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Valentine’s Day Sex Toy Selections

♦ It’s February and in the world of doin’ it and talkin’ about it, that can mean only one thing. Yes, Valentine’s Day, which sex-based businesses make the mistake of referring to as “VD” but once in their business lives. No, really, I’ve seen it done.

Valentine’s, of course, means a big ole marketing push. “How we can we get people to buy more things to put in their orifices?” “How do you make a hashtag romantic?” “Do lovebirds and analbeads mesh in any way?”

The way most e-retailers promote to us is by having a dedicated Valentine’s Day toy selection, but I’ve noticed a trend among sex toy shops online. That’s right, don’t fret! If you’re confused about how to market Valentine’s Day toys to your customers and which ones to recommend for that special day, it turns out  it’s deceptively simple!

After looking at how the professionals do it, I’ve made this handy-dandy flowchart:

How to recommend a sex toy for Valentine's Day

Micro-Fiction #1 – The Resistance

♦ Whilst I don’t have all the time in the world, sadly, to write normal fiction at the moment, I think I can still find time here and there to write a little micro-fiction themed around sex, love and all the other things this blog is for. I’m hoping to capture something strong in just a few words, ideally a dozen or fewer.

I’d love to know what impression this gives you. What’s the story here? 

“I don’t trust you,” she said.

“But I love you.”

Trust in Me by AbstractNeko

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?

“Objectification” by Blacksilk

So, if you’ve read my latest blog post, the first one ever written by my beautiful partner Crush (and if you haven’t, do, this will make slightly more sense), you’ll have realised that I found myself entering a singularly unusual sexy situation just the other evening. I came home and up the stairs to Crush’s room, opening the door to a strange, but undoubtedly erotic, sight. Sprawled on the bed was Crush, strapped by his ankles and wrists to the under-the-bed restraints, wearing his sexy green shirt open to reveal his chest. He was wearing his jeans, but they were pushed down to his knees. He was bare from his knees right up to his neck.

But I didn’t get to see everything. Oh, no. His head was covered by what turned out to be a cider box, it’s side covered in white paper on which was drawn a head with a question mark for a face. Covering his cock was a homemade cardboard “Censored” bar that obscured what I assumed was his erection. A new vase of flowers stood on the chest of drawers and four red ones had been plucked from it and draped across his legs artfully. The computer screen showed a fantastic, and sarcastic, mini-essay about gender and objectification. Crush’s words explain this whole set-up best.

Nonetheless, a picture does speak a thousand words…

Objectified Crush

I was… well, flabbergasted. I’m not often lost for words of any kind. This left me speechless in surprise, shock… I was assailed by both the fact that Crush had planned something elaborate and thoughtful for me but also by the absolute absurdity and weirdness of the situation. I flailed helplessly for a moment before Crush drew my attention to my camera sat on his desk. I knew I had to take advantage of the situation. I stripped off my clothes and spent a few minutes restraining myself from touching him, taking photos of his beautiful body and his strange… art installation? I knew that once we really got started, none of this would go back the way it was.

Putting the camera down, I removed the flowers from Crush’s legs and put all but one of them back in the vase. I sat down next to him on the bed, naked, and began to run the petals of the flower head over his exposed skin. I trailed the flower over his chest, his arms, his thighs, then excruciatingly slowly up the length of his cock from base to tip. He sighed and I took to varying the sensations over his body: the edge of the petals, the face of the flower, the tip of the stalk. Each of them trailed over his flesh and teased his nerve endings. He couldn’t see except for a crack at the base of his head-box, which helped magnify the strange sensations.

I was peppering my exploration of his body with frequent spluttering cries of “You are actually mad, you know that?”, “I love you!” and “What on Earth possessed you?”. He explained a bit more of his thinking behind it all and mentioned in passing that the particular feminist he’d been reading had said something along the lines of that it was possible for women to objectify men but that it meant that they were basically really men and vice versa. My gender-bending kink pricked its ears up at this point.

“So, that means I’m a guy….” I said.

I know that genderfuck doesn’t really do it for Crush and that he still finds the whole idea a bit out of his comfort zone, but I was pleased to hear him reply so positively. Then he said a word that sent an honest-to-God jolt through my pussy and up into my brain.

“Master,” he called me.

