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  1. Where’s Nikki?

    July 21, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    No, I’m not in jail for something ridiculous and totally not my fault. Nope. I am, however, over on Rachel in the OC where I’ve written a guest post about my experience with physical abuse and how writing BROKEN changed my life. Check it out! 

    Photo for RT guest post


    Image courtesy of Serge Bertasius Photography /

  2. Sex and Aging

    July 15, 2014 by Heather Cole

    This blog was conceived at my dining room table on the eve of the demise of my almost decade-long marriage. I was near 40, and I was preparing myself as best I could to start my life all over again. This time with a child in tow. I remember being on the phone with Nikki and saying, “there have to be other 40-ish women like us who want to have active and fulfilling sex, and there have to be other people like us who want to read about sex, kink, and the real life that goes with it.” Age was a main theme in our writing before we published our first post. It was a theme that ran through our sexual evolution as we created and discovered our sexual identities again and again, and through this blog and the many other sex blogs out there, we confirmed that women “of a certain age” are still getting it on. Let me state for the record, hot and dirty sex didn’t stop at 40. Hell, it doesn’t have to stop until you choose to. According to a New York Time’s article in January of this year, “between 2007 and 2011, chlamydia infections among Americans 65 and over increased by 31 percent, and syphilis by 52 percent.” There are lots of people choosing to have sex (gasp!) as they get older. The saying is true, it ain’t over ’til it’s over. But women over 40 aren’t the focus of porn or the media when it comes to sex or desirability. We’re shown images that equate good sex with youth even though many of us acknowledge that better sex comes with age and experience. (Need evidence of that? Read this blog.)

    Sometimes it feels like according to society at large, a woman goes through menopause and her sexual self simply falls off the map, as if her sexy, desirable self becomes invisible as her hair grays and wrinkles appear. The older you become, the more invisible you become in some ways. And I think that’s utter bullshit. If men are generally viewed as more distinguished as they age, then why can’t we recognize that women are too? Recently I’ve become more and more aware of older women in the media, because some day not that far away, I’m going to be her. What is dating going to be like in my 60′s? What is sex going to feel like after menopause? How am I going to adapt as my body ages? They’re questions I’m unable to answer until I’m having the experience, but one thing I know for certain. I want to feel healthy and at home in my skin, and I want to have a fulfilling sex life, even with wrinkles.

    The other day I read this blog post by Robin Korth, a 59-year-old author and professional, about her dating life. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Reading the words, “your body is too wrinkly,” uttered by her 55-year-old love interest made me aware of the double-standard between older men and older women all over again. Do you think Metallica is getting that sort of dating feedback? I sincerely doubt it.

    In case I thought the Korth experience was a fluke, the Universe pushed this Esquire article, In Praise of 42-Year Old Women, into my mailbox. I thought, I’m only 41, I should be psyched about this! And then I read: “There is simply no one as unclothed as a forty-two-year-old woman in a summer dress. For all her toughness, and humor, and smarts, you know exactly what she looks like, without the advantage of knowing who she is.” In other words, we can see your body, but we can’t get past the wrinkles unless we know how great your personality is so that we can pretend your body isn’t, um… old. <headdesk> Obviously the author thinks he’s complimenting women in my age bracket, but he’s actually delivering a slap in the face. (And not the kind I enjoy)

    Thankfully, Ann Brenoff penned this response to the Esquire article in the Huffington Post, and I wanted to give her a standing ovation. She articulated many of my instinctive reactions to the piece. “You are wrong when you suggest that it was the women’s liberation movement that made it possible to find a 42-year-old woman appealing, or that 42-year-old women flock to yoga and pilates classes to be appealing to men. It isn’t that at all. We’ve been beautiful and smart and ambitious forever. You just can’t see it.”

    I’m more than a 41-year-old woman in a sundress. I’m a fucking awesome woman in a sundress. To those people who choose only to see the physical signs of a woman’s time on this planet and count them against her, I feel sorry for you. You’re missing out, because we’re “beautiful and smart and ambitious forever.”


