Suck it.

Oh, the things I find when cruising the intarwebs.

"In this game you have to please clients who will be sent to you. Each will expect you to perform at a different level. To start you will be given a few of the easiest clients. The bar on the right represents clients' pleasure. The orange portion is the minimum that will satisfy the customer. Yellow portion represents how much pleasure the client is experiencing. The cock symbol on the left side represents how close your client is to his orgasm, and the green bar at the bottom shows how much constitution you have left. The blue "cock bar" at the top of the game screen is the most important: to play, move YOUR MOUSE over this symbol, as this is how you control where your lips are placed. If your mouse leaves this symbol, then you will have "pulled out." Read in game instructions for more detailed help. Have fun!

Play the Blowjob Game.

Meanie.

I'm waking up, nude, enjoying some organic chai tea and catching up on Twitter. I run into my sassy sexblogging colleague, the Collared Coed. Some of you may remember how she received caning discipline upon her tender, submissive ass in support of a charitable cause. Such excellent servitude.

collaredcoed i'm not submissive because i'm Asian. i'm an Asian girl who happens to be submissive.

UrbanRoguery What is it with me and schoolteachers now?

UrbanRoguery @collaredcoed And we love you for it. Now get back on your knees, wench.

collaredcoed i'm mad because i read a comment on a BDSM blog that says "i think all Oriental women have to be submissive." who even says ORIENTAL anymore?

collaredcoed @UrbanRoguery are your extracurricular activities getting you into trouble?

UrbanRoguery @collaredcoed Silly frosh. I'm the one who makes the trouble. Now bend over my desk while I select a cane.

collaredcoed @UrbanRoguery straight to the cane?! i don't get the wooden paddle first? you're a meanie! -pouts-

UrbanRoguery @collaredcoed My, you're an impetuous one. I said I was -selecting- a cane. And you had best look to the floor when you speak, if at all. Now strip.

Daddy.

Hello, pet.

Do you see this bracelet? This collar? This attractively polished little lock? The key I hold between My fingers as they caress and tug you by the lobe of your ear?

Make no mistake, pet. When the candle has been struck, the bracelet applied, your obedience is Mine and shall remain so for as long and as enduring as I care to retain it. you are Mine. you will serve.

Because Daddy loves you.

When you feel the weight of the leather on My arm, smell its scent, hear its creaking as I draw you close to Me, you will just begin to know the weight of My love, My embrace, the protection I shall enshroud you with. My strength, My perseverance, My virtue, My word is as law to you. you are Mine. you will serve.

Because you love Daddy.

The raiment I deign to cover your body with, or none at all. The food I deign to fill your body with, or none at all. The drink I deign to moisten your mouth with, or none at all. The people I deign you to uncover yourself to, or none at all. The discipline I deign to administer unto your bare flesh, or none at all. The use of your body I deign to make of you, or none at all. The bedding I deign to reward you with, or none at all. you are Mine. you will serve.

you will serve and know wholeness in the servitude. you will serve and find satisfaction and joy and pleasure only in My satisfaction and joy and pleasure. If I deign to grant you orgasms, it shall be for My pleasure to do so. If I deign to bare your pert little ass in the public square for an attitude adjustment before the populace, it shall be for My pleasure to do so.

you are My possession, you are My pleasure, you are My greatest responsibility. Inside My arms you will find the security you crave, the very cover of My shadow in the candlelight will giving you both contentment and hunger to please and to serve Me. It will pleasure you to serve Me, but only because I permit it so. It will satisfy you to serve Me, but only because I permit it so.

your pleasure is only yours if and unless I grant it to you to be.



But you needn't be afraid, pet, for I am a just and fair Daddy. My care for you is without boundary or restraint, although you yourself will know both. you will give yourself to Me, you will yield yourself to Me, you will know happiness and ecstacy from the touch of My hand, My lash, My kissing lips, My chains, My thick cock which you will adore and satisfy at My whim. you will be taken at any moment. you will be pushed to your pathetic, parted knees. you will be blissfully tortured and torturingly embraced.

you will obey Me, and you will anticipate My desires effectively. you will know My Discipline should you waver. My Discipline may be as terrible as a look from My eye and as beautiful as your suspended body to be lashed with leather to the applause of collected guests. you will honour your position and My love when I deign to show you at an event. you are the vessel for My enjoyment. you will always maintain yourself in accord with My instructions, and My instructions shall always be in your best interests. you will be graceful, elegant, and wanton in accord with My wishes.

