AlwaysArousedGirl

If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. You could also get new content delivered directly to your inbox. Thanks for stopping by!

The veins were what I felt most on my tongue as I knelt next to him and moved my lips over his length.  He’d wanted to fuck my mouth and I was more than happy to let him, the spit I could not swallow washing down his shaft as he pushed me down again and again.  It built up in my throat, the fluid from almost gagging deep thrusting strokes, extra slippery and so thick that I wished for the hundredth time that the wall in the back of my throat would fall open so that I could take his entire length into me.

But the wall wouldn’t budge no matter how ardently he pushed or I wished it.  I gagged hard as I moved him against my lips and the saliva which had pooled in my throat leaked out over him.  He moaned, the gagging and drooling egging him on even more.

When he’s very, very excited, that’s when the veins stand out so clearly that I can feel them with my tongue.  Gagging subsided, I opened my mouth to him again, letting him push into me, leg braced against the bed so as to maximize the range of motion of his hip.  I watched, fascinated by the slippery slide into my mouth and the working of his muscles, the clenching of his ass, the feel of his hair against my lips.

I broke free for a moment despite his protests to pour lube over my fingers.  “I want to put my finger in you,” I murmured, my lips close to his.  “Will you let me?”  He pulled my head down to kiss me hard and I felt a noise that only could have been assent from somewhere in the region of his heart.

I swirled slippery fingers around his ass as he nudged his purple cockhead toward me.  I refused to open my lips, concentrating instead on coercing the tip of my finger past the first ring of muscle, but he couldn’t wait longer to push himself against my lips, parting them as I whimpered in a play of pathetic refusal so that he could play at force.

With my finger in him and his cock in me, his veins popped out high enough that I could have sucked each individual pathway between my lips if I’d not been taking such hard thrusts into my mouth that all I could do is hold on, hold on and moan and gently slide my finger over that hard ring of muscle again and again and again until at last he clenched his hands fully in my hair, pushed me down to the point of gagging and came hot down my throat, calling out loud to whichever god accepts praise for the receipt of good sex.

• Read More »

Him:  What are you up to this evening?

Me: I’m trying to persuade someone to send me a dildo made of granite.

Him: I can’t see why you would want this.

Me: Because I write about unique sexual products.

Him: Other than for aesthetic reasons…I sure wouldn’t put a granite dildo anywhere intimate.

Me: You have noticed that I like to be fucked by really hard things, right?

Him: Heh, yes, that I have.  But granite?

Me: Until they make a dildo out of diamond, granite’s about as hard as it gets.

Him: What’s next? Topaz?

Me:  Baby, if someone made me a topaz dildo you bet I’d fuck myself silly with it.

• Read More »

Lately I’ve been given just an astronomical number of adult products, primarily from here and here but from other places too.  It’s been scientifically proven that no matter how many toys I possess, I will still only have one vagina.  And limited closet space.

So I’m asking myself a simple yet challenging question:  What should I do with such an ongoing surfeit of sex toys, books and films?

The products to which I am referring will NOT have crossed the slippery line into my body.  If it’s been given admittance into my holiest of holies, I’ll make room for it in my closet.  But that still leaves an obscene number of products. Like seriously obscene.  Like in some states I could probably be arrested.

Here’s one possibility.  I could divvy up the loot into weekly or bi-weekly lots with retail prices listed, and then offer them up for sealed-bid auction.  Bids could be submitted via email up to the cut off date, at which time I’d find the winning bid, accept payment through PayPal, and cheerfully send out the products with all my best wishes.

If I did this, I’d hope that the bids would stay relatively low.  Enough to cover the cost to ship the loot to you, basically.  The main goal here would be “Clean aag’s Closets,”  not “Make Scads of Dollarz.”

Cheap fun stuff for you, more space for me, a little extra publicity for the sites I’ve worked with…everyone wins.

Do we think this would be feasible?  Would it be weird to get a product that I’ve had my hot little hands on?  Is there some health code I’d be violating in doing this?  Would anyone actually bid?

Advice, please?  Other alternatives, beside adding on a sex-toy annex to my house?

• Read More »

A few of our sleep problems have finally settled down, I am happy to report, and you must be happy to read it too, because I’m sure there’s nothing more crucial to your enjoyment of this blog than the knowledge that your hostess’ children are now sleeping better.

I’m perhaps most happy about the fact that my little ones have been persuaded to keep their clothes on until morning’s first light.  We reached a climax of insanity on this issue on the morning that the smell from their room hit me before I’d even opened the door.  I took a deep breath and crossed the entrance, only to find that the boy had removed his diaper at some point because of the terrible discomfort from having filled it earlier.

Which would be bad enough, but not only had he removed the offending diaper, he’d also attempted to remove the offending substance by means of his fingers (which he then wiped all over his and his sister’s bedding) and the carpet.  Yes, the boy scooted.  Like a cat. With blocked anal glands.

I bribed them with jelly beans, oh yes I did go there, and now they (for the most part) keep their pants on until I’ve come in, a fact for which I thank the universe every day.

