Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury

Posted by elizabethblack on Tuesday Aug 24, 2010 Under Age Play, Arousal, Discussion, Fantasies, Humor, Life, The Countess - Elizabeth Black, Vanilla

“Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury” is the cutest, sexiest video I’ve seen in a long time. I had to take a break from writing about sex toys to tell you about it. Rather than get hot and horny for frat boys her own age, Rachel Bloom gets all moist in the knickers for nonagenarian superstar science fiction and fantasy writer Ray Bradbury, who I hear likes this video. It’s definitely not safe for work. It’s below, so enjoy it.

I can see the appeal. Smart, sexy, older men have always appealed to me, and as I get older I like the scientist, professorial, geek types that are older than the fifty years of age I used to prefer. My husband will soon be sixty and he gets sexier to me as he gets older. He trained as an engineer. Two men in their late seventies I know have more energy than men in their twenties and thirties, and they are very appealing to me. Both are scientists. This video just proves to me that smart is sexy no matter how old you are.

So now I present to you, “Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury”!

Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury

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So actor/rabblerouser Nicholas Cage will only eat animals that have, in his opinion, “dignified” sex. He won’t eat pork because he doesn’t like the way pigs do The Nasty. Instead, he munches on chicken and fish. I don’t know whether he’s serious or if he’s pulling reporter’s legs but I thought it would be fun to write about animals sex lives anyway.

I can’t speak for chickens, but ever see how fish get it on? The female lays her eggs and then the male shoots his sperm into the water, fertilizing the eggs. So when it’s spawning season water is chock full of clouds of sperm. I suppose that could be considered dignified.

I bet Nick Cage won’t eat a preying mantis. Females eat males after they copulate but only if they are hungry. We had preying mantids in our leafy canopy at our old house in Maryland. I remember the female and the smaller male. One day, I noticed that the male was missing his head! Holy shit, they must have copulated and she ate him! It was the creepiest thing to see since the male wasn’t dead yet. It wandered around the canopy missing its head. Took the sucker five days to die. I hope I never see a preying mantis ever again.

I bet Nick Cage won’t eat dog, considering that there is now a sex toy for dogs called Hotdoll. The picture below doesn’t look particularly dignified to me.

Here are some strange animal sex habits. I doubt any of these critters will end up on Nick Cage’s dinner plate.

Honey bees: The male’s genitals pop off and get caught inside the Queen when mating. The snapped off penis acts as a plug, preventing other males from copulating with Her Highness. I guess this means Nick Cage won’t put honey in his tea, unless he finds losing the Crown Jewels to be dignified.

Bonobos: Bonobos use sex for EVERYTHING! They “use sex as greetings, a mean of solving disputes, making up for fights, and as a favors in exchange for food. They tongue kiss, engage in oral sex, mutual masturbations, have face-to-face genital sex and even have a strange “penis fencing” ritual!”

Red-Sided Garter Snake: One female emerges from hibernation. She releases a pheromone that drives male red-sided garter snakes into an erotic frenzy. Then… ORGY!!! Bonus points – male red-sided garter snakes have two penises. I hear snake tastes like chicken so maybe eating snake isn’t much of a stretch for Nick Cage.

Dolphins: Male dolphins have retractable penises. And they’re prehensile. They even swivel! I hope Nick Cage eats dolphin-safe tuna.

Anyway, there are many more bizarre examples of animal sex at that link so head on over and get an education. Some of these animals do things that sound like something you see in a science fiction movie.

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Today is May 4th, also known as Star Wars Day so “May The 4th Be With You”. Bah dah bum!

Star Wars Day would not be complete without some porn, so visit this site full of Star Wars Porn, including this amusing picture:

The Force is strong in that one.

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[This post originally appeared on my blog.]

So ladies, are you going to dress immodestly today and start a massive, global earthquake? In case you don’t know, today is the day that women worldwide are urged to bare their boobs, their ankles, and anything else that suits them to start a Boobquake. [For more info on Boobquake, go to Blag Hag.]