And if I should deem it appropriate and desirable to randomly hoist you over My knee, stand you nude and sniffling in a corner, bend you over a park bench for a thrashing, command you to polish the boots of My comrades, see you serve My associates and Myself as we enjoy a game of poker, fellate any or all of them as I instruct you so, you will comply in the joyful knowledge that you are pleasing Me.

you live to please me.

Daddy will change you forever. Change you like no other.

And sometimes, Daddy will tell you what you need to hear. But only because Daddy loves you.

Then said Almitra, speak to us of love.

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you, yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you, believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant.
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor.
Go into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not, nor would it be possessed,
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart,"
But rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love.
To bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.
To rest at the noon hour and meditate upon love's ecstacy.
To return home eventide with gratitude.
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

- Kahlil Gibran

Metamorphosis.

It was during one of our relaxed, dinner-and-a-DVD dates when, not long after we had smoked some excellent Jamaican herb, she started to pass by me in the hallway. I was coming out of the bedroom for some reason or other, and she was walking from the studio toward the kitchen. I have a long bookcase unit against the south wall of the hallway, filled with treasures about anthropology, history, mythology, sexuality, mysticism. An autographed, out-of-print hardcover from Stewart Farrar. The Egyptian Book of the Dead. Freemasonic texts published almost one hundred years ago.

It's very difficult for two people, when using the hall at the same time, to avoid coming against each other. Framed photographs, and an original work and personal gift from artist Cindy Sudano, on the opposing wall require some caution. What a fitting place to have serendipitously pulled Dean, who in both look and spirit always made me think of the ladies of some ancient, Mediterranean city, aside for some passionate kissing.

It could have been a simple peck. It could have been a light brush of my hand against the small of her back as she strode by. It began as a tender grasp of one another when our hips brushed together, my arm coiling around her small waist as I bowed my head between her neck and shoulderblade to kiss her there. We began facing opposite directions and holding one another as if in mid-tango. And then we stopped.

Passion is a power that I love to feel overwhelm me, and I worship that cascading, utterly carefree moment when all other consciousness is suddenly, irretrievably cast aside and all that matters is the yearning and the pursuit to satisfy the yearning.

Dean brought her arm to my back and pulled me closer while, at the same time, my right hand slid to her thigh and tugged it firmly against my leg. We conjoined in the hallway under the bright stares of the pot lighting, beacons that glared white and warmed our clothes and skin. Our lips met hungrily, our mouths parting with faint gasps as our heads moved in slow circles. The moistness of her lips inflamed me, and my grip to her thigh became more insistent, our bellies pressing against one another. She ran fingers throough my long locks and grunted sexily, quietly, as the energy began to shift and I became slightly more forceful, demanding.

We said nothing to each other. Her eyes pleaded to me. Gently but firmly, I grasped a fistful of her short and curly hair between my fingers, twisted her head to the side, and pulled her mouth hard against my own. She parted her mouth open with a stunned awareness, her eyes tightly shut, and my lips crushed against hers with possession. No gentle embracing, no coy maneovres, no subtle gestures would this be.

She was mine.

I stood my bearing, my heavy steeltoes firm against the floor as I prepared to manhandle her body weight. My left hand suddenly swung to her right leg as my right hand continued to hold her by her hair. I was grasping and squeezing her thigh over the thin camo pants she was wearing (we had matching pairs), and now my right fist changed intent from gentle tugging to an urgent pulling of her hair. With her small, auburn curls held tightly in my fist, I held her head in the same one one would command a cat by possessing the scruff of its neck in a moment of discipline. I tilted her head in the ways that pleased me best, moving her kissing mouth to where I desired it against my own lips, to my neck, to my chest. Dean began to go limp and pliant, unsteady on her feet, but my hand at her leg kept her weight in balance. She was panting. Beads of sweat started to seethe from her brow. Her mouth remained open like a salmon struggling for life.