    Sex and the Single Senior. New York Times. 18 of Jan 2014. web.

  3. Swinger House Party

    July 8, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    The tiki torch in the front yard told us we were in the right place. Admittedly, I was a little nervous about the swinger party. It was our first and I had no idea what to expect. Mr. K was anxious too, but his worry differed from mine. Again, he expressed his fear of not being able to get hard in a group setting. Again, I laughed, blowing out a breath when he took my hand as we walked toward the front door. He seemed to sense the familiar flutter of wings as the butterflies flitted around in my stomach and he worked to calm them, reminding me that, as always, we would leave if the right vibe wasn’t there or if we didn’t connect with prospective playmates. He didn’t need to say it out loud for me to know it was true, but there were times when hearing the words gave that little reassuring boost and this was one of those moments. Like he knew it would, his affirmation settled my unease, and by the time we stepped over the threshold into our first house party, I was sure and tall in my stilettos. Seriously. I’m like 5’10” in heels. Swear.

    The hosts, J & M, were super gracious, greeting us with shots of something strong and a tour of their home. Early in the night, the ambiance was what you would expect to find at any friendly gathering. There was food, booze, music, and porn. Okay, so maybe porn playing on a big-screen TV isn’t the norm at just any kind of party. Nor was the supposed “down to fuck” agenda of the attendees. But that was where we were confused, because as the night crept on, no one was fucking. They weren’t even making out. We questioned whether or not we were really at the right place, more than once asking each other why aren’t people fucking? WHERE IS ALL THE FUCKING?

    We rolled with the flow of the evening, drinking more shots of something high on the proof scale while we mingled and chatted about life in general with other swingers we’d met. Some poked fun at my southern twang while my feet ached and a trickle of sweat rolled down my back. I gathered my hair on the back of my head, hoping for some sort of air circulation to cool me down a little. It was hot up in there, y’all. Mr. K tried to help, exposing my barely covered ass to the roomful of people behind us as he lifted my dress. Now that I say that, though, I wonder what his motive truly was– cool me down or show the ass he worships.

    Still, no one was getting busy, and the the bulge in Mr. K’s pants told me whether it was alone or with others, he was ready to fuck.

    I was aware of trailing eyes as Mr. K led me up the stairs to the master bedroom, and with the door ajar, he slid my panties down from underneath my dress and off over my heels, pushing me back on to the bed. As he opened my legs wide, I noticed others watching from the hallway. I found the idea of being watched incredibly hot, like porn, but without the cheesy background music. I moaned loudly, gripping the bedding I lay on top of when my orgasm ripped through me. When I opened my eyes, I found J standing beside the bed, watching as I came again. Mr. K asked if he would like to taste my pussy, and when I gave my permission, J dropped to his knees just as Mr. K shoved his hard cock into my waiting mouth. Being both devoured and used was an amazing feeling.

    After J made me come, we exchanged thank you’s as he left the room, giving Mr. K and me the time we needed to regroup. He held me close, looking at me with limitless love in his eyes before he kissed me deeply. I relished the moment of intimacy before he stuffed my panties into his pants pocket while I checked myself in the bathroom mirror, doing what little I could with my sex hair.

    We wandered back downstairs as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened and for us, I suppose, it hadn’t. We sat on the sofa with W and L, a couple we’d chatted with earlier. Mr. K and I both found L super sexy and knew right away we wanted to fuck her, but she was confused– and a little drunk –about my sexuality. She couldn’t tell if I was into women.

    Here’s the thing– I love women. I love the soft curves and the taste of their bodies. I love making them writhe with pleasure, but I don’t consider myself to be bisexual. I am, however, heteroflexible, and what that means for me is that I need Mr. K’s supervisory penis in the room. It wasn’t the time or the place to explain my sexuality to her, though, so I leaned over Mr. K’s lap and kissed her lovely mouth. I didn’t need any prodding to kiss her and I didn’t do it to please Mr. K. I kissed her because I wanted to taste her soft lips; I kissed her because I wanted to fuck her.

