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View From A Blowjob

I took a Sinful Sunday recently that mentioned how I’d gotten both tips and confidence from Molly’s Eroticon 2014 session about photography. I took that photo the very morning after her talk and put her words into practice. But I didn’t tell you yet how that very morning I’d also turned them completely on their head too. We were told, and rightly so, that shots from above down the body tend to be far more flattering than shots from below going up the body. As I say, she’s completely right, especially for curvy (and booby) specimens like myself.

It’s just with Crush it can be a completely different matter.

View From A Blowjob

Look at him. You could barely pinch an inch (except there, obviously), damn him. And I actually find that shots up his body tend to do a little better than shots down it. It’s that lack of wobbly bits, I think. Plus (although it’s not really shown in this picture), when his body is curved slightly, shots up his body show a lovely flex of muscles and tilt of stomach. It just goes to show, not that Molly was teaching it as a hard and fast rule anyway, that there’s an exception to every one.

When I took this picture, I’d just paused mid morning head. It was early on the Sunday of Eroticon and we had a little time to spare in our hotel room before I had to leave for the day. As if being in a hotel wasn’t luxury enough for him, Crush was spending his blowjob alternately moaning softly and playing the boardgame Dominion on his phone. Because who doesn’t deserve boardgames and blowjobs now and then? Sadly, I never quite managed to throw him off, but Sunday morning blowjobs tend to be a lazy affair. He finished the game in relative peace and pleasure before we moved on to some good, old-fashioned hotel room sex. Bliss.

Have you ever had boardgames and blowjobs? Perhaps Carcassonne and cunnilingus? Fluxx and fucks? I bet we’re not the only ones to add some sex to our gaming! ♦
Sinful Sunday

Eroticon 2014 – Sunday, Part 1

♦ The previous day at Eroticon 2014 had ended with a cocktail party to which I’d managed to buy Crush a ticket. After train shenanigans, he showed up shipshape and Bristol fashion and we headed to the bar. It was a great evening and I’m glad he was there as he got to say hello to old friends and meet exciting new ones and I frankly enjoy dragging him into my sex-based social world. He did so well there, too! The sheer amount of secret geeks he caught with his top was impressive.

The morning wake up was full of sleepy sex and sneakily snapped Sinful Sundays, making me only just on time for the first session and only managing a breakfast of yesterday’s sausage rolls as I left Crush lying in. But never mind! It was a lovely sunny morning to spend all day inside talking smut.

Again, I was conflicted. The flash fiction workshop sounded right up my street, but in the end I decided I could already kinda do flash fiction and so I should probably focus on an area where I need more help. So I took a seat in Kay Jaybee and Lucy Felthouse‘s Step up: making the move from short stories to novels. I’d met them both before a couple of times, notably at the awesome Kinky World Book Night held in Cardiff last year (which I briefly wrote some NaPoWriMo poems about), and they’re lovely guys, so friendly and encouraging. It was a bit of a shame that their self-introductions were so long as I already knew a bit about them and it took a fair bit of time out of the bulk of the session, but when we got to the crux of it, it was full of helpful advice. Short stories are a  brilliant apprenticeship, we were told, for novels and Kay and Lucy even thoguht they were harder to write!

I’m not sure I agree, but I haven’t written a novel yet, so perhaps I will when I have. In fact, we were told to write down a reason or two that we hadn’t yet written a novel so that we could discuss them. Time was a big factor for me and we were advised to set aside time every day or at least in a routine so that it becomes a part of everyday life. My other main problem is that I’m just not sure I can write enough content, specifically plot and “stuff happening” to fill a novel. Plus, I feel like it’s OK for a short story to be a glimpse, a mood, an idea, a narrative where we know we’re not getting the full picture, a flavour. Whereas I feel like novels are the whole story, a fullness, you need a complete story with all the trimmings and not just a flavour or a feeling.

Whilst those points were not directly addressed as such and I still came away a little unclear on them (running out of time was a major factor of the session, again leaving me wishing for less, admittedly pleasant, introductions),  I did come away feeling more confident. Do things that scare you, we were told, and also told that writing a novel still scares these novelists every time.

The next two short sessions didn’t really grab me. Sex toy reviews are a big interest for me, but I’d be assured that the session was more for beginners than for me. While anonymity obviously interests me, the idea of writing anonymity guidelines in-session really put me off. Luckily I met a few people from Kristina Lloyd‘s aforementioned Fiction in a Flash long workshop in the break who assured me that she’d welcome people in for the second half.

I nipped in and scribbled down some notes still left on the Powerpoint before the session restarted in earnest. Based on the previous ideas of starting in media res, of implied plot between the lines and behind the story, of a key image or visual heart, of yearning, of the twist or turn and of sexual specificity in describing what makes the encounter meaningful, we were given a very unusual collection of writing aids.

