Wicked Wednesday: Recollection

Last week I had a painful dental procedure done. It got me thinking about the various dentists I’ve been to and how some of them make me feel more relaxed than others. Going to the dentist is one of those necessities of modern life. For some of us it’s a necessary evil and because I move around a lot I rarely have the chance to settle in with a favorite dentist for the long term. I have a lot of anxiety around dental visits and need just the right person to calm me..

Last week’s dentist was quick and efficient but not necessarily relaxing, except for the relief that came from realizing that it was done in about an hour after they’d told me it would take ninety minutes.

One dentist I’ve had makes me feel more relaxed than any other. I could never exactly put my finger on why or how. He speaks gently. But deliberately. He’s awkward with small talk, but I can tell he makes notes to familiarize himself to make it seem like he’s remembering what I told him last visit. He’s cold in his brevity but warm in his tone.

I was discussing this with a friend who said he’d had a dentist experience that made him feel submissive even though he’s not submissive. Something in this particular dentist had sparked that feeling in him. And I think it’s the same with me and my dentist. He puts me in a trance of some sort. I want to please him by being a good patient. I trust him to do whatever he needs. To my teeth.

Dental erotica is definitely not my thing. Dentists and zombies are my top two turn-offs. But the trust I place in my dentist to handle a sensitive part of my body is similar to the trust of a lover.


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Wicked Wednesday: One Man

I’m a week late with the One Man prompt…

I dreamed I was being nosed by a dog in my sleep, so realistically I believed it was happening. As I drifted toward consciousness I remembered we don’t have a dog. Or a cat. Or children, or anything else that might take it upon itself to wake me up. I opened my eyes just enough to make out his shape from the light of the street lamp outside the window. He stood over the bed, nudging my forehead and cheek with the end of his hard cock.

“Blow me before I leave for work?” It was a soft request. Not a demand. Almost pleading. Hopeful.

I rolled over and checked the clock.

“Come back in twenty minutes.” I closed my eyes and pulled the puffy down comforter over my head.

“In twenty minutes I’ll barely have time to catch my bus.” He sounded slightly more pleading now. But perhaps that was effect of his voice being muffled through the comforter.

“That’s your problem,” I mumbled, near dozing again.

I did want to give him a blow job. I love giving him blow jobs. Sometimes I comply fully, right away, and give him what he asks for. Sometimes I make him wait for it until the very last minute. Sometimes I really do fall back to sleep and he doesn’t get anything until he gets home in the evening.

Footsteps tread lightly but steadily. He paced, the discomfort of the hard on making him anxious. After a few minutes, his weight sank the far corner of the bed with a faint whine of the springs. Lightly his hand touched my ankle through the comforter, then withdrew after a moment.

I pulled the cover down just enough to peep at the clock.

“You’re awake?”

“I am,” I replied but I didn’t remove the comforter any further.

He sighed. “I have to go soon.”

“I know.”

He waited with impatient sighs and his foot tapping against the leg of the bed.

“Come here,” I finally directed him. I rolled over onto my stomach, propped on my elbows, facing the side of the bed. He presented himself, hard cock level with my face having escaped from his jeans. He wore my favorite striped sweater of his, too. He really did know how to make me happy.

I eased his cock into my mouth. He moaned with relief and pushed forward, wanting more. We didn’t have time for frivolity. He fucked my my lips, my tongue, the back of my throat. I imagined him fucking my pussy. I was going to be wet all day, waiting for him to return home that evening.

His release shot through me like a shockwave. I swallowed hungrily. I didn’t want him to leave now.

“I really have to leave now.” He carefully hid his cock behind the buttonfly of his jeans before leaning down to kiss me deeply. He pulled the comforter back over me.

“Be ready for my turn when you get home.”

I’d be the one pacing impatiently all day.

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This piece was written for Exhibit A’s Great British Bake Off competition. Click here to see the rest of the entries.

On the morning of the Annual Winter Wonderland Gingerbread House Competition in Winter Pine, Pennsylvania, Monica had been up since five o’clock finishing her perfect Victorian-inspired gingerbread house.

“Mon, it’s amazing.” The low voice whispering behind her made her flinch slightly, causing her to make a light imprint with her fingertip in some icing along the peaked roof. She drew her hand away quickly and as she stepped back, she leaned into Jared’s broad chest. He enveloped her in a bear hug. “Good morning.” He sighed into her hair, then breathed in deeply the scent of sugar and ginger. “You’ve been up all night?”