    Mr. K said it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen; even hotter than what I did to her upstairs a few moments later. He confessed he will be masturbating to the memory of it for a while to come. Heh. Come.

    As we thanked our gracious hosts for an amazing night, I couldn’t help but giggle at M when she pouted that she didn’t get to at least see my boobs. So I showed them to her in the middle of their living room, because really, how could I not?

    After Mr. K fed me the best burger and chocolate shake I’d ever had, we showered and snuggled into our bed. We made love and held each other close, talking about the events that had taken place during our first swinger party. He expressed his powerful love for me, again saying I’m the best girlfriend ever because I am, obviously.

  4. Ask Heather: How Do I Pee in front of Sir?

    June 27, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Dear Heather,

    Sir and i were watching a film together with me sitting by His feet. In the middle of the film i felt the need to go to the bathroom. i got up and said to Sir that i needed to go to pee. Suddenly He asked me, “Do you really want to go to the toilet?” I replied yes. He then asked again, “Would you pee into a glass if I asked you to?”

    i should have known better but i immediately said “Are you kidding me? Of course not!” HUGE MISTAKE to be defiant. He said to me either i peed in a glass in front of Him or hold it. I did hold it till the end of the film and asked Him again. i still didn’t want to pee in from of Sir in a glass. So He ordered me to bend over my bench. He told be He was going to strike me with my paddle 40 times. He would continue till I would go pee in that glass.

    After a dozen of strikes, i said i would try. i tried but nothing came out. Some kind of muscle down there just wouldn’t relax enough for me to pee. Embarrassment was out of my head already. i just wanted to do what Sir wanted me to do. i failed and accepted the rest of the punishment.

    But Sir promised me that He will have me pee in that glass one day.

    Do you have any tips? No matter how much i tried to relax, the pee won’t come out.


    P.S. i am very happy with the blog you and Nikki have. I especially love your letter to your Sir at the anniversary. Very touching and inspirational.


    Dear Zoe:

    Thank you so much for writing! I had to squeal with joy that you gave me the opportunity to share this skill I’ve developed. Let’s face it. It’s not every day that you get to offer pointers on how to pee in a cup with an audience. (Although I suppose this would be helpful for drug testing.) Your email about the situation with your Master sent me tripping down memory lane to the first time I tried to pee in front of my sir. Like you, I couldn’t relax enough to do it, and I felt embarrassed that I had failed in my service even though my first reaction was, “YOU WANT ME TO WHAT?.” I’d say that my smartass mouth has improved since then, as well as, my ability to pee in front of an audience, but that’d be a lie.

    A little background for those VA readers who are wondering why the heck this is even a thing… in a dynamic of Dominance and submission, whether it’s part of BDSM or Domestic Discipline or whatever, the Dominant is the doer and the submissive receives the stimulus. Sometimes the action of the Dominant, in this example the command to pee, isn’t the actual fetish. It’s the aspect of control, of making your submissive do something he/she doesn’t really want to. And sadism can certainly play a part if the Dominant enjoys the sub’s discomfort, embarrassment, or humiliation. The submissive on the other hand, providing that the action isn’t a hard limit, often enjoys having boundaries pushed and likes complying with the command. Of course, how this specifically plays out in the dynamic depends on the people involved, but that’s the general outline of the game. And holy moly, can it be a fun fucking game.

    My dear Zoe, there are two specific things that helped my bladder get over its stage fright. The first thing was kegels. (I simply read the word, and I’m compelled to do them.) Here’s a simple how-to and why from the Mayo Clinic. If you don’t do them already, they will be very helpful in teaching you how to control the muscles that control urination. Not to mention the added bonus of tightening up your vag. Stopping your pee midstream while you’re by yourself in the bathroom can illustrate what those muscles feel like when you tighten and release them. This is the first step to many things sexually. Know your body and how it works! When your brain gives the command to stop peeing, you then have to give yourself the command to release. As you become conscious of this instinctive function, you’ll be able to control it more which will allow you to control it better when the time arises for you to do it on command. Hurray!