The whole business started as a result of Iran’s acting Friday prayer leader, Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, stating the following:

“Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes.”

Technically, it’s really men being lured into adultery by hot women that supposedly increases earthquake activity, so if you like to show ‘em off and seduce married men, go for it today. When I was in college I had several affairs with married men and I’m not aware of any earthquakes occurring in my college town, so Sedighi is flat out wrong. However, in 1981 at the beginning of one affair there were two earthquakes: Dawu (China – a 6.8) and Irian Jaya (Indonesia, 6.8). In 1982 when I was actively involved with two married men there was a magnitude 6.0 earthquake in North Yeman. According to Wikipedia, “It was the first instrumentally recorded earthquake in the Dhamar region.[2] As many as 2,800 people were killed and 1,500 injured.” Wow, in 1983 at the end of my most intense affair there were three earthquakes: Borah Peak (Idaho, 6.9), Coalinga (California, 6.5), and Kopaonik (Serbia, 5.3).

My infidelity reached across the U. S. and across the globe! I am woman! I have boobs! I am powerful!

So, ladies, bare your breasts and dress otherwise immodestly today, lure a married man into your trap, and let’s start some tremors. I want to see some high scale Richter action by midnight tonight. I’m not wearing any underwear and I’m going to walk around the apartment naked. Let the fun begin! Remember that according to throwbacks like Sedighi, married men are not responsible for their own behavior. It’s those loose whores showing off their ankles and long sexy necks that lure those poor dudes into cheating on their long-suffering wives.

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My new article about why men fake orgasms is up at Alternet. Here’s the link and a blurb:

Why Men Fake Orgasms
http://www.alternet.org/sex/144729/why_men_fake_orgasms

Many women would be surprised to learn that men often fake orgasms. But why? Our limited, patriarchal view of sexuality, of course.

If you thought that only women faked orgasms, you’d be wrong. Plenty of men fake their way out of the sack. How on earth can a guy even fake an orgasm? What is he going to do, spray dish detergent and try to pass it off as semen? More importantly, why would a man want to pull off this kind of bluff?

OTHER ARTICLES AT ALTERNET

My Husband Can’t Get It Up — But We Still Have Viagra-Free Sex
(Reprint from Sexis Magazine)
http://www.alternet.org/story/142807/my_husband_can%27t_get_it_up_–_but_we_still_have_viagra-free_sex/

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Slow and Steady

Posted by ldyraven on Tuesday Oct 27, 2009 Under Leather, Vanilla

This month my horoscope was on point. Expect something out of the norm. And it was right.  I had three people come my way that was not expecting, A gentleman that was at a panel I was on at TES, One that remembered me from two years ago. And the last who has nothing to do with d/s but while chatting told me he likes the kind of woman who knows what she wants and is not afraid to say so. He thought I might be that kind of woman, if he only knew.

 

For most of October I had the gay man’s anthem in my head, its raining men. But the gods are funny so I knew better then to get excited. The first guy is a switch and although he know where he stands with me he’s playing the field and rightfully so. But the lest he could do is keep track of the conversations he’s having with myself and the other women he’s talking with.

 

Yeah, I’m not her.

 

The second had a problem with me referring to myself as Sir and I had to give him the smack down. Not the good kind either. He’ll get over it. He’ll have to be made to suffer a bit. It’s better to ask if you don’t know them assume. No I’m not a trans person.

 

The third, I got a chance to speak with at length and it may move forward. Even though he’d like to move a little faster, but slow and steady wins the day. We move at my pace or not at all. And although he is the youngest of the three he’s more my style. Doesn’t take his self too serious (after all he is an actor) and spoke at length about being in touch with the female within him. He’s a cross dresser bells started to go off, but he explained he’s not into women’s clothes but rather into taking off women’s clothes. He had no problem when I told him I’m more of a Sir then a Lady. He said I was more of a tomboy, but when I told him my age, because that’s always the dead give a way he thought about it for a minute and replied, “ yeah, you’ve matured from a tomboy to a Sir.” And that’s what he called me for the rest of the night. And I called him boy since he is younger then me and he accepted it in the spirit in which it was intended.