Monica was exhausted. She closed her eyes and nodded, needing his strength to hold her up. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes.

Jared released her and she turned to face him. “I know you want to work,” he said. “I won’t get in your way. Do you want some coffee?” He raised his hand to her cheek and used his thumb to brush at a smudge of flour but he didn’t quite get it all. She leaned her cheek into the palm of his hand. She licked her lips and looked up at him, eyes wide. “I know that look,” Jared whispered. “You don’t want coffee.”

Monica smiled. She wrapped her arms around his head and drew him down close for a kiss. He made to push her against the table. “No!” she cried out. “Not in front of the gingerbread people!”

Jared laughed. The last thing he wanted was to send the gingerbread house off the table crashing to the floor. “Next to the coffee maker?” He nodded toward the counter.

Jared pushed a bag of gumdrops aside on the counter and lifted himself up to sit on the edge. Monica used the stepstool, out from reaching those gumdrops from a high shelf earlier, to climb up onto the counter after him. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

Jared slipped a hand under her robe and was surprised to feel her warm pussy instead of her panties. He slipped a finger inside her. She groaned and put her hand on his cock, warm through the flannel of his pajama pants, pressing tight against the fabric. She freed his cock from the fly and smiled widely as it jumped up to greet her.

Monica lifted her hips and hovered over Jared’s cock, the tip just resting against her clit. “I want you so badly,” she whispered, her lips nuzzled in the hair behind his ear.

Jared’s hands rested on her hips as she slid down slowly. His cock filled her bit by bit until she settled on his lap, his cock deep insider her, the bottom of her thighs tight against the top of his. He grabbed her hips tightly, holding her firmly in place. “You feel so great,” he whispered.

She sat still for a moment, enjoying the feel of him inside her. Then she moved her hips slightly, just enough friction to send a wave of warmth through her pussy. Little by little she felt the pressure build. Jared held her tight. He tensed as she rode him. When she came, he held her tight, and all the exhaustion of the last few days flowed out of her.

With a deep sigh, Monica rested her head sleepily on his shoulder. “Do you have time to go back to bed for a nap?” Jared asked.

“No,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I need to shower and pack up my gingerbread house.” Monica reluctantly unwound her legs and climbed down. She adjusted her robe and gave Jared one more smile before turning out of the room.

“I’ll have coffee ready when you get out,” he called after her.

Later, Jared helped her place the pieces into two large cardboard cake boxes and secured them in the car for her. The roof wasn’t attached yet; Monica would do that at the setup. A third, smaller box held several gingerbread men and women. She’d use two in the display but had some extras just in case.

The conference room was a whir of activity as teams and individuals unpacked their displays. Monica glanced around the room and realized she didn’t have much competition. She was still anxious about finally snagging that first place, though.

“Monica!” A woman wearing a berry red twinset and waving a clipboard hurried toward her.

“I’d better see to this,” Monica said, kissing Jared on the cheek.

“No problem, I’ll set the roof on for you.”

Monica turned her back on Jared and the gingerbread house for a minute to talk to the berry red twinset. When she turned back, Jared was stepping away from the table, dusting powdered sugar off his hands.

“All set for you to finish up,” he said. “I need to run to the car for a sec. I forgot my phone in there.”

“Okay, see you in a minute.” Monica kissed his cheek as he walked away.

Monica placed her gingerbread couple side-by-side in the front lawn of the house. As she wiped some icing from the edge one of the windowsills, Monica peeked through the window.

Against an inside wall of the gingerbread house two gingerbread figures were stuck together with a smear of icing across their stomachs. They were slightly askew. She saw a smudge of flour on the face of the figure with its back to the wall.

FFS Vaginal Contouring

It started with this tweet this morning:


Suddenly everything else I planned on doing today was put on hold while I became consumed by the thought of vaginal contouring. What is it exactly? Judging by the photo it has something to do with applying make-up? To your vagina?

Let’s assume for a second that this is true. Don’t apply make-up to your vagina. First of all, your vagina is inside of you so no one will see it and it’s a huge waste of time and good make-up. And your external lady parts don’t need make-up, either. It assumes you take the time to be hairless down there. If you do, that’s fine, and if you don’t, that’s fine, too.