    I’m guessing that your punishment didn’t help matters either, because your body was tensed for the spanking. Once your muscles are in the place of receiving stimulus, it would be challenging to relax them enough to relieve yourself while feeling embarrassed about doing so (or failing to) in front of your Dominant. The trick is to become comfortable enough to pee and perform way before the situation gets to punishment. Although your spanking sounds pretty hot. Just sayin’.

    The other thing that really helped me was practice. I was partially forced to practice because sir took away my right to privacy. In our house, there are no closed doors except when sir wants his privacy. Otherwise, sir can wander in and watch me do whatever I’m doing in the bathroom. In the beginning, I was appalled. And grossed out. I mean, bathroom functions are private. I don’t like doing them in front of trained medical professionals let alone people I love and have sexy times with.

    I don’t think you have to start peeing with the bathroom door open, but you need to shape up your pee muscles by practicing with kegels. Then you need to practice more by peeing into a cup in the bathroom or wherever you want to do it. Don’t be afraid to make a mess. My first couple times I freaking sprayed pee everywhere. Thank goodness I was in the kitchen (and on the linoleum). I started out with a bowl then worked my way into smaller and smaller cups. When I finally could pee in a juice glass without spilling a drop, I felt like a badass ninja motherfucker. I’m pretty sure I yelled, “Fuck yeah!” and did a victory lap through the dining room.

    When I was finished writing this response, I read it aloud to sir for his feedback. He replied that he didn’t want to condone unsubstantiated claims on the internet (can you tell he’s a lawyer?) so he sent me downstairs to fetch a juice glass. Next thing I know, I’m standing in the bathtub and preparing to pee into the juice glass. I confess that I got a case of the giggles as I watched sir settle himself on the bath mat like he was preparing to watch something riveting on the television. No doubt he wanted to scrutinize the process and add to my nervousness. He suggested that I hum to myself to get things going, but once I focused on the task at hand, I filled that juice cup with ease. I was reminded of two other factors that may help in your training. 1.) It’s easier if you feel the need to go. Not an emergency situation, but wait to practice until you feel a significant urge to empty your bladder. 2.) The more delicate I try to be or the more careful (i.e. when I’m trying making it a trickle), the more I spray or dribble all over myself. It’s when I let go with confidence that I have one single, strong stream. Also, don’t hold the cup too high against your crotch. You’ll only make things messier.

    Once you become familiar with the series of muscles working when you pee, and you get used to peeing in things other than the toilet, I have the utmost confidence that you’ll be able to pee for your Master when the situation calls for it. And when you do, please tell me about your victory lap.

    *boob smoosh*


  5. New Cover Reveal!

    June 20, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    Quick and Dirty Beginnings gets a sexy, new cover!

    Available on Amazon



    This short collection of beautiful beginnings peeks into the bedroom of a woman who thought she was submissive and the man who knew different. Together they explore her dominance, his submission, and face the emotional challenges of a threesome. Through it all, he worships her, uses her, and loves her.

  6. P is for Pro-Choice

    June 16, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    Some things are done a little differently in the south. For example, whenever a girl was knocked up in the small, Georgia town where I was raised, she got married. It was as simple as that. And as crazy as it sounds, I knew two girls who were fifteen– the age of my daughter –when they took on the grown-up roles of wife and mother. They were too young to even drive themselves to their obstetrician appointments, or anywhere else, for that matter. As most parents saw it, though, if they were old enough to have sex, they were old enough to accept the repercussions of their actions. Of course, the shotgun unions weren’t destined for the long haul, and they usually crash landed in divorce court before the five year mark. But not before they’d had at least one more baby and had been saddled with no hope of ever pursuing the life they once dreamed about.

    I was seventeen years old when my birth control failed, and like anyone that age should have been when they found out they were pregnant, I was scared. That dark ring in the center of the at home pregnancy test spelled out my future for me, and it wasn’t one full of rainbows and sunshine. I would become another statistic; a young divorcee who had been battered and bruised. I would eventually be that single mother who had no skill or education, struggling everyday to put food on the table, that is, if our fights didn’t escalate to a fatal level before I found the courage to walk away. THAT was the life I saw and it was not the one I wanted.