Eroticon Flash Fiction Workshop Prompts

The idea was to look through these nail varnishes and wall colours and find a name that evoked something and that we could use to prompt a piece of flash fiction. With names like Ruby Pumps, Savage Ground, It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere and Cat’s Paw, there were a lot of wonderful images that sprang to mind. I’m definitely going to be looking at these sources for inspiration in the future! It’s interesting in that when I was thinking of where to find prompts for my Very Short Stories, I’d actually stumbled on the idea of hitting “random” on Gatherer to find Magic the Gathering cards that might work as they often have evocative names. It’s a similar idea that I’m glad to see actual proper writers doing too!

We then used our selected names, I picked “Down Pipe”, to decide what elements based on that would appear in our proposed story. I had images of rain, brickwork and vertical space, of blow jobs and tumbling down the rabbit hole. The harder task was to pick some things that would certainly not happen. I struggled, but managed that they don’t leave the room and it doesn’t stop raining, as well as a few other things. Before the end of the session, we were asked, which of these might actually happen anyway? It was a fantastic session and I’m quite sad to have missed the first half, especially as I enjoyed Kristina’s session so much last year too.

With the pause for lunch comes a pause in my writing! I’ll have my post about Sunday afternoon at Eroticon 2014 up soon, though, so don’t go away! ♦

Little Known Facts

♦ I’m in the mood for sharing. There are things about me that you perhaps wouldn’t expect (or you might). There are interesting little snippets that can’t really hold the weight of an entire post on their own. So I thought I’d share some in a list of ten little known facts about your very own Blacksilk. In keeping with the blog, they’re largely sex and relationship facts or other relevant thingummies.

And here they are! ♦

  • I’d slept with Crush long before I ever went on a date with him. Luckily, we already knew each other very well.
  • Learn yo bitch’s particular flaps! For example, I prefer my finger-on-clitoris stimulation in clockwise circles with the intensity focused on the bottom left.
  • It took me about six months from the day I lost my virginity to the day I finally put a cock near my mouth.
  • I’ve been masturbated in an alley while trying not to giggle at impromptu dinosaur facts. Classy.
  • I won a creative writing award when I was 14. I’m glad to see that potential eventually paid off a little.
  • In a reversal of expectations, I’m into anal sex, but my boyfriend sadly isn’t.
  • I find it hard to crush on male actors, but very easy to crush on many of the characters they play.
  • I used to regularly masturbate to a CD released as an accompaniment to a roleplaying game. Nerd! (The game? Vampire: the Masquerade by White Wolf. The track in particular? Prey by Seraphim Shock. Doesn’t seem so silly on listening to it, does it?)
  • I had my first non-consent fantasy quite early in life (involving being tied up naked by bandits) and had some trouble coming to terms with it.
  • Green glitter reminds me of Crush, thanks to an incident involving the first time we slept in the same bed and a birthday party.

Intoxicating – a tale of drunken sex

We went out. We ate, drank and made merry. We chatted with friends and draped the frosty air with tinsel. We laughed. The wine glasses emptied by the gulp.

And then we went home, noses cold, hand gripping hand, voices just slightly too loud.

The beautiful thing about knowing him so well, about him knowing me so well, is that drunken sex is a giggling, wriggling thing, but ultimately, clumsy or not, we play a chord. We know what we want. We know how each other works. There’s little hesitation, little confusion. Everything is collaboration.

We fall laughing onto the bed. We’re a tangle of smart jackets and sparkly dress hems. We strip, sexily, faltingly. Coordination is not our strong point.

We’re naked. The bedroom is cold, but alcohol provides a blanket. Our gay apparel lies discarded.

He’s on top of me, as I lie back topsy turvy on the bed. My head jingles, my mind is fuzzy, but my cunt is clear. I don’t need him, but I want him. I want his heat to penetrate mine. And I’m not shy about it.

I tell him bluntly. He grins. Wine has dissolved any pretence, any oh-so-human façade. Animal natures are laid bare. Eat, drink, fuck, sleep. We’ve done two of them and the buzz in our veins makes us just not ready for the final one.

He pushes inside me, lust overtaking sluggishness of the blood. He is as hard as ever.

I undulate under him as he pumps. I learn it’s a need after all. Not a conscious, reasoned need, but a feral one. It’s not my mind that needs him, it’s the air in my lungs, the blood in my veins  and, if I’m honest, the wine in them too. I’m grasping and he is giving. He too feels the lure of alcohol and animalism. He thrusts and I cry out without hesitation or moderation.

I’m rubbing my clitoris furiously. Here is where drunken sex falls down. The beer blanket is warming, but provides a quilted layer between my fingertips and the nerve endings of my clit. I’m numbed. My clit is wrapped in cotton wool and indulgence. But my pussy still spits with fire and feeling.

