Satin on Skin

Chubby calves and dimpled knees
Satin billows in the breeze
I capture moments such as these
And post them here as HNTs

The Improbable Adventures of Hermione Saucebucket

Chapter 18

"Ooh, begging your pardon, sir, but that ain't no cow. That's a bull!"

"Good heavens, Hermione, you're right!No, leave the picnic hamper. Just run!"

Mr Rathbone could learn a thing or two from that bull, thought Hermione as she gathered up her skirts and sprinted spiritedly toward the hedge. If only the sight of her dimpled knees, pistoning away beneath the hem of her red bloomers, would inflame his passions as much as it seemed to arouse the bovine beast behind them.

Mr Rathbone gallantly took the lead in their race across the field and hurdled the gate. From behind the safety of its wooden bars he shouted words of encouragement to Hermione.

"He's right behind you! Run!"

If Hermione had the breath to spare she would have retorted that she was running, but as it was she could only pant with her exertions and fling herself despairingly at the gate, a sweaty blur of panic and petticoats. Her momentum carried her over the top and safely onto Mr Rathbone. The bull snorted in disappointment. Mr Rathbone snorted because Hermione had her elbow in his solar plexus.

Hermione shifted position subtly, suddenly aware of the impropriety of their situation. She was laying full length upon the supine body of Mr Rathbone, bonnet askew, her petticoats around her waist, red bloomers on display. It was a moment of enforced intimacy the like of which she had previously only dreamt of. Her bosom heaved. Mr Rathbone heaved, but he still couldn't shift her. She was a sturdy wench. She gazed down upon him, her ringlets tumbling free from her ribbons, willing him to kiss her.

Mr Rathbone gazed back. He was going to have to ask her to get off. He had a strong suspicion she had cracked his hip flask.

"Hermione," he began, but got no further as Hermione took this as a sure sign of reciprocated desire and kissed him with all the fervour and throughness of a rotating cylinder steam engine.