    My boyfriend, who was twenty when I got pregnant, had it all figured out. He said we were going to get married and have a family anyway, we would just start our life together sooner than expected. He swore he would take care of me–he promised everything would be okay. Deep down, though, I knew it wouldn’t be okay. When I resisted his plan, when I told him we were too young to be parents, his happiness of jump-starting our future turned to anger. Once again, everything was my fault.

    After days of non-stop fighting and emotional explosions, he took my right to choose away from me when he threw me against the open tailgate of a pickup truck. But as I lay face down on the driveway, my thoughts weren’t about what could happen to the baby–I wondered how I was going to explain my fall and whatever marks it left behind to the friends and gawkers around us.

    I didn’t miscarry from the impact, but the damage done was irreversible, and when the ultrasound showed that the placenta had begun to tear away from the uterine wall, my doctor labeled the complication a ‘high risk’ for both me and the fetus. Sure, I could have had my cervix sewn shut and gone to bed for the duration of my pregnancy, but I was just a kid myself. There was no way I was emotionally able to handle that. At that point, terminating the pregnancy was the best option for me. But even then it was far from easy.

    Don’t misunderstand– there was never a moment where I didn’t want to have the baby, but I was only seventeen years old. And for every reason my boyfriend and my heart threw at me to keep the baby, my head countered with logical, reality busting rebuttals why I shouldn’t.

    Few people knew about my pregnancy, and even fewer knew about the abortion that followed the very public tailgate tumble. Those who were sober enough to retain what they’d witnessed that night gossiped briefly around town about a miscarriage. And even though all of the reasons I did it were in my best interest, I was terribly ashamed of terminating my pregnancy. Because of that, I let their assumption stand. In a way, I began to believe it myself because it was easier to swallow.

    I was still in denial five years later when my pregnant step-sister and I were escorted through a sea of angry protesters who threw things at us while screaming “baby killers” as we entered the clinic for her abortion. My mind didn’t race back to the time I sat with my boyfriend in the waiting room of a similar one years earlier, because it was a painful memory I had suppressed. In fact, it wasn’t until I wrote the first draft of BROKEN four years ago that the shame I’d lived with for so many years finally lifted, and I was able to say I’d had an abortion out loud.

    The thing is, though, I wasn’t a person who used abortion as a means of birth control. I was someone who had gotten pregnant by a man who was physically and emotionally abusive, the pregnancy was high risk, and I was a teenager.

    I know now that the miscarriage I had in between my daughter and son wasn’t God’s way of punishing me for the abortion I’d had so many years ago. And it wasn’t the reason I had such difficulty conceiving my son. Those would have been cruel punishments, and I don’t believe God operates in that way. I don’t wonder what my life would have been like if I’d made a different choice because I already know the answer to that– a sad and painful one. I don’t live with fear of being judged for my choice anymore either. If people do, they’re not who I want in my life anyway. I now stand behind the choice I made long ago, hold my head high, and speak openly about it. I’m no longer ashamed–I have no reason to be.

    If I had to relive that time in my life, would I do things differently? Some, but my life experiences are what has shaped the person who I am today and that, my friends, I wouldn’t change for the world. I’ve even asked myself if I would choose abortion again and the answer is absolutely. Why? Because it’s my life, my body, and my right to choose.


  7. M is for Mouth

    June 13, 2014 by Heather Cole

    My mouth gets me in trouble on a regular basis. I’m sassy, sometimes bordering on bratty, and words are my trade. If you can’t bandy words with me, chances are you won’t get in my pants. A friend joked recently that I always seem to carry a shovel with me. Meaning, I can dig my own grave with my words–a hole I can’t escape. My mouth often speaks before I can think through the repercussions which is one of the reasons sadists love me. I can’t help it so I’ve stopped trying.