I decide I don’t want to rub my clit any more. I decide it’s not actually necessary that I come. My pussy sings with sensation. That’s enough. It really is.

That’s mind-blowing in itself. If I’d never felt this way before, I’d have laughed in your face if you’d suggested it. But it’s not the first time. An orgasm really isn’t everything, not when the walls of my cunt are pushing and being pushed, not when he’s opening me up deliciously with each thrust, not when I’m riding the crest of pleasure/pain and diving into the feeling of him fucking me (too?) hard.

It’s not all I need, though.

I need more sensation. My dulled senses thrive on it. Bigger, harder, rougher, faster. I move like a steam piston under him and watch his face contort between loving smile and losing it.

“Bite me”, I both beg and demand.

He obliges, face buried into my neck, teeth nipping at my skin, tongue wet and breath heavy.

“Bite me!” I shout, although he’s already doing it. He’s already biting and bucking and fucking me hard.

I feel as on top of the world as I can be with no orgasm, no throbbing clitoris. The experience is intense. Our connection, equally so. We know each other so well, that even inebriated and exhausted, we’re guiding each other to that delirious freefall that is absolute pleasure.

Not gentle, not classically romantic. Full of yelps and sweat and calling him “bitch” in loving, honeyed gasps.

He comes, moaning, thrusts shuddering slowly to a crawl and then a halt. I stroke his hair, he clambers off, we clean ourselves up and, swapping our beer blanket for a real one, slip drunkenly into sound and smooth sleep.

Bite – A Conversation

“Wait, did you bite me?” I said, noticing for the first time.

It was a good few hours after we’d spent the morning together, naked and bucking. Chance had finally lead my gaze to a mirror, the glories of short hair had kept me from purposefully seeking one.

We were in a lift, going up.

“Um, yes…” He said, as if I’d asked whether fish had scales. He blinked at me.

“Really?” I said, incredulously.

There was a rather large and livid bruise on my neck at exactly the point I like best to be bitten. It was unsubtle. It leered at me. I’m surprised it wasn’t wolf-whistling and calling me “babe”.

“Yes!” He asserted. Clearly, I’d hit my head or been cloned.

“Really?”

“Yes! Really!”

“When?” I asked. I could remember the sex. I thought I could remember it pretty well, in fact. Skin on skin, slapping flesh, the intrusion of his cock, the vacuum when it left me. Gasps. Groans. A distinct wet patch and a damp towel.

Apparently, I was hazy on some parts.

“How on Earth did I not notice?” My voice was high in disbelief.

“I don’t know. Maybe you were enjoying yourself too much?” He said, a little smug.

“Maybe I was. Wow. That is… It must’ve been really good for me not to notice something like that!”

The bite mark would clearly have taken more than a good few moments of nibbling and sucking and gripping. It would have hurt, but in a good way. His teeth must have been at my throat as I moaned ecstatically. Perhaps I felt only his cock driving into me.

“Wasn’t it?”

“It was.” I grinned, still internally gawping.

Towel Day

♦ This weekend we went to the swimming pool. I love swimming. I’m a fairly heavy girl, so the feeling of weightlessness and grace is wonderful. I used to be a pretty decent swimmer, and I’m not bad now, just a little out of practice. But I intend to go more often. And I intend to bring Crush along too. He can’t swim. Not yet. But he’s learning. And I think sights like this at the pool are only going to encourage him. Or so I hope!

Hey, you sass that hoopy Blacksilk? There’s a frood who really knows where her towel is. ♦

Swimming

SinfulSunday

Intent – a poem about mindsets

Intent is everything
The simple balance between anger and arousal
A slap
The one in the heat of rage, the other the heat of passion
Intent, the decider between reassuring and raunchy
When it comes to a squeeze of the thigh
A moan
Pleasure? Pain? Intent decides
A finger passes over pussy lips
The action has occurred a hundred times
It’s the intent that makes the shiver
Mind over matter, my dear
And matter it does
I flicked the switch
I changed my intent
And, intending now to receive pleasure, pleasure came to me
The light brush became a solvent trail on fire
Nerves sang
Mind raced
From the mundane to the glorious
All with intent

I wrote this short erotic poem in one of the few gaps in my currently very hectic life! It’s about how the mental and the physical interact and how making up your mind one way or another is often the only thing between something meh and something amazing. It’s based on a real experience from recently. With handcuffs. And a blindfold. And it was wonderful. 

I hope you enjoy the poem! Let me know what you think? How important is the mental mindset over how good the physical act feels?

Silvered Tips

Silvered Tips 1Silvered Tips 2Silvered Tips 4

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

♦ I just couldn’t pick one of this set of pictures for this week’s Wicked Wednesday, so I went for all three of them. Any complaints? I certainly hope not!

Here’s me in my black chemise (as pictured way in the past), pulled down around the neck to expose my, admittedly ample-looking, breasts. And on each nipple? A silvered tip.