For me, the thought of one more point of grooming, for exactly whose satisfaction I’m not even sure, is just one more chore. I’d rather be having sex than doing chores. No partner of mine has ever mentioned he’d be more into me if I had more make-up on. Anywhere.

After I thought through the make-up scenario, I Googled “vaginal contouring” to see for sure what it is and I watched the first few minutes of the Ann Summers video. (This was not the easiest thing to do while sharing a house with my father and my child. But I triumphed. For you.)

It’s not about make-up. (False advertising click bait!) But it is one more point for women to feel insecure about. Vaginal contouring, or vontouring, is the insertion of a little device that stimulates collagen production in the vagina and labia, to make things plumper and thus tighter.

This article in Bustle claims it’s not about “a whole boatload of unnecessary vanity,” then goes on to say actually it is about vanity:

[I]t may be the solution for those looking give their vagina new look after childbirth. According to Dr. Giese, childbirth can mess with the plumpness of the vagina, as well as distorting its features a bit. And that’s not even including what it does to the actual opening. You push something the size of a watermelon out of your vagina, and things can be a little different afterward.

But vontouring isn’t only for women who have had children. It’s also for women who maybe aren’t so thrilled about the look of their vaginas in general.

And it’s so convenient that you can do it on your lunch hour or while your nails dry after a mani-pedi!

I read through several articles that all quoted the same statistic, that about 40% of the women who have had this treatment say it increases sexual pleasure. I’m suspicious of that stat. It seems to me that it’s impossible to say that the increase in pleasure is due to the physical outcome of the procedure, a placebo effect caused by a woman assuming there will be an increase in pleasure, or an increase in a woman’s confidence that actually has nothing to do with the physical outcome of the procedure. If it’s the placebo or the increase in confidence, that means the procedure itself is baloney.

Really, beauty industry? We do our hair and our nails and apply make-up to our faces. We pluck, wax, and shave all over. We stuff ourselves into Spanx and high heels. And I get it. We want to feel pretty and we all have different standards for what makes us feel confident and beautiful.

I draw the line at worrying about a part of the body that relatively few people actually see, compared to, say, a face. Believe me, I have my fair share of insecurities but it never once occurred to me to worry about how my vaginal area looks. Even after childbirth.

Men I’ve known both as sexual partners and otherwise have never once mentioned the way labia look as a deal-breaker. They’ve actually never mentioned the way it looks at all. They are pretty much pleased to see a cunt that is happy to welcome them in.

Women, I implore you, if you meet a man that you want to have sex with and he criticizes your vagina, kick him to the curb. Chances are he’s a selfish lover and the problem is him, not your vagina. Love your vagina and labia for the themselves and find a lover who will treat them right.


Sinful Sunday: Afternoon Nap

As I was dozing off for a nap I asked Mr. Scott if he had any ideas for a Sinful Sunday photograph. In the semi-conscious lull that overtakes me when I nap in hot weather, I heard the camera clicking as he took a few test shots. When I awoke he asked me to strip.
And what happened after that was more refreshing than a nap and a wonderful way to end a Sunday.
Version 2
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Sinful Sunday


I chose not to have a threesome one time. I was casually dating a guy and on a hot summer afternoon he and his roommate appeared at my door. He said something along the lines of, “We were bored and thought a threesome would be fun.” I said, “No.” We had never discussed a threesome before. I didn’t like his roommate very much. In general I’m not against them, it just wasn’t a good idea that day.

He got mad and called me some names, then they left. I closed the door to my apartment and on that chapter of my life – we only saw each other once or twice after that. I pretty much forgot about that afternoon.

Lately, though, I’ve been wrestling with thoughts of if I was lucky or not that afternoon. So many women would have been coerced or bullied into sex, or outright assaulted or raped, after initially saying “No” to that situation. And the only thing that happened to me was two guys got frustrated and left my home. They may have been rude about it, but they didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do.

Considering today’s climate, I feel lucky. But I shouldn’t feel that way. All women should expect that if they say “No” to sex, the worst that happens is hurt feelings. All women should be able to expect their male acquaintances to be decent people.

The Stanford case has paralyzed me with anger. I’ve had trouble discussing it with people. I wonder, though, if mainstream opinions are finally catching on to the issue of rape and how it’s discussed. I hope so.

I shouldn’t be lucky. What happened to me should be the norm.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked