Then I had a shower and all that went out of the window.

Sitting on the bed, hair wet, tousled and uncombed, the January sunshine began warming my skin and I glanced over to the wall to notice my body was casting a shadow. BINGO! My digital camera’s battery was dead so I had to grab my camera phone. Et voila! My unplanned, quickly snapped shadow.

Do click to embiggen!

For Sinful Sunday x

Welcome to e[lust], the sex blog round-up- The best posts from the hottest and smartest sex bloggers all in one place! This edition highlights topics such as libido, fake orgasms, teenage lust, voyeurism, BDSM consent and so much more. Want to be included in e[lust] #33? Start with the rules, come back in February to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ The Top Three Posts ~

Assent Matters by SherynB – Find your emotional power to recognize and say “no” to what you don’t want BEFORE you get naked and tied up and give up your actual physical power to walk away to anybody.

Forever The Night – ‘Why the hell shouldn’t I listen? This is my home, my bedroom after all’. So I do listen and I do feel myself twitch at every minute sound on the other side of that fucking wall.

Hands. Fingers. Pleasure. – This was the first time a boy’s fingers had such unfettered access to my pussy. Prior gropings under and through clothes had never been like this.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

The Fake Orgasm: You think you know, but you have no idea – I am 34 and I have faked orgasms. There ya have it. But I have never and will never qualify doing so as “I did it for him”.

~ Featured Post (Picked by Lilly) ~

Sadie Says… Awake – In the haze of my missing libido I also lost myself. I began to wonder if I remembered who the hell I was?

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Kink & Fetish

Connection, Intimacy & Trust
DQ Earns a Pass from Chasity
Five Little Words
Naked and kinky in a busy sex shop
Sharp Tongues and Good Pain
Sexual violence
The Duke Story
‘Twas the Night Before Kinky
The Pink Elephant
Who I Am
Who Are You to Change Us?
Waking You

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Busy Writing
Help! My Vibrator Won’t Work
Men and Visual Stimulation
Slippery and sticky and covered in lube
The Safe Zone – Giving Yourself Permission To Screw Up in Non-Monogamy
Until Death Do Us Part

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Interview With Senior Sexuality Advocate Joan Price

Erotic Writing

21
A Read to Remember
Aurelia (A Dirty Kind Of Grace part 1)
A Fistful
banana bread
Christmas Day
Last night in Cap D’Adge
Later On In The Evening
Meat Hooks & Butcher’s Twine
Reside
Sugarbutch Star: blckndblue, The Pink Dress
she and he and me…
Surprise Orgasm
wind

Many of these I don’t use any more – I should really do the green thing and send them somewhere for recycling. What you will notice, I hope, are my pretty scarves that first drew me into bondage, especially my red satin one. That stays prominently draped over the head of the bed. What is missing are the copious number of lube sachets, condoms and my under the bed restraints which NEVER leave their fixtures.

A few favourites – My silver bullet; over the door cuffs; the glass dildo which isn’t showing up clearly on the darker purple scarf, and my lovely tasselled whip at the bottom of the image.

Some reviled old items which I detest – the hideous pink thing I got for free with some other item I purchased; contentious (for me) Kegel balls.

My first vibrator is the blue thing at the top of the page, which Mister bought for me about a year or so after we started dating. It is now covered in slivers of red feathers from an old tickle stick thing which disintegrated and moulted everywhere.

A few books that kept me sane whilst I was at University before discovering erotica on the internet and sex blogging. Again, Mister bought me my first copy at the bottom of the small pile which also includes a ‘Sensual Massage’ for beginners book.

I’ve also been venturing into more home-made sex toys – hence the elastic band-bound pencils. I’ll let you guess what they’re used for! A doff of my cap to Blacksilk for the idea!

So, there you go. I need, clearly, to get some more good quality sex toys as some of these I will never touch again due to the material that they are made from. Others I’m scared to use (I still squick over the butt plugs etc…) and some are simply awful and won’t get me off!