 

The night made me think of the Sir/ boy relationships I read about in some of the books about leather. It was a nice evening and very unexpected.

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Just One Kiss

Posted by misshoney69 on Thursday Sep 11, 2008 Under Erotica, Vanilla

I had always flirted with her, but somehow the past three weeks the flirting had risen to a new level. She was enticingly receptive. She seemed to be finding excuses to speak to me, or to come to my office. She had offered enough innuendo today alone for the dimmest of men to take notice, and I was not usually dim when it came to beautiful women and flirting.

She looked great when I first saw her at the office today. It had been early this morning by the coffeepot. She was dressed casual as usual, she hated power suits and high heels. She literally took my breath away. She had on a short linen skirt, a sweater and strappy little sandals. The sweater was a soft little-girl pink and just a bit fuzzy. Truly inviting touch, no begging for it really. The low scoop neckline enhanced the gentle swell of her breasts. She was wearing a terrific bra as well. I had caught a brief, tempting glimpse of the lace confection as she had bent over to get the sugar from the cupboard underneath the counter. The straps of it were a dark green silk, contrasting beautifully with her fair, creamy skin. She had nearly spilled out of the little demi-cups as she had leaned over towards me. God, how I wanted to stroke each of her beautiful breasts, to caress each perfect mound, to feel the warm weight of them in my hands. I wanted to take them, one at a time into my mouth, surrounding each pert little nipple with my tongue, suckling them until they grew hard with passion.

I yearned to taste her, kiss her, feel all of her. She had teased me later that morning. “What do you want?” she had asked, sounding almost innocent. I had laughed, figuring that was the safest thing considering what I actually had on my mind. “Now that isn’t an answer. You’ll never get what you want if you don’t ask for it,” she had said almost lightly.

“Much too dangerous to say the words,” I had replied.

Now we were here, alone. She was working late. I was finishing up some paperwork for an out-of-town job. Then my phone rang, could I come into her office and straighten out a problem with the timecards.

“You never answered my question this morning,” she said suddenly there in her office, taking me by surprise. “What do you want?”

“We can’t, you said so yourself.”

“I know, but tell me anyway. I want to hear the words.” She moved to the front of her desk, hopping up on the edge. I could smell her perfume sweet and luscious. Her scent wrapped around me caressing and teasing me. Her long slim legs were bare. She seldom wore stockings and I longed to stroke the smooth expanse of each. I knew she would be soft as silk.

“Please, you made the rules,” was my half-hearted plea.

“All right, I’ll tell you what I want then.” She wiggled back a bit farther on her desk causing her skirt to ride up higher on her legs. “A kiss, just one little kiss. I want to feel your hands on either side of my head. Your fingers tangled in my hair as you pull me closer. I want to see the anticipation in your eyes the moment before your lips touch mine. To feel all the longing you have for me as you open your mouth upon mine. I want to struggle with the passion as your tongue sweeps inside and you claim me as your own if only for a single moment.” She was leaning forward now. “Couldn’t I… have just one kiss?”

I could feel myself growing hard from just her words. Why shouldn’t I grant her request? It seemed simple enough, just one kiss. I stood then, almost involuntarily, and moved in front of her settling myself between her silky smooth legs. I was so close to her now. I had crossed that invisible boundary that marked personal space. She reached out to me, then held herself in check. Her long tapered fingers lingering just over my face. Then she touched me and I felt suddenly as if I had been burned. With the lightest of strokes she moved her fingertips over my face, tracing the outline of my features. As her fingers paused upon my lips I moved the tip of my tongue out tasting her, inviting more. She gasped with surprise, then smiled with pleasure.