I couldn’t even tell you why that did it for me or why that thought still does it for me. It’s something I feel rather than think. I like to analyse my kinks, of course, because it’s interesting; I’m just not very good at it.

Nonetheless, the word “Master” coursed through my body in a way it never has when I’ve said it in submission to a man. It was true arousal, devoid of thought, a direct line to my body. I grinned and he said it again. The rest of the evening, in fact, was spattered with it.

I removed his homemade “Censored” bar and took him in my mouth. I might have been nominally in control, Crush might have been wanting me to take the lead, but I still wanted to give him pleasure. That and the fact that he’d done this all for me, the fact that chemistry was powering my mostly-a-sub body more than intellect or emotion, meant that I was finding it hard to be anything other than pliant and grateful. But I love to suck him. His cock tastes beautiful, feels wonderful in my mouth and smells so good to me. His come, I’ll be honest, I can take or leave. But his cock…

Not too long in, I had a better idea. Sucking Crush’s cock was fun, but I wanted to tease and torture him at the same time. I straddled his chest facing his feet, took my beloved Tango vibrator from the bedside and placed it, buzzing, between my pussy lips. It nestled helpfully between my body and his, pinned by his taut chest and my folds, as I leant forward to suck him again.

It wasn’t the easiest of positions, let me tell you. I was awkwardly placed to keep hold of his cock as I needed my hands to prop my body up on all fours. When I shifted position, the Tango would sometimes move about and once made a beeline up Crush’s chest to rumble by his collarbone. But it was worth it when I moaned hard around his cock and came, shuddering, on top of him, my pussy mere inches from his obscured face.

I wanted him inside me and he readily agreed. He suggested I stay facing his feet and give reverse cowgirl a go, something we’ve never tried before. Again, it turned out not to be the easiest task, but to be worth it. I falteringly guided him inside me as I straddled him around the hips and called him my bitch. My slut. He called me his Master.

Objectification Head Box

He could still peek out of the bottom of his box and I wondered briefly what the view, if really any, was like for him. It was a much more awkward position for me and for the ease of thrusting/riding than the usual girl-on-top, but the novelty (and the vibrator I held to my clit) made up for that. Adventure, after all, is exciting. Trying something new together, whether a resounding success or just a new sensation, is a wonderful experience. Whilst it’s not a position we’ll go back to regularly, the discovery was wonderful.

I dismounted and turned to face him, adding some lube to his cock for an effortless re-entry. This time, I’d go for “normal” cowgirl. It was just too hard to let go and come when I was in the other, more awkward, position. When it suited me, I pulled the cardboard box from his head, leaving him blinking up at me in the bright light of the bedroom. I know he loves to see me anew after being deprived. He started to up the frequency of his dirty comments to me and I lapped them up, asking for more, more, more. I bounced on his cock and he thrust up into me, making himself mine with every one of his utterances, giving himself to me with his body. Before long I was asking from one phrase and one phrase only, on repeat, as I climbed towards my summit.

“Please come, Master.”

He begged, he pleaded with those words. I shook, the Tango still at my clit, the sweat coating my skin, my knees weak with exertion. And I came. I came perhaps as hard as I’ve ever come. I talk big sometimes with metaphors and similes and rhetoric, I write my orgasms as storms and bullies and destruction. This was cataclysm. When it finished, I could barely speak, barely move, barely think. My body could support myself no longer and I let myself tumble sideways from Crush’s body. I fumbled, dumb, a zombie, at his nearest wrist strap, releasing him from his bonds and told him to fuck me again. I demanded that he take me as I recovered on my back.

And he did. His cock slid inside my honestly quite battered pussy, my pleasure-weakened body. This fuck was for him. His time to come. I told him as much and he certainly didn’t hold back. His Master spoke firmly to her little slut, goading him, urging him on until he too came hard, gasping, panting.

He collapsed onto me and we athletes rested our tired, hot, sticky bodies in each others’ arms. And I’ll tell you something: as they say “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.”

And Crush’s exhibition was certainly a resounding, earth-shattering, love-tempering success. ♦

Transmogrification – An Erotic Poem

When you pinch and roll my nipples like PlayDough
And they harden, raised and stiff
They’re the nipples I see on the Tumblr screen
They’re watercolour mountain peaks

When you clasp your hands over my breasts and squeeze
And the skin dimples, pliant, under your fingers
My breasts are round, firm, perfect, plump
Your green fingers turn them luscious and ripe

When you sigh, content, a curled lap cat
And rest your head on the bulk of my stomach
It’s not there or barely there or I don’t care
And the word “calorie” is lost from thought

When you grip my hips and press yourself to my arse
And groan and nuzzle at my ear
Mine is a body like those I moan, hot and dripping, to
Mine is perfection, glory, apotheosis

When you touch me
When I am yours
I am transformed
I am more

– “Transmogrification” by Blacksilk

Read more erotic poetry (and fiction) by Blacksilk.

Let Me Be With You

♦ I wrote this on my train journey yesterday. I’m not entirely happy with it – it’s just not as good as some of my other stuff – but I thought I’d share it nonetheless. It’s inspired by being away from the physicality of my dear Crush, even if we can still communicate. ♦

Let me be with you

Let me run my palm over your shorn head
And squeeze your hand as we walk
And breathe the warmth of the crook of your neck
And press my lips against yours

Let me drag my claws down your flank
And run my tongue up your jaw
And pinch your nipple in mischief
And inhale the musk of your crotch

Let me suck your cock and clutch your arse
Let me buck under your hips and writhe and pulse
Until you spill yourself, groaning, into my aching cunt
And fall panting on my damp skin

Let me mop your brow
And kiss your mouth

And let me be with you


♦ The both of us naked, I found my face pressed into his stomach and my arse being caressed by his rough palms. I had already slowly stripped him of his clothes and stroked his soft thighs. He had already grinned and laid back as I ran my fingers over his oh-so-silky cock. Now I planted kisses on his belly and flank as he turned caressing and light strokes into firm pats that threatened solid swats.

The spanking began in earnest, though our positions stopped too much force, and he made sure to stroke my behind lovingly between each blow. I liked that. It ramped up the anticipation and kept it intimate and somehow more filthy. More calculated, perhaps.

He snuck his free hand around to my clitoris and teased at me lightly, again hampered by the angle. Seeing a better strategy, he told me I should rub myself instead and keep rubbing until he said otherwise. I love to be made to touch myself beyond what I’d normally inflict on myself. I love the threat of punishment if I let up even for one moment, no matter my wishes.

So I started to rub. I plucked my clitoris into pleasure as he started to put his usual force into his spanks, hitting me hard but still giving me a comforting stroke in between each. My masturbating became more frantic with my rising excitement and so did his stroking of my bare behind; he now squeezed and grabbed a little as he stroked, almost possessive in his actions.

I was close to coming and begged out loud for release.

“May I come please, sir?” I said, adding the “sir” out of my own desire to be subordinate.

He leant into my ear and whispered a hasty “yes” to me, allowing me to relax into my climax, making me shudder with pleasure and release of not only tension, but built-up emotion too.

Of course, when I was done, it’s not like I could just stop touching myself. I had orders, a fact he seemed to enjoy reminding me of.

“That’s right, keep touching yourself,” he hissed as the spanking continued. I allowed the tender, heightened feeling of my sex to carry me along and soon I hit another orgasm, making me gasp and moan. The shock dying down, I asked if I could stop and he relented at last.

My recovery didn’t and couldn’t last long: he pulled at my legs, flipping me over onto my back. I was balanced awkwardly on a lump of duvet, but I didn’t care. I just wanted him inside me.

He pushed his cockhead against me, but my wet cunt offered little resistance and he soon sank in deep. I had wanted this this evening, but thought my earlier outburst of emotions had ruined my chances, so I was so, so glad to be getting what I wanted anyway.

He was, as usual, a little too big for comfort, which I absolutely love. I asked him for it slow but hard and deep, so that I could feel every delicious flash of feeling, every gorgeous millimetre of his cock opening me up, driving to my depths.

He thrust slowly into me, but getting that little bit faster with each stroke. I writhed and wriggled on his cock, feeling his chest with my hands whenever I wasn’t steadying myself. I came again, pushed into climax by the pounding of his cock just as he came inside me. I love doing that.

I pulled him close to me, buoyed up by my orgasm and our physicality but also by the emotions of this intimate act with him. So easy to forget that not long ago he was new to sex entirely, new to kink entirely, new to me entirely. When I see how far he’s come for me, I can forgive that we have a way to go and I see how much he loves me. If there was no other reason to love him, that’d be a pretty good start.

