celebrated the season quite appropriately then.

Sapphire: Well, yes.

I have so much more to tell you about — the twenty minute blow-job, the girl-girl-guy kiss that became a girl-girl-cock kiss… but it’s after midnight and I am tired.

Happy New Year to all of you out there. May the best of 2008 be the worst of 2009.

Sapphire x

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