I was undone. I gave in then and did as she had asked. My large, rough hands went to either side of her head. My fingers tangled into the riot of auburn curls that framed her delicate face. I pulled her to me. She licked her sweet, lush lips with obvious anticipation of our mouths meeting. My world was spinning crazily. The power of allowing myself this single kiss was intoxicating. The tightening inside me was making it near impossible to breathe. My heart was pounding hard. I was sure she could hear it. My legs were suddenly weak and I leaned against her and the desk a little more.

“Just one kiss. I promise,” she whispered a moment before I closed my mouth over hers. Was it really a promise? A warning? Or something else even more, that tiny, powerful little phrase, ‘Just one kiss.’

We were a perfect fit. She returned my kiss with a passion so strong I thought I might go mad. I had never before thought my life so boring that a single kiss would send me tumbling into such an abyss of desire. Could I, would I, ever be the same again?

She wrapped her arms around me, and ran her hands slowly, deliberately down the length of my back. Time stood nearly still as my heart missed several beats. If I stopped now and moved away from her this one kiss would be over. So I didn’t. Just one kiss, just one, I repeated the mantra inside my head. Again I wondered, was this a promise to myself, or was it still a warning? I was not sure.

I pushed the clutter from her desk with a sweep of one arm; papers, folders and office supplies all crashed to the floor, as I laid her back onto the cleared space. I allowed myself to touch her and she made no protest. Was this against our own self-imposed rules? Her tight sweater was so very soft against my callused palm as I stroked her exquisite body. I felt as if I was back in high school. Was that part of the allure? This taking of what was forbidden? Just one kiss, just one, the mantra was quickly fading, losing to the chaos of sensations that were flooding my mind.

“Please, a little more,” came her plea. I raised my head and looked down at her. Her beautiful lips were full and wet, swollen from our passion. Her hair was spread out; a wild tangled halo about her head. Not only with her words, but with her eyes, no; more with her whole body, she begged for more. Then I knew, it was too late. I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. There was no other place, no other time than right here, right now. My world continued to spin crazily around this single moment. My mind was clouded to everything else. No responsibilities, no others, nothing but this.

The buttons on her sweater unfastened all too easily. Her bra was covered with delicate little lace flowers. I kissed the swell of her, above the cup. She was sweet as honey. Her skin drove me wild, smooth, fragrant… perfection. Unfastening the hook in front I took one nipple at a time, gently nibbling and suckling on each, until they stood up rock hard from my attentions.

She reached down and slowly lowered the zipper on my slacks. She stroked and teased the ultra-sensitive skin exposed there. She tugged my shirt up over my head, then raked her fingernails down my chest leaving small trails of stinging pleasure. I went down on my knees then, tugging her to the edge of the desk, causing her skirt to ride up even higher, rewarding me with a flash of black silk panties. The contrast of that midnight black against her slim white thighs and hips was too much. I pushed her skirt up higher, up around her waist and gently blew against the hot crease there at the junction of her thighs. She moaned and reached for me as I used my teeth to tug away the thin strip of fabric that covered her treasures. Soon I had her divested of that wispy bit of silk. Her glossy little curls tickled my face as I teased her unmercifully. She had thrown her arm across her eyes, as her moans and cries grew louder. I slipped one finger between the soft petals of her and pushed smoothly inside, while taking that most precious little button into my mouth; licking, nibbling, sucking, devouring her. Her hips rose up off of the hard wood as she screamed out her pleasure.

I stood again and placed myself against her. My cock was so rigid, swollen, so very ready to slip into the hot wetness of her. She wrapped her long slim legs firmly about my waist as I entered her.

“Please, please, please!” Came her plea again and again.

I lifted her up, fitting her whole body against mine. She kept her legs wrapped tight around me as we began a rhythm as old as time. When it came, it came for both of us, wave upon wave of white-hot pleasure. She cried out my name, as I called hers, then she tore her nails across my back leaving multiple trails of crimson desire burning across its expanse.

When finally it was over I lay her back on the desk not allowing myself to pull out of her. I covered her passion slicked body with mine. We stayed that way for some time as our desire-clouded world slowed its insane spinning. Finally I raised up. Looking down at her a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. She returned the small smile then reached for my head, as I had hers earlier. With both hands she pulled my mouth down to hers.