Luckily for me, I have plenty already. ♦

The First Time Again

♦ Our ‘new’ mattress is a little harder and the room a little lighter. There are long-forgotten trinkets still strewn on the floor and half-filled drawers waiting for clothes and clutter. An unfamiliar ceiling. A single floorboard that creaks.

But he, at least, is familiar.

Days of drudgery and Domestos have sunk tiredness deep into our bones and our brains are fuzzy from weariness and fumes. We have relied on each other to put in the elbow grease and take care of tasks, but we haven’t yet sunk into each others bare arms in this house other than to flop into fitful sleep.

His hair is tousled and his body, as always, is full of soft curves and hard edges: a smooth belly, jutting hips, long limbs and the barest hint of plush, dark hair. He crawls into bed from the edge and peppers my naked breast with kisses. I ache for affection not snuck between hefting boxes or scrubbing surfaces. I long for the feel of him, the leisure of his body and the pleasure of his cock.

I press into his kisses and plant my own on his shoulder and neck, undulating under his mouth. I slip my hands from his torso as he starts to nibble at my nipple and I move one to his cock and one to my clit.

He lies down next to me, still with good access to my body and lets me stroke us both. His foot is planted steadily against the wall and I hook my leg over his lightly, giving myself better access to the sensations knotting around my clitoris.

I struggle to keep us both at our preferred rhythms – him slower and me faster – as he takes a nipple in each hand and presses and rolls them between his fingertips.

Our little moans and sighs of content mingle in the high-ceilinged room and I edge towards orgasm. After a little rearrangement of my pillows, I am there, gasping and groaning as I shatter the tension built up in my body and shudder into my climax.

I am still masturbating him slowly but now I turn to him and tell him I want him to fuck me. I want him inside me. I want to melt back into desire with him. I want to make it clear that the worst of the life-fuss is over and I can start to relax, that we can reclaim our lust together from the clutches of responsibility.

He pulls himself around so he kneels between my legs and pushes his cockhead against my wettened slit. I so want this. I gasp as he enters me, my cunt still tender and tuned-up from my orgasm. I ask him to keep his angle low so I can really enjoy the full size of him as he strokes the top of my pussy and thrusts me into happiness.

I love the feel of cock on cunt. I writhe in pleasure as I stroke myself leisurely, watching his gorgeous face change with his efforts. Soon he is coming inside me, groaning in the release of too much built-up tension. It has been far too long for both of us.

I pull him down on top of me and feel the last twitches of his cock inside me. The house is ours now and he is mine, but, perhaps more importantly, I belong to myself again, not to life’s little irks. There’s nothing like having a first time all over again.

TMI Tuesday – SEX Again

TMI Tuesday this week is about sex again, so I’m going to have a go at the questions. Why not? ♦

1. What is your sexual personality?
a. The Controller – initiating sex, twisting your lover into positions you want, and driving scene play by play
b. Sex Slave – You love to be used and at the mercy of your lover. You don’t initiate but follow and do as you are told. You love to be used.
c. Daredevil – Sexual adventure and sexual thrills are what you are all about. You get off on the risk factor.
d. Subdued – Sex is a necessary part of the relationship so you are available when needed.

I’d say I’m mixture of B and C. I *love* to be used in the bedroom. I want to be taken and used and made into a fucktoy. Nom. I’m a bit more experienced with sex things than Crush, though, and a fair bit more picky, so I do often end up directing things a bit more than is ideal. I have more drive for the less-than-usual. Which brings me neatly to where C comes in. I get cravings for certain types of adventurous sex. I like to mix it up. I want to try a bit of everything.

2. How many times have you sneaked away from party guests to have sex in another part of the party venue. Where did you sneak to? Were you ever caught? 

I was going to say “never” and then I realised I’ve totally done that. While I was in my open relationship with Fractal I went to Crush’s fancy dress birthday in my latex nurse outfit. Perhaps that was a bad move. :P

Naturally I’d had prior permission to seduce Crush, Fractal was aware of that, but he was beginning to get a bit sour on the whole idea. I love the idea of an open relationship, but this one certainly need a bit more communication and less jealousy on his part (and I’d have liked him to actually take advantage of the openness, given it was his idea and I’d have found it totally hot!).