These are all kept in the suitcase under my bed. Just, FYI. Also, I have a boring duvet cover at the moment.

This is my confession for you who listen.

Every night. Every goddamn night.

At least that’s what it seems to be. I can count on my left hand the number of times I’ve actually seen them. Her. Spoken to her? Never. Passing glimpses as we move between our houses and the car park. She doesn’t catch my eye, avoids it in fact. She knows. How could she not? At least he has some word of acknowledgement to throw in my direction. Maybe he has no shame. But I know she must do. And I share in her shame.

I know them so little, yet I know them…intimately.  

It starts innocently enough; muffled, muted sounds of conversation. I can’t make out the words. She speaks more than he does. He simply has the replies, monosyllabic, short. Her tone seems friendly. Placid and comfortable. I always imagine her smiling, her face close to his. They’re not one of these couples who sit up reading individually and then it’s the peck on the cheek and a roll over to their side of the bed. No, not in my mind. Not yet, at least. They still love each other.

On most nights I catch a giggle. It begins. My chest heaves in that familiar way and I sit upright, alone in my bed. I’ve learnt that I can’t block out the sound, now I can’t resist listening in. I know I shouldn’t, I should go away from the temptation. Downstairs, a cold shower, something – anything. Then I think, ‘Why the hell shouldn’t I listen? This is my home, my bedroom after all’. So I do listen and I do feel myself twitch at every minute sound on the other side of that fucking wall. That laugh – it’s always the same low chuckle. Always hers. Pins and needles seem to flush over my skin, prickling at me from the inside trying to pierce their way out and up. I shift and squirm. I feel my pulse quicken, heart beat louder, cock harden. It’s only a matter of time.

(I tried moving my bed away from their wall to the other side of my room. I think it made it worse. I sat up staring at their wall all night. At least where I am now I face away from their divide. That’s something at least.)

Then I hear it, the sound that catches my breath and awakens every fibre, sinew and hair on my body. It’s only been minutes since that first fluttering signal of the night’s darker intentions with her laugh, but after the year since they moved in I’ve realised it won’t take him long before he works out that seemingly plaintive call from her.

Siren.

I am lured in every night by it. A damned soul drawn helplessly into my own fantasies. Dancing images paint themselves in my mind of the two together on the other side of our partition. Like one transfixed, I can no longer resist my own body calling to me to release it from this…this ardour. My eyes close and I sink into their world, unseen. I am the uninvited voyeur swathed in my own darkness, hand wrapped around my erection.

That wall has heard my moans as often as it has heard theirs. Admittedly mine are subdued, I would not want to put them off their stride after all. That would end the game. All the same, I sigh into the air and whisper what a good girl she is, making both of us come with that wet slickness between her legs. I try to picture her breasts, I see him kissing them, licking. Oh and the sucking of those nipples. Mustn’t forget that.

This is a ménage only I am privy to, but never take part in.

Sounds change, her pitch rises, his become audible. Close. So close we are now. I crave I catch the sound that makes me twitch like nothing else on this earth. That makes me instantly draw my hand off and away from my body for fear of coming too soon. I can never judge when it will happen, it’s not every time and sometimes weeks will go by before they include it again. But its sound is unmistakable.

Thwack.

My eyes fly open.

Thwack.

Heart drops through my chest.

Thwack.

Mouth runs dry.

All the air seems to have left my room and time slows down. All that exists is that glorious sound beyond the wall and my own stifled breathing here with me.

I am smiling now and I know I am condemned, yet my hand finds its home for one final stroke and for those precious seconds, she is mine.

This is my confession and I dare you to judge me without doing just as I have done in that solitary darkness.

For a New Year blog post I’m going to be directing a little interview with Mister. Seeing as you only get to hear from him via my words, I thought it might make interesting reading to see what drives him.

So, a plea – Do you have any burning questions for my beloved sexy guy? What makes him tick, shiver and groan? Send me a DM via Twitter if you are already a follower there, otherwise please feel free to email me as many as you like to lady-pandorah AT hotmail DOT com. Failing that, a straighforward comment below would suffice nicely too.

This post will only work if I get people involving themselves, so it’s me out on a limb a little! It’s in your hands now. Don’t disappoint now, my dears. 

LP x

Update, 8/1/2012 ~ So many thank yous to any of you who have submitted questions – To those who have been asking where the hell the post actually is, I have collated them all and we’re slowly going through them. I initially wanted to post the Interview on New Year’s day, but I was sadly delayed by my own insobriety (aka I was hungover…). I may as a result post the full Interview on my blog’s birthday which I believe to be the 18th of January (four years!!! I can’t even believe it!). Until then, kisses and claws, LP xx

Words whispered in my ears that will melt me further into his touch. When he has me like this he’s so close to me. Pressed against my body, an arm wrapped around me. For comfort? No, for constriction. Keeping me in my place. The heat rises between us, lifting from my centre flushing at my cheeks, to the tips of my fingers and out into the sheets that contort and twist and entwine in my grasp.

He has his other hand between my legs of course, but I was wet long before he delved there. Some nights, I simply need to be naked next to him and I’m aroused. I guess that’s a sign of a healthy relationship? I still want to rip his clothes off and drag him into my, our bed after these eight years. That most teenage of feelings still lingers – I fancy him something rotten. This emotion has grown from mere hormonal lust, though. It has matured into a cultivated appreciation for every small nuanced curve of his torso, each little freckle of his back I know the exact location of. And I know what that glint means when he’s so, so close we’re sharing breath together. Intimately uncomfortable. What it means when he has me constricted, confined like this – we may be spooning, but the sweetness is replaced by possession, control and the test of my stamina.

You devil… I sigh under my breath. He has me right where he wants me and I can’t wriggle out of it. His arm is placed so my own are pinned down at my sides. He has angled a leg across mine and I am totally at his mercy. And his dark desires? What is it he wants of me in this most vulnerable of positions? To take me for his own? To satisfy his own lusts? Make the most of my absolute aroused submission? No, it’s all together more altruistic, perhaps, it is to drive me wild with pleasure under his hand.

So I lose myself into him. Utterly.

My eyes stare through gasped expressions as his fingers at first dance across my pussy. When he toys with me at first and lightly tickles at my clitoris, I know he’s in this for the long run. He’s committed to drawing me out for as long as he can – note – ‘he’ not as long as ‘I’ can. I have little say in when he will stop. But then, why would I want to? My head fills up in these early stages with the notion that everlasting rolling orgasms across the night would be the definition of Heaven, Nirvana and Cloud 9 having the best threesome of their lives together. Oh how mistaken I am. How I forget how he likes to drive me to the edge and beyond what I can take.

Those first orgasms I sink into breathlessly, I take on those slow writhing movements and revel in the warm sparks travelling through me. Mister works with me at this stage, reflecting my convulsions and only occasionally does he flick out of rhythm making my eyes snap open momentarily to be greeted with the intent stare of his steely blue eyes before returning me back to my black haze. He’s watching me. Gauging my reactions, steadily biding his time before he switches over to him calling the shots.

It doesn’t take him long. For all of his patience, Mister has his own agenda he wants to fulfill. He’s a glutton for drinking in my lack of control.

Put your hands above you head.

I don’t need to acknowledge with sound or eye contact, my body is simply a tangle of reactions to a stimulus now. Hands fly up from my sides and naturally cross themselves over at the wrists. He’s trained me well. My cheeks feel that immediate flush of heat once again as I know he’s playing that game. Nails graze against the iron bedstead and my ring on my forefinger grates against the metal. The sound scratches against my own moans and the discordance opens my eyes. He’s shifted in his position. I don’t recall sensing him move…I’m now on my back and he’s poised just above me. Baring down on me. He’s deliberately trying to intimidate me now. It’s working as I feel myself shrink under that gaze. All at once I feel heavier, dulled, clouded. I hold onto those bars above my head to stop me from sinking further, a life line to the surface.