“Just one kiss,” she said softly before giving me the sweetest, most tender of kisses.

We stood finally, many minutes later. I pulled up my pants, she pulled down her skirt, I pulled on my shirt, and she rebuttoned her sweater. Then she asked, “Well, where do we go from here?”

Reaching out to caress her one last time I said, “I’ll stop at the grocery store and pick up what we need for dinner. You go to the babysitter’s and get the boys.”

“Oh, very well,” she pouted sweetly.

With a shake of my head I then added, “And next time you want to play this sort of game, I am not waiting three weeks.” I kissed her again then and laughed, “Just one kiss… sure.”

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My father had a very large, musty, cardboard box full of porn.

The box lived in the basement of our small ranch-style house. It rested atop a very tall metal shelf-structure, in a dark corner of his workshop – a room with cobwebs and sawdust and any number of on-the-go projects stacked on the benches.

It was rare that I entered that room as a child. I seldom had use for a screwdriver or hammer let alone a band saw or a lathe or a drill press. I certainly had no reason to climb on top of the leather step stool and wobble on my tiptoes when all of the other boxes contained Christmas ornaments and empty mason jars.

I can’t remember how I found it. How did I stumble across this treasure trove of delight?

One day, though, it was a part of my life. My new hobby was flipping through the pages of each magazine, digging to the bottom of the box for new material, and being careful to never leave a fingerprint on a cover and never, ever wrinkle a page.

Vividly, I remember:  Naked ladies. The occasional naked man (usually as important as a throw pillow in a home decor magazine spread). Leather. Lace. Enormous breasts and tiny boobies.  Shaved. Natural. Thin. Voluptuous.

Arriving home from school as an occasional latchkey kid, I’d barely drop my backpack on the floor before running downstairs, climbing up, and balancing a magazine on the edge of the shelf while working my hand inside the front of my jeans.

I didn’t dare take any of the magazines down – what if someone came home? What if I forgot to put things back properly?

It was so incredibly scandalous to me, that box. No one had ever told me that such magazines existed.

I don’t know where the collection originated or, later when it disappeared, where it went. I was the one who picked up the mail at the end of our driveway and I know they didn’t make their way into our home by that route. Did someone give them to him? Did he buy them on his way home from work?

My Dad has been dead for a long while now, and we never discussed that box of goodness.

And now I’m the adult in the house. Married, happily, with a house full of children who are precocious and funny and curious about the world around them.

We’ve had “The Talk” and explained about birth control and the names for the various body parts.They know about consent and about boundaries and limits and being safe.

But I feel like they’re missing a big part of a healthy childhood: hidden porn.

It’s the curse of the Internet Age – ready, easy, all-acess-available porn. Videos and pictures and YouPorn and every single kink under the sun presented in glorious, bookmark’able colour.

And it’s all hidden behind internet filters and NetNannies.

The print magazines are going out of business or switching to online-only.

So we took matters into our own hands, my husband and I, and we made our way to the local used bookstore. It sells porn – the vintage kind – in cellowrapped packages dating back to the ’60s.

We debated for a bit and then, not wanting to influence our kids’ sexual proclivities (nor scare them to death) we picked up a fine selection of  mostly “vanilla porn”, paid the small fees, and brought them home. In the quiet of the night, we leafed through them, admiring the fluffy pubes and horrible makeup styles, and agreed that it was all about as risque as what’s available on cable TV.

It’s not our style of porn – we lean toward the kink, the BDSM, the whips-n-chains. But that’s an adult choice and the kids will find their own leanings as they mature and experiment in life.

When the kids start school next week, we’re hiding those magazines in the crawl spaces that are accessible only from the kids’ bedrooms. And we’ll wait for them to explore and discover them. We’ll deny knowing how they got there and claim the previous owners of the house must have left them behind.

That’s right. I’m the mother who bought her kids porn.

And I’ll never admit it to anyone but you.

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