Nap time, aye, there’s another story.  They both still depend on naps whether they want to admit it or not; so after various machinations, ploys, plots, maneuvers, feints and deceptions I lit upon the idea of having the boy sleep in my bed during nap time.

I have never been one to have children sleep with me.  I need alone time.  I crave privacy.  And I sleep erratically enough on my own that having a small squirmy body in bed with me on a regular basis would not work.

But I gave it a try, fearing failure as this is the boy who regardless of how tired he is still needs a good twenty-minute period to run himself out in his room every night.  Yes, he runs.  At full tilt.  As his sister’s eyes droop.  Then typically he runs himself smack into a wall, which puts him right out.

Sitting a floor below listening to the ceiling rattle from his footsteps, I choose to believe that he’s dropped from exhaustion and not a head injury.  Please don’t correct my assumption.

So it was with extreme trepidation that I brought him into my bedroom for naps.  I’ve worked hard both on cleaning and arranging my room into an oasis away from the stress and chaos of children, and the last thing I wanted was to turn this diminuitive whirlwind free in it.  Instead, I laid down with him for his nap, my intention to get him settled before slipping away to business of my own.

But he wanted to talk.  Then he wanted songs.  I obliged, beguiled by the blue of his eyes and the ridiculous length of his black lashes.  Finally his eyes went glassy.  “Do you want to hold my hand as you fall asleep?” I asked.

“No!” he said instantly.  It’s his answer to everything, including “Do you want to go to the park?” and “Would you like a popsicle?”  But a scant minute later he grabbed my fingers.  “Ok, I we-ill.”

We held hands as he drifted off, and of course I drifted off too.  There’s no amount of sleep in the universe which will make up for all the sleep I’ve missed due to children, work and worry; could there be any better time to catch up on few minutes of it than while my son holds my hand?

• Read More »

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’s requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery.
–The Man with the Twisted Lip, Arthur Conan Doyle

As is the case with so many things in this life, the search for a sissy maid has proven to be far more difficult that I ever imagined.

It’s all Viviane’s fault, you see.  I live in the middle of nowhere, so my only option is to drool with jealousy that I cannot attend her legendary teas.  But I’ve heard the tales.  I especially focus on the fact that her guests are cared for by one or more sissy maids.

And I think…I need me a sissy maid.

Just think of how marvelous it would be.  A couple times a month, on nights when the children are with their father, I could open my door to my very own sissy maid.  There she would stand, resplendent in her cute little outfit, tights and heels.  I’d kiss her lightly on both cheeks, hug her warmly, and invite her inside.

I’d relax in a comfy chair while my maid would putter about in the kitchen.  She’d wipe down the spills and drips, empty out the latest load from the dishwasher, and maybe even make some headway into the never ending pile of pint-sized attire which collects on the counter.

And then, she’d make me a sandwich.

I’d expect this sandwich to be a thing of beauty.  Layers of lovingly placed turkey breast and cheese would curl on a pair of fresh cut slices of bread.  I can almost hear the click of my sissy maid’s heels as she parades back and forth to the ‘fridge, fetching the mustard and mayo.  Would she slice up a fresh tomato to top her creation?  I bet she would.  I bet she’d add some lettuce, too.

A carved wooden tray hides in the back of a cupboard; a wedding gift, it’s gotten precious little use for serving meals to me, though it is occasionally employed for kiddie tea parties.  I’d instruct my sissy maid to place my sandwich on a plate with some sliced vegetables.  And a sliced, fresh peach.  And perhaps a doily.

This she would bring to me as I worked.  I’d barely look up at her as she placed the tray on the table before me.  “Thank you honey,” I’d murmur.  “Can you get me some tea?”

“Yes mistress,” she’d say, and the click of her heels would tell me it was coming.  I’d listen with extreme pleasure to the ice cubes falling into the glass, the silky pour of liquid, the slight squeeze of fresh lemon.  I’d hold out my hand in anticipation.

When I’d eaten, I’d type-type-type away as she cleaned up my mess.  In my imagination she hums as she washes and dries my dishes, just from the sheer joy of serving.

And then I’d send her on a quick round of light cleaning.  Feather duster in hand, she’d almost prance from the table to the piano to the picture frames, lightly stroking every surface.  I’d like her to vacuum too, but a regular vacuum would be too much.

Instead, I’d provide her with a Hoky.

When she’d finished, I’d beckon her to sit at my feet.  I’d stroke her hair (if she agreed) and tell her what a fine job she’d done.

I’d think it would be easy to find someone eager to take on such a role.  But I’ve had no luck so far.  I posted on my local Craigslist, but my post was removed for “objectionable” content.  I’ve harnessed the power of my favorite naughty dating site, making it perfectly clear that this was more of a fetish rather than a sexual request, but I’ve gotten only the standard offers to bang me so hard that come would shoot out of my pores — which, while it’s an almost unbearably attractive offer, is not what I currently require.

Sigh.

So where else does one look for a sissy maid?

• Read More »

It strikes me as a particularly vicious poly edict which gives leave for a partner to play with but not love another.