    My mouth is central to my submission. I get spanks when I mouth off, among other things, and my mouth is a necessary tool when it comes to cock worship. I don’t give mere blowjobs. I worship, and my mouth is an essential part of this. It’s an intimate connection of taste, scent, and sensation. Until I met sir, I never realized how much fun cock worship could be for the giver. For that moment I’m in control, the architect of his pleasure. I’ve learned how to ply my lips and tongue to incite specific reactions in his body. BJs have become an integral facet of our dynamic, and I’m grateful for all the opportunities he gives me. Even the 3:00 am ones… ok, not those so much because SLEEP.

    Mouths are also a big part of the fiction I write, here and in my novels. Below is an excerpt from “The Professor’s Pet” in Tales of a Filthy Good Girl. (Buy it on Amazon! Pretty please!)


    She could always tell when he had a great class: his mood was buoyant and his gestures expansive. He entered the house with a broad smile, and she could feel his body practically vibrating with satisfaction when they embraced. She also recognized the glint in his eye and watched him warily. In these moods he reminded her of a tiger, lazy and lolling on his back one minute, his jaws around her throat the next. They may have been discussing dinner plans, but she could see the wheels turning in his head. It gave her an odd combination of nerves and happiness. It was her favorite kind of game, but as his pet, she never knew what would trigger the switch that would catapult them into a scene. He wanted her on edge, focused and watchful, and that’s where she remained. Until he said otherwise.

    Today was one of those times. He asked her about the roast which she had failed to start in the crockpot. She had a list of excuses, but as they tumbled out in defense, one of his hands came around her throat. The slight pressure stopped her mid-sentence, and she went completely still. He pushed her backwards until she hit the refrigerator, the magnets falling away as collateral damage.

    “I’m not mad, pet,” he said, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin at her throat.

    He captured her mouth and pushed his tongue past the defense of teeth and tongue. Her body responded instantly, betraying her desire. Her arms went around his waist and she tilted her head to give him better access, a flush blooming across her skin. She had the fleeting thought that if she pressed against him she would be able to absorb him into her body. At times like this, her entire world dwindled to the point of pleasing him, and she returned his kisses eagerly.

    “I have better plans than the roast. Go get cleaned up and wear your favorite dress.” He gave her an affectionate pat on the ass.

    She opened her mouth to ask him about the evening’s activities, but his fingertips dug into her neck just enough to halt her words. Blue eyes met hers.

    “I’ve had twenty-somethings in heels and business casual dress striving to please me all day with correct answers and insightful observations. I’ve enjoyed being obeyed at lecture. Are you going to please me now that I’m home?”

    “Yes, professor. I wish to please you more than anything.” It was a truth she felt in her soul and her body, the cleft between her thighs already wet with anticipation.

    “Good girl. Now go get ready.”


  8. L is for Learning

    June 12, 2014 by Heather Cole

    If there is one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that I will continually learn new things about myself. I thought my sexual awakening in my late teens was “the big one.” Little did I know that I would have a second, more profound, sexual awakening in my late thirties that would literally rock my world. I thought I knew everything I had to about sex, and I thought, for the most part, that the rest of my life was going to be the occasional, after church, missionary, twenty minutes for the rest of my days. I learned that missionary didn’t have to be the rule, nor did monogamy, and I learned how to find happiness in and out of the bedroom. I’ve learned the my sexuality is fluid as is my sex drive, and I strive to learn more about my partner in order to be a better partner.

    The L-word coincides nicely with June being Adult Sex Education Month. And if you immediately retorted, “Heather, I already know everything I need to know about sex,” then YOU in particular need to read more and explore. Especially if the core of your sex education came from the public school system. Get thee to a sex education blog! Quick!  The more you learn and discover about your own sexual self and sex in general, the more you realize there are holes in your education. And IN you. Heh. Holes.