In any case, Crush and I disappeared upstairs during the party to his bedroom and a suspicious Fractal soon walked in on a bit of naughty touching. He wasn’t OK with it. Fractal was angry, Crush was kind, so stayed there that night. Nothing happened, but it didn’t go well overall.

But, hey, it helped get me where I am today: happy and with a man I love. Plus, the sneaking off for party sex was totally hot. :P

3. Your sex partner that you are mad crazy for has requested you do one of the following, which one would you grant consent to do:
a. Bondage/light restraint with your hands, legs tied while having sex
b. A sexual spanking that leaves light marks
c. Record the two of you having sex
d. Have sex in a mirrored room where you can see yourselves having sex from every angle

All of the above! Seriously, those are all ridiculously tame. Of course, you’ve got to trust the partner you’re with. BDSM requires trust and recordings can easily go walkabout with an untrustworthy partner. Heck, even the mirrored room needs you to trust that your partner finds you hot from every angle. But I trust Crush, so it’s all fine by me. I’ve learnt I look awful in sex videos though. :P

4. Do you act out your sexual fantasies (select one)? Why?
a. I act out all of my fantasies.
b. I act out many of my fantasies.
c. I act out some of my fantasies.
d. I act out very few of my fantasies.
e. I don’t act out any of my fantasies.
f. I don’t have any fantasies.

It’s somewhere between some and many, anyway. Some of my fantasies aren’t very Crush-appropriate, sadly. But I’ve been over this. We’ll work on it. I dunno how the fuck you resolve things when one of you wants to try so many things and the other has huge reservations and no desire to, but we’ll see. Answers on a postcard, please. Either way, I love him, so we’ll make this thing work.

5. How important is sex in your life (select one)?
a. I could hardly survive without it.
b. It is very important.
c. It is somewhat important.
d. I could live without it.
e. If it were up to me, sex wouldn’t even exist!

Let’s face it, it’s not actually vital. But it is darned important. I could live without it, but I wouldn’t be me and I wouldn’t be happy. It’s not air or water, but it’s happiness and comfort.

Bonus: Finish the following phrase.

Sex is one of the most fascinating things on Earth.



This is another post from perhaps a month back that I’ve been waiting for the right time to post, so excuse me if some of the timeframes are a little off. Hope you enjoy it!

♦ “How many pounds is it?” he said, his hand hovering over my exposed rump, his voice tinged with an unusual quality that rippled on it like oil on water.

He was talking about spanking me, of course, but any other meaning than that escaped me. How many? I hadn’t done anything! We still hadn’t settled on a daily number that fit us both and I couldn’t think of anything else of significance. Why did he think I ought to know how many I should get?

“I don’t know.” I said, perhaps more petulantly than I should. Horny though I’d been all day and despite a little idle fantasising about whips earlier, I wasn’t in the mood to be spanked.

He asked again, but with context. “How many pounds is it you’ve lost?”

I understood.

I’ve been counting my calories since the end of September in an effort to lose weight. I didn’t really bother over Christmas, because I’m not that much of a masochist, and since then it’d been hard to get into a routine. I hadn’t weighed myself since the end of December, over five weeks ago. I was sure I’d gained weight.

He promised to give me a spank for each pound I was over my last weight.

But I was under by seven pounds. In fact, I’d lost 24.8lbs since I started.

So that’s what I told him. It didn’t let me off.

“How am I going to do 0.8 of a spank?” He said.
“You could round up,” I replied.
“OK,” he said, adjusting his grip to hold me firmly, “248 spanks…”
“What?!” I replied, but they started nonetheless.

That bastard, that delicious bastard. He’s a mathematician, so he knows damn well that’s not how you round up. He just thought he’d play cleverpants and move the decimal point.


But, oh, they were stingy and they were thuddy and he counted each of them out in a glorious measured metre. Slow enough for each pound of his palm to register, fast enough to leave me breathless.

By one hundred I had asked for harder, by two hundred I was screaming with each stroke for harder and faster and stronger and MORE.

I was counting too now and I found that saying the numbers out loud with him was adding to my wriggling, raging excitement. I made a mental note to count along from the beginning next time.

He finished with a flourish. 248 pounds of skin upon skin, 248 strikes of his will into my flesh. 248 individual kisses from him to me.

He turned me over and towered above me grinning as I lay with my clothes all askew and my body flushed.

“I think you’re starting to like this.”
“What gave you that impression?” He smiled.  ♦