Though it’s been over twenty years, I can still feel the pain of being told by my parents to break up with a boyfriend they found unacceptable for their daughter.  They thought I had no business loving someone who planned on working in the family company after high school instead of going to college.

They succeeded in keeping us apart for a number of months; as a teenager I possessed neither the spirit nor the means to stand up to them.  They kept us apart but that hardly dampened my ardor, or his.

I did more with the time apart than to pine.  I wrote obsessively in a paper journal, destroyed lo these many years, a decision which sometimes I regret.  Thousands of words of purple prose (literally and figuratively, and some of of it was probably glittery too) later, I came to the conclusion that people love for reasons that are almost entirely invisible to people outside of the relationship.

Invisible perhaps, but not invalid.

That’s the fact that my parents missed in banning me from my sweetheart.  There was something valuable to me in that relationship.  He had something I needed, and no I don’t mean his penis thought it was very nice now get your mind out of the gutter.  There was some education in that pairing, some knowledge of The Way People Operate that I needed from him.  Their edict kept me from learning, at least for a while.

In the realm of non-monogamous relationships, I’ve seen a similar dynamic take place.  Things start casually, but eventually hearts and not just sexy bits respond.  Then comes the smackdown.  “You can’t love him,” the primary partner yells.  “You can only love me-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeeeee.”

It doesn’t work.

I’d like to see my friends’ open relationships (and mine too) accept the possibility that love will show up in sometimes unexpected places.  I’d like partners to respect their partners’ other lovers without feeling unduly threatened.  Loving someone doesn’t have to mean leaving someone else.

Perhaps most importantly, people playing with non-monogamy need to acknowledge the worth of their partners’ other relationships.  There’s a reason behind the relationship.  It meets some need.  It has the potential to bring enormous growth as well as pleasure to the partner.  Isn’t that what poly’s all about?

Every poly relationship needs rules:  rules dealing with time, money, location, safety and children, among other things.

But love?

That is impossible to legislate.

******

I recently read Tristan Taormino’s new book Opening Up:  A Guide to Creating and Sustaining Open Relationships for Jane’s Guide; you can find the write-up here.  Obviously the information presented therein is still flitting about my head.

• Read More »

Essin’ Em wrote about our meeting here.  Go have a look.  She called me a “legend.”  I’m blushing, hard.

******

It’s a conversation I’ve chanced to have several times recently.  Various circumstances bring the topic around to break-ups, and whether or not it’s possible for someone to break up a relationship.

Here’s how the story goes:  Partners meet, then after some appropriate (or not so appropriate) interval become a couple.  Months or years into their relationship they decide to practice non-monogamy — or at least one of them makes that decision.  Multiple relationships ensue, and before long someone decides that a secondary relationship needs to become the primary one.

I’ve seen it play out in different ways.  A man steps out of his marriage to slake a need for sex and companionship, eventually leaving his wife for a new partner.  A couple starts swinging only to have one partner convinced that the other prefers someone else.  A woman dating more than one man adds a new partner to the mix; she finally comes to the conclusion that she wants to focus on the new partner to the exclusion of one or more of the established ones.

Convention wisdom suggests that the new partner, the interloping partner, is the one at fault for ruining the original relationship.  If that person hadn’t interfered, they say, the original relationship would have flourished.

I reject this theory.

Perhaps I’m too apt to believe that people do things for their own reasons independent of the actions of others, but I cannot accept that a strong relationship could be broken by an extraneous partner.  If a third party is involved in the break up of a relationship, in my way of thinking, it was ready to die anyhow.

If in the future I’m left in preference for a newer woman (or man, or couple, or WoW, or Madden, or Border Collie puppy, or whatever), I won’t blame anyone.

But myself.

So…please correct me if I’m wrong?

• Read More »

“Hm,” I thought to myself the other day, reclining in bed while availing myself to the services of my trusty Hitachi.  “Hm.  I must be losing sensitivity.  This doesn’t seem quite so strong as it’s been in the past.”

I examined the switch.  Yes, it was on full blast.  I peered at the variable speed controller.  It was also on the highest setting.  I clicked through the other settings.  They were even less enthusiastic than the one I was using.

It made me come, but it wasn’t the usual thrashing-screaming-gushing-feeling-lobotomized-afterward experience the Hitachi usually gives me.  Frustrated, I dangled the thing over the bed by its cord and let it buzz without the impediment of juicy labia.

For a few seconds it buzzed consistently, but then it began to cough.  Then it sputtered, then it skipped, and within moments it unceremoniously died.

Sex toys die, I get that.  They die just when you need them most, which of course makes sense as that’s when they are most stressed.  No stress on a vibe when it’s hanging out in the sock drawer, that’s for sure.

But here’s the thing.  This is the second Hitachi I’ve exhausted this year.  Let me rephrase.  It’s the second Hitachi I’ve broken in 2008.  I’ve killed two of the most powerful vibes in existence in the space of a scant six months.

Should I be alarmed?  Should I worry that I’m getting off too much?

And if I someday find myself in need of a masturbatory intervention, who will offer to round up an intervening team?

Please advise.

• Read More »