    Personally, I’m striving to learn more about gender equality. I’m a fan of Laverne Cox, a trans person on Orange is the New Black. (She also made the cover of Time Magazine–and dayum!) In a recent interview, Katie Couric asked her “when you think about the ideal scenario for the trans community, what would that look like?” Cox replied, “I think it goes beyond the trans community. It’s for everyone to have spaces for gender self-determination. I think the idea that one is always and only the gender they were assigned at birth–that idea needs to be challenged. So that we’re not stigmatizing, objectifying, sensationalizing, or criminalizing transgender people, but celebrating them. And celebrating everybody who has the audacity to be themselves and to live authentically.”

    Laverne Cox makes my heart go pitter-pat, and she’s brought the trans community more front-and-center for me. I realize that some people are still struggling to accept gay marriage. Well, sweetums, gender equality should be the next thing on your To Learn List. It’s definitely on mine.



    As a sex-positive blogger who is a single parent of a teenage daughter and a son who is on the cusp of hormone hell, I’m learning that I have to communicate about sex in a whole new way. It’s a super huge responsibility and awkward at times, but it’s my job to make sure they’re properly educated about all things sex. I have to choose my words wisely, though, because they will be the ones that form their opinions. Like the time the teen brought up the topic of anal sex. I’m still learning how to answer their questions on a level they can understand and sometimes I fuck up, because I’m human.



  9. K is for Kissing

    June 11, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    One of the very first things Mr. K did when we finally met face to face was kiss me. His yummy lips were soft and full, and in the two years since that first kiss, I haven’t been able to get enough of them. Sometimes we kiss so much my lips swell as if I’d been stung by a bee. It’s a feeling I adore.

    Not long ago, the teen asked if we hold hands and kiss while in public. When I said yes, she proceeded to ridicule me, saying old people are adorable.

    She is such a brat.

    We do kiss in public, though. We kiss in restaurants, at traffic lights, and while shopping. We kiss a lot and often. And kissing me is the first thing he does when he comes through the door unless my ass is in the air. Then he kisses me after he…well, you know.



     The first thing he does when he comes home is hold me. His arms envelope me in strength and security, and he rests his cheek on the top of my head while I settle myself against him. Our time together has taught me where I fit best, and my body instinctively moves so that I can touch as much of him as possible. The excitement of his arrival smooths into contentment as my breathing slows, his heartbeat strong and sure against my ear. My hands meet at the small of his back, and I sink into the moment. His lips brush my forehead, my ear, and he kisses the curve of my neck. His lips brush my skin like butterfly wings, the sweetest of kisses. As I press the length of my body against his, I wish that I could hold our moment in my hand to keep forever. Time slows, and we arrive in the moment together.

    I am home.




  10. J is for Jump

    June 10, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    You’re probably wondering how Van Halen fits into the A-Z Spanking Challenge, but trust me, it totally does.

    Music is a super huge trigger for me. A certain song can send me spiraling through the vivid memories attached to it or the time that revolved around it. Some of those recollections are good, but others, not so much.

    When Jump hit the airwaves in 1984, I was a fourteen year old wild-child. I drank bourbon, smoked Marlboro Lights and pot, and I fucked– a lot.

    And in the words of the infamous Forrest Gump, that’s all I have to say about that. But if you’re dying for more–and you know you are –you can read all about it in Broken: A Memoir of Sorts.



    Big hair, tight pants, and a lot of jumping around in the back seat of a beat-up Camaro… that would be me, not David Lee Roth–he had a tour bus. OK, so my hair wasn’t very big despite my best efforts and a small fortune in Aquanet. I also lived in the country where cows and pigs were my closest neighbors which didn’t help my social life. I yearned to be cool.  No matter how much I listened to Motley Crue, I was thwarted by an uncommonly wholesome upbringing. Unlike Nikki, I wasn’t an openly rebellious wild child. I was the good girl next door, but I learned that I couldn’t resist a bad boy. Add some Van Halen and a muscle car, and my panties were history. (Yes, smartasses, at one point in my life I wore panties.) Hair Bands will always have a special place in my heart, because they remind me of that time when every boy offered a new sexual frontier to explore. Parked on a dirt lane with only the moonlight as a guide, I began to discover my sexual self.