My hand left her leg and coarsely ran up the length of her ribs and over to her black Tshirt. Her arms gripped my back and held my ass. There was no gentility here: I was pawing at her breasts now, holding and squeezing her tits through the cotton like a man who hadn't handled them in years. I felt her flesh meld between my strong fingers as my squeezes pulled her skin into my palms with heat. Cupping her left breast tightly, I tugged it upward as my other hand yanked her head back and exposed all of her neck. She cried out and opened her eyes, pupils dilating under the bright lights. I moved closer, bringing my covered but hard cock against her leg as I started to rub my girth against her.

Quickly, I reached behind myself with both hands and yanked hers away from my ass. Gripping her wrists, I placed her palms on the white pine shelf behind her, just under her hips, before resuming my naked possession of her heaving tits. Standing resolutely before her, now both of my hands were clutching, pawing, squeezing, cupping her breasts while my kisses continued to crush her. I started to pull her top off, yanking the black wifebeater over her shoulders.



But that fucking bra was in my way. Grunting in annoyance, I grabbed her by the back of her head and thudded her brow against my right shoulder, bending her over just slightly. Dean was shaking now, quivering, still panting, and she stayed perfectly still while my hands made quick work of the hooks at her back. Throwing the bra to the floor, I kept her exactly where she was while I started to undo the button of those camo pants, yanking the zipper down, and sliding my hands inside them to squeeze her little ass.

She raised her head to passionately kiss me, and I could taste the sweat on her upper lip. Her bare ass was in my grip, and I squeezed and caressed her asscheeks like the property they were to me at that moment. Cupping a cheek in each firm, hot hand, I met her kisses while our tongues darted, and I flicked the tip of my index finger against her winking backdoor. I pressed the fingertip against her there, feeling her anus open so very slightly, just enough to hold onto the smallest bit of my fingertip in a circular embrace.

I brought both hands up. I held her hair again as I kissed her. I started to tug her hair now, savagely, tightly, causing her to yelp and stare into the lights above us again. I held her head high as I bit and licked at her bared tits, the dark crinkled nipples hard and yearning up for attention. And then I pressed the full breadth of my right hand, palm against her chest and fingers spread, just under her neck and shoved her backward and into the wooden bookcase.

It shuddered with the force of my shove as her back thudded, small pieces of sculpture left shaken and spinning, volumes of books resettling, a framed picture knocked to the floor. She stood there now, topless and her pants in a wayward mass around her calves and ankles, shaking. Her back squarely met one of the support planks of the bookcase, her shoulderblades against copies of Ovid's Metamorphoses and Suetonius' The Twelve Caesars. How fitting.

I pulled her panties down.

Resting my hip against the bookcase, I leaned beside her now and returned to enjoying her breasts as she gasped for air. Holding her close to me as she wavered and swooned, my right hand began pawing, slapping, pinching her tits, her flat belly, her bare thighs. I smacked her thighs to urge her to part them more, and she was obedient. After enjoying the feel of her torso some more, I cupped my hand and slid it between her legs to completely cover her drenched and quivering cunt.

I looked into her eyes. I brought her mouth to mine again. I started to swirl my fingers, and soon I had her outer labia softly pinched between them and felt her urgent clit, hard as a stone, in the middle of her soaked flesh. I spun circles. I tugged upward. I smacked her cunny with broad, flat fingers. Dean's knees started to buckle, and I held her weight as she leaned between against me and the bookcase. I probed her with firm, spreading fingers, feeling her urgent need and her soaking sex. Holding her wet flesh between my fingers again, spinning my fingers in fast circles, it wasn't long before Dean's head arched back against the wood and she began screaming in long, loud, repeated, gasping bursts.

Her cries echoed throughout that narrow hall, and, upstairs, I both hear and feel the presence of someone wearing shoes slowly walking through their own hall above us and stopping not three feet away and over our heads. One of the Women Upstairs, or one of their boys, had heard us, came closer, and now was listening to Dean's screaming climax. I could picture her or his eyes blinking in amazement, because mine were as I smiled a Top's smile.

As my hand continued to possess her tight, soaking flesh, Dean started quaking when the first streams of her grrlcum began to gush from her. Her knees buckled again, and now she slid her back back down against the naked wood and crouched slightly as I supported her weight with my hips. My spinning fingers were unrelenting while stream after stream after long and pungent stream flooded from her and splashed against my boots, the floor, the opposite wall before she completely collapsed into my arms, panting, exhausted, her camos and panties in a crumpled heap around her boots.

Taking a message.

A sexblogging colleague, brilliantly, also coordinates a site focused on shared experiences in educating kids and parents about sexuality. She tweeted recently to seek submissions from readers about how their children had been introduced to the topic in the home, and it sparked a memory in me. I responded. Here is a much more adult version of what I had to say.

I was barely nineteen, she was twenty-four, and this morning I was making her late for work.

She had this massive waterbed, and it was a few weeks after I moved in before I really figured out how to best use its motion to our advantage. Sex with Diva was always really, really good, but once I learned that I could use the wave motion to help me push my thrusts even deeper inside her, her moans grew to arched-back peals and eyes-screwed-tight screams that resounded throughout the apartment.

When I fucked her missionary, she would raise her ankles high into the air, legs spread, and the motion of the water would push me harder and deeper into her lightly-tufted blonde pussy. She could tilt her hips in a way that would be otherwise impossible on any other surface, and it gave me angles to pound her that brought stars to my eyes. Likewise, when I took her from behind, the motion of the water lurched her back toward me as I clung to her hips, gripping them tightly and bringing her ass to my pelvis with all the force I could. Sex on a waterbed, if its timed right, brings extra verve to move bodies in urgent ways when you want them to.

It wasn't a very large apartment, and the walls were thin. The door to her 4-year old daughter's room was less than five feet from her (our) bedroom's. Her daughter, ever quick-witted and as sharp as the tacks that she left in the middle of the hardwood hallway, simply knew what was going on.

The phone was ringing off the hook this morning, and we were either ignoring it or in too much bliss to hear it brrrringinginging brrringinginging in the kitchen. But her daughter did, and pro-active girl that she was, naturally she answered it.

I had just pulled myself up from Diva and whipped a towel around my waist. By the time my feet were in the hallway (carefully avoiding the crayons and, thank God, no tacks this time), the wee one had the phone to her darling, ruddy face. On the phone was her Mommy's boss, wondering where her Mommy was. I knew this the moment the wee one spoke.

"Mommy can't come to the phone, mister," she said with matter-of-fact, unembarassed calmness. "She's busy dinkying."

And now for something completely different.

You know...

... I am really going to miss you.

"I am his woman now."

A reader, one of my favourites and a hot 'n sassy grrl, recently suggested to me that the blog has been more "cute" than "hot" lately. I wanted to apologize because, in some weird way, I was disappointed to perhaps agree. But, my delightfully tawdry comrades, a lot has been going on here.

The last two weeks or so have been... interesting.

o Temporarily, and if I'm not successful, perhaps permanently, I seem to have lost my job. It's not so much as a recession thing with me (thank God for unions), but there is a labour dispute of sorts afoot in my world, and until or if it gets resolved in my favour, a lot of my energy lately is required elsewhere at the moment. I'm glad that I have solid take-action, adaptive skills.

o Dean decided to end things between us. Despite my saying from the outset, when she approached me as a lover, that I needed to take things slowly, it seems I wasn't being fast enough for her own relationship goals. No, I wasn't ready for, or even necessarily seeking, marriage after such a brief time together. Sorry.

We're still friends, and while I've barely heard from her lately, she did leave me a message just before I started writing this post.

o Shayne decided not so much to end us (I think), but to lurch in another direction which, it seems, has the fallout of ending us. I had always expected that, as we both dated others in our respective cities, new relationships with men and/or women were certainly possible/probable, but recent news was a little more than I would ever have expected.



Well befitting an Aquarius, being involved with Shayne has always been like trying to relate to rising and withdrawing tides. There's been delicious, poetic beauty in that, and yet... like a Jerusalem artichoke, my heart has opened with those rising waters only to close again when they receded, over and over. Recently, she approached me again to share how she had missed me, wanted and desired me, and we were cautiously talking once more about being together. I got her off over the phone again. It was nice. We had some really long, really great talks. We idly discussed her coming to Toronto for Pride. We discussed me visiting Chicago again.

And yet, from another crazy whirlwind, it's all changed. Again. Suddenly, she's making plans with another man and another woman (jackpot for her), and the three of them are aiming to develop their own bdsm/poly household. In the last fortnight, Shayne's fallen so in love that her life is changing into a whole, new course which effectively spells (another) end of what we had been nurturing.

Love is. Love doesn't work on schedules or on flight plans. As Kahlil Gibran writes, it "threshes us to make us naked; frees us from our husks; grinds us to whiteness; kneads us until we are pliant; assigns us to the sacred fire." It has "no other desire but to fulfill itself." "You cannot direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course."

There were always little (and some not so little) obstacles between us, but for whatever reason, I've kept the candle on for her and somewhere in the back of my senses still remained the idea that maybe, just maybe, all those discussions about being together would happen.

I know I would have made the world our oyster.

I'm being supportive of her, of course. I do that because her happiness is important to me, and because even I can objectively see how some of her new choices has the potential for dear and deep joy for her. But another part of me feels as though I, and everything intimate we shared and built up until this point, has suddenly become irrelevant, and that's quite the sting. Perhaps I should know better, because God knows I've been here before. Perhaps it's my mistake to have held out, to have kept that candle burning.

I do feel a little foolish. But I'm tired of getting crestfallen. Once again, I seem to have invested too much. And, on top of everything else, the timing is awful: I had been looking forward to seeing her soon.

I'll be fine.

Yet, on the plus side, I enjoyed an awesome chat with a mid40s woman of colour last night, an up-and-coming psychologist who, if things happened between us, will likely want to reintroduce me to the wonderful world of monogamy. Interesting contrast, no? And, who knows, maybe that kind of stability would do me some damned good for a change.

But now I'm going to listen to some Missy Higgins and bike alongside the Lake Ontario shoreline. I want some of this great, positive sunshine in my skin.



Good luck, baby. No, really. And I love you. See ya.

Veronica Andrews.

Say it ain't so! The quintessional blonde versus brunette rivalry coming to an end? Can't be.

Comic geeks, pulp romantics, and pop culture enthusiasts are all abuzz with the news that teenage comic icon Archie Andrews is tying the knot with brunette li'l rich girl Veronica Lodge (and, unfortunately, I don't mean to tether her to rival blonde Betty Cooper) after, uh... seventy years of dating. In that time, Archie fans have witnessed the high school rivalry between the main characters recycled over and over again, the (sometimes playful) enmity between Veronica and Betty remaining a constant understory with its own spin-offs. Even now, those enraptured by the pulp soap opera can catch details on blogs from the characters in a way that's almost true-to-form to the snickerings of real, red-blooded, Facebooking, Twittering, cellphone-addicted adolescents in every home with a computer.

If you're a parent, you're probably snickering right about now. You understand.

It's really a clever marketing tactic, don't you think? Such an "announcement" would certainly awaken geeks everywhere, reorioenting their attention from whatever is at hand and back to the Archie comics of their youth. We might even expect that, in time, the wedding bells will be replaced with the din of new and deeper rivalries. It's good copy.

Will Archie have an affair? Will Betty sabotage the marriage? What about Jughead and Moose and Reggie?

This might all seem like silly comicbooky stuff to a lot of people, but there's something to be said for the sexuo-cultural anthropology exhibited in these comics, and in comic stories in general. The Veronica/Betty rivalry illustrates many of the same issues people face, and in making fun of the dating scene, it itself reflects many truths and foibles and anxieties about it.

But more to the point for a sexblog, it also helps entice the imagination. There is Archie slash out there, and for years, spanking enthusiasts have enjoyed twisting the comic themes for their own (... ok, our own) deliciously seditious, uh, ends. How many of our own fantasies, especially from childhood, were sparked and nurtured because of comics such as these?

Archie and Veronica. But we polyamorists were always reading between the lines anyway... how much simpler, how hot it would be if these inked minxes pursued their own poly lifestyle. Oh, the Riverdale gossip that would happen then.