These are the Nipple Charms that I won from my First Place in the Underneath competition for Sinful Sunday a little while back. Aren’t they just gorgeous?

They fit so well, they feel so comfy, they stay on (even on my wayward nipple). And they almost, almost make me not so sad that I can’t get nipple piercings (metal through flesh physically freaks Crush out, so he wouldn’t be able to play with my nipples again!).  I still wish there was something that would have the same aesthetic as an actual nipple barbell, but for now I’m content to have pretty silver nips like these.

What about you? How do you accessorise your nipples? How would you if you could do anything? ♦

Wicked Wednesday

Mossy Peaks

♦ I originally took this mossy picture using Instagram, but then it turned out that Instagram doesn’t like tits. Or really very much that implies sexuality, though they’ve yet to take down any of my sex toy photos or cleavage shots, which is something.

Anyway, you lot are an audience who I think will appreciate this picture as it’s intended. So, here you are, the mossy peaks of my breasts as shown in my new green lace camisole thingy.

Mossy Peaks - lace and boobs

Green is Crush’s favourite colour, so I had to get this even though I wouldn’t usually pick this sort of mossy khaki green for lingerie. And it’s come in handy, too. I wore it under a khaki jacket and my Bill from Left 4 Dead cosplay beret, with a brown leather skirt. Then I gave Private Crush a lovely bit of military justice for being a bad, bad boy.

It worked rather well! We got along just swimmingly. Do you think you and Sgt Blacksilk would get along? ♦

Wicked Wednesday

A Fan of Fans

Or, Sex While It Is Hot as Balls.

♦ The sunshine is glorious. Big blue skies with tiny candyfloss wisps of white cloud. The sunlight making colours vibrant and vivid. The UK is slowly turning into a continental country with the wide-open windows of bars opening onto outdoors tables with clientèle bedecked in sunglasses and florals.

I like the sunny weather of summer, I just can’t stand the heat that comes with it. And right now, there is a lot of heat that comes with it. Quite hot, and I’m down to strappy top and shorts. Very hot, and it’s a summer dress and no underwear. This hot, and I’m lying naked and sweaty on our bed.

You’d think that a permanently naked Blacksilk sprawled across Crush’s big bed would lead to a fair amount of sex. You’d be wrong if it weren’t for one thing and one thing alone: our fan.

I’m already too hot, and vigorous movement and the proximity of another boiling body is not going to help. It’s just too hot to have sex without it.

Furthermore, I just can’t come if I’m overheated. The run-up to a powerful orgasm like I’m used to is taxing enough as it is without the heat building in my body like a furnace. I’ll get closer and closer and hotter and hotter, until my engines just can’t take it any more and I back away, idling.

So thank fuck for our fan, because we wouldn’t be getting any fucks without it.

Rewind to yesterday, and the fan’s cooling blast sweeps the bedroom from side to side as we tangle on the bed. His body is over mine, his cock in my face and his lips on my thighs, fingers on my pussy. He is stroking and I am sucking. He kisses as I grasp.

It’s too hot still. His body is a roof over mine, a blanket, a stuffy quilt that I must throw off. I beg him to move and he responds by cocking one leg back over my body then dragging me into position like a stiff in a bag. I’m lethargic with the heat, but now there’s no Crush barring the fan’s airflow from my body. In fact, I’m at the end of the bed, face fan-wards, ass in the air, a sheen of moisture coating my body where skin often touches skin.

I spread my legs wider, allowing the tip of his cock to find the entrance of its sheath. With a little persuading, it plunges home. He takes me roughly, so roughly, and I am loving it. His thrusts teeter between pleasure and pain, my pelvis aching, my cunt adoring and abhorring the assault. I am gasping, heat and pleasure and pain and love and fury pouring from my open lips.

I’ve already come twice or thrice during our foreplay, so the fact that I’m not really going to now doesn’t bother me. It feels wonderful in a different way. A sort of constant pleasure that rumbles along just under the peak, a sort of undulation of ecstasy that never quite breaches the surface. It feels beautiful.

I’ve never been fucked so hard as that, I’m sure. At times I almost couldn’t take it, and those were perhaps the best of all. Face down in the mattress, ass displayed, eyes closed tight or else wide open with my neck craning to watch him pound me like I deserve. I made myself his object as I glimpsed his face crease, his neck tauten. As I heard him groan like a beast.

I slumped forward, cunt dripping, body aching and gleaming with sweat already cooling in the blast of the fan. Ah, the fan. I stayed like that for some time as he cleaned himself up and kissed me and dressed, prostrated in front of that fount of delicious coolness, thankful and messy.

In this heat, I’m so glad we own that fan. Because otherwise I’d be missing out on fucking fantastic sex like that. Excuse the pun. ♦

How are you coping with the weather? Is it affecting your sex drive or the type of sex you have?