Category: pornography

Atonement

‘What are you doing Violet?’

I’m here, home, in the sunshine, the garden, hanging out…’

‘Yes, but what are you doing Violet?’

‘Here, I told you, hanging, in my robe, it’s pretty, pink, silky, I’m in the garden..’

‘But..’

‘I’m naked underneath. The sun on my skin, feeling really good.’

‘Violet…’

‘You asked me, I’m telling you, I’m home, feels so good, so damn good…’

He put the phone down.

Oh God God, I get it, God…

I think he wanted to hear me say I’m atoning.

I called him back.

‘Yes yes, I’m atoning, yes, sorry, it felt so good, it feels so good….’

He laughed.

And said God bless. 

Thank goodness it’s okay to atone in many different ways.

Have a blessed day, Jewish readers, all readers, everywhere, the whole world, peace, love, to all of you.

GOD!!!

pray-or-not-pray-feature-image

Sex and stress

So my god I have just had the best sex and it was unbelievable and he knew these amazing positions and what to do, how does he know,  so good, soaked, wet, sweaty, dripping, my breasts, my thighs, sticky, disgusting, delicious, dirty, coming, again, lights flashing, stuff in my hair, on my face, my cheeks, my hands, more lights flashing, Violet what is that, Violet, god yes, more, Violet, stop, something going on, my cunt, what, no, Jesus Christ the security company, Johannesburg, crime, violence, security, I want to come, I left the gate open, don’t ever leave the gate open in Johannesburg, ever, oh god, no no, yes, a mess, soaking, pulling on clothes, god damn, yes,  ‘Everything okay Ma’am?’  and  ‘Yes, yes good, thanks, sorry, shit’  Johannesburg, a terrible ending, a perfect ending, this fucking city, this goddamn fucking city.

Sex.

It is meant to relieve stress.

Jesus Christ.

sweat

Oh yes, please, more more

So yesterday I got a job offer to write a whole bunch of sexts.

‘Send me an example,’ the guy said.

Damn cheek, I thought, how can anyone doubt my sexting abilities.

Anyway, I typed…

I would like you here, now, my bed, your hand, my panties, oh god, god…

He interrupted my sexting.

‘That is perfect,’ he said. ‘You have the job. I need fifty by the end of day.’

We agreed on a price, and I quickly hammered out fifty sexts. I’ve learned that when you write for this site you don’t ask questions. It’s pretty badly paid, I wasn’t going to waste too much time.

It’s also quite interesting sexting without emotion. Because it’s a bit like writing about the weather.

Oh that feels good. Ooooh, yes. Hot. Steamy. More. More. One more time. Please. Oh oh, yawn.

Bland.

It did nothing for me but hey, dollars…

I sent off my sexts.

He replied almost immediately.

I did not ask you to write pornography Violet. I wanted quality sexts.’

I was outraged.

Excuse me. Excuse me. We are talking sexting here. What is a quality sext? ‘

Well you know, your punctuation, your grammar, you need to work on them…’

I blew up. For my few USD, I thought my sexts were brilliant.

‘We’re not writing a piece of literature here, Mister. This is sexting you asked for. Not Mills and Boon. Not a declaration of love.  These are sexts for gods sake. No-one mentioned we’re aiming for a Nobel prize’

He went very quiet.

‘Fine,’ he typed. ‘Do me another fifty’.

And that’s the thing about men.  It’s sexting.

They don’t really care what you say.

bored

 

 

Made to order

Yesterday I learned a lot about corsets,  the most luxurious items of lingerie.

Women wear them to get that teeny looking very small waist.

Burlesque dancers wear them.

Transgender and cross-dressing men love to lace them up.

And there are men, ordinary men, who wear them under their suits. Apparently this is a big thing. It gives them a smooth line and emphasises their shoulders.

Who knew?

Would I find it sexy undressing a man to find he had a corset under his shirt? Maybe. Maybe it would be nice to slowly untie the knot, pull the laces, one by one and slip it off. Turn him around to face me.

I don’t know. No. That doesn’t work for me. He can take off his own corset.

I think I want to be the one in the corset. For me, it’s a girl thing.

I’ve made an appointment with a corsetière. I want a gorgeous soft luxurious indulgent handmade oh my god kind of corset. I want to choose the silk and the lace and the ribbons. I want to design a shape that will accentuate my curves, make me feel and look very sexy.

I want to have tons of fittings and watch in the mirror while I’m being fitted.

It makes me feel tingly thinking about it.

And then I want to take it home, unpack it from its tissue paper, put it on and lace it up. Add lipstick, perfume and stockings. Go out for dinner. To theatre. For a nightcap. And then home.

And I want him, him, to watch me as I get undressed.

I’ll turn the lighting low, breathe in because I’ll be nervous, sway my hips, just a little, and dance. Slowly, sexy, a little suggestively.

I’ll take off my shoes and then my stockings, dance a little more, sway a little more, and smile as he watches from the chair.

Then call him over.

To come and unbutton me, untie me and release me.

And then he can do whatever he wants to do with me.   And I can do whatever I want with him.

As long as we don’t leave the corset lying in a heap on the floor.

Because they are very  expensive. And it will be rare and beautiful. And I intend to wear it again.

And again. And again.

corset