I look down and see the shadows of our bodies in the weak light of the bedside lamp. His cock, hard, proud fills me with hunger. I want him desperately. Mouth, cunt – I don’t care, I just know I have to have him, but he’s denying me. I plead with my eyes, lick my lips. For some reason I can’t speak. I can’t communicate what I want. He’s stolen my words. I’m a dumb beast before him all instinct, need and desire. But no. His relentless hand is at its own pace. A moment of cognisance hits me and I’m impressed at his fingers’ stamina.

You’re beautiful when you’re this wild animal.

I reply the only way I know how. With scratches. With bites. Claws and teeth are what he has reduced me to.

A wild animal he may have caged, but never will tame.

I was bubbling away in anticipation of when I would pounce on Mister to then drag him upstairs and ravish him, surprising him with my little secret I was conserving beneath my prosaic pair of jeans. Biding my time until the right moment struck, I was knocked off my feet when it was Mister who bounded in from an all-too-brief jaunt up and down the stairs and then proceeded to paw at me most deliciously. It should have raised my suspicions immediately that this was to be more than simply the affectionate groping of my thigh. And breast. Oh, and a nipple as well.

You’re hiding something from me, I can tell.

I don’t know what you mean! I say this in faux-shock. As you do.

You’ve been acting differently all afternoon. I think you should strip and show me. Come on.

Never one to beat around the subtle nuances of hinting, my Mister.

Nor am I myself one to take my time over getting a little more nude, first to go was my top. Lifted up over my loose hair and flung off to some corner of the room. Then a light shuffle of my tresses that has to be done and a coy smile to him.

Oh no, no. Make a show of it. In front of me. Wiggle.

Mister loves to see me writhe before him. I may not have the snake-hips of a belly dancer, nor much rhythm, but boy can I wiggle well. I know it to be a weakness of his and I exploit it to its full potential. Which is to get my own way. Most of the time at least, but today it was all for him, his desires, his need. I followed my order to the letter. Standing up to face him, I unclasped the buckle of my belt, drew down the zip of my jeans and slid the denim from my waist, making sure to wiggle my hips as the material slipped down my legs. About halfway down my thighs, I twisted away from him to show off my behind and curve myself down to flick off the jeans. Again, tossed to the side of the room somewhere. He approved of these flourishes and I heard a low chuckle from him in his front-row seat.

I saw the coffee table before me and took advantage for the next part of the performance. What was potentially an opportunity for a crass and lewd show, I made….just nicely lewd. Leaning forward onto the wooden table on my hands, I went for a full-on ass-in-face wiggle for my captivated audience member. Well, I wanted him to really take notice of my underwear, after all.

Is the lady permitted to be felt up by the gentleman?

I love it when we role-play – and when it works.

What gentleman? I see only this rogue before me. My turn to chuckle as I throw a glance back over my shoulder.

Well in that case, I think you should be a little mis-treated for this naughty show you’ve been giving me. But first, we need more warmth. I want to spend as much time with you out of your clothes as I can, after all.

With that he went to switch on the small electrical fire we have in a fake-fireplace in our sitting room. It was getting cosier by the second. As he returned, he drew the curtains for I have no shred of shame – and our house is on a hill overlooking the town with only the smallest chance that we would have voyeurs, and then only if they knew where to look – and promptly got naked himself. In similar fashion, his clothes were strewn across the room (one miscreant sock only to be found just under a week later, in fact).

Thus, finally to the eponymous leather that this blog post allude to – I know you have been waiting impatiently until now. Our living room has a wonderfully comfortable array of mis-matched furniture that we’ve inherited through the years. One being a lovely armchair of leather. I’m often found within its soothing confines of an evening following a particularly tough day at work. This afternoon, however, it was to support my knees and elbows, first and foremost, as Mister edged me forwards to guide me down onto the soft leather. I sank into the chair, pressing my skin against the cool surface.

Oh, don’t stop wiggling – keep going. No, wait – let me get you completely naked first. A man driven by his immediate instincts – what he wants now…he gets now.

I allowed myself to be stripped completely, I was in no place nor mind to challenge him - I was having far too much fun with him in this certain mood. I love it when he tells me exactly what to do, has his wicked way with me, and all that. I was warm and highly aroused, my head was heavy, eyes lowered, lips smiling that sideways smile of lust. Of course my cunt was aching for his touch making me edge my body back into his frame standing behind me in front of the chair. I inched back, straightening my spine up against his chest, bringing a hand up and around his shoulders, neck, into his hair and grasping, raking through his hair. My own head found that spot on his collarbone where I nestle in so perfectly, just the right place for my neck to be exposed to his carnal overdrive to kick in and whip his tongue over my skin there, nipping the flesh. This time he bit down into my neck and onto my shoulder. My grin widened as my head sank down, overwhelmed. His. Always, his.

By the time he reached down to retrieve the condom which was of course what he had snuck upstairs to obtain on that swift visit to the floor above, there was very little of me that hadn’t encountered his hands roaming all over, or lips kissing and biting into. He has managed to even find a technique to make me come through my nipples being kissed, licked bitten and sucked - my nipples that are annoyingly not sensitive unless I’m highly turned on. Like the point he had driven me to here and was edging deliriously over. My back undoubtably now had red streaks down them and my arse had a wonderful stinging to it from his firm hand’s attentive care.

Picture by vuephoto on DeviantART

No wonder, in which case, that as he entered me the want and desire spilled over into his energetic thrusts from behind me that the heavy leather and wooden frame of the armchair momentarily tilted over adding to the drama of the performance of it all. So as I lay spent, my orgasms sending me into the beauty of aftershocks as they subsided, I had nothing left to give but to stare through my lashes at him and feel the glowing smile on my face and just enough energy for one final wiggle. For him. Always for him.

On Saturday my hands drifted towards the back of my underwear drawer, rifled a little through the cotton, through the nylon hosiery and found their way to the ertswhile selection of thongs I own. This choice in itself was notable. I shall probably alienate some readers now, but I shall make a confession: I don’t like thongs. They are impractical. They are uncomforatable. I do not care a fig if they make my arse look absolutely irresistible. I can only wear them if I’m feeling utterly Minxy, deliberately intending to seduce Mister or reducing my VPL. Happily for Mister, and for the intentions of this blog post, I was in the mood of the first two options. I slipped on my off-white thong (not a G-string, I’m not that ridiculous) and the matching bra that really makes my breasts look awesome.

My confidence was singing out for the remainder of the afternoon, I’m not surprised Mister picked up on it.

The subject of which will be a delightful tale of surprise, leather armchairs and a great deal of heat on a winter’s afternoon.

You took my breath away and voiced the phrases that ran wildly through my mind.

Moved me like your ragdoll, placing my hands above my head, forearms flush against the wall.

Eyes flew down my body, my sides and round those small curves that sway your vision.

Blindfold pulled over my already closed eyes – I was lost before we had even reached this stage.

You utter that name again, grip my hair, press my head against the wall.  

Mute except for the breathless gasps you drew from me.

Pressure builds, arms tingle, drained.

Words of encouragement.

Words of chastisement.

They all merge into one single phrase.

Bad girl.

Inky pitch, embracing purple through to rosy haze.

Grey mists sinking over the landscape.

Eyes hungry for a view past the black reflections in the window. Trying to avoid my gaze.

Startled deer, alert and frozen. Strangers all to a shared destination.

I sway by the momentum into the harmonies and discord in my ears.

The melody pierces through the fog. Darting, searching, seeking the heart strings.

Shattering my reverie.

Bass line stirs the soul and calls out. Its deepness resonates, flickers through.

Voices reach out, breath catches, eyes close.

Swallowed in the intensity of sound in my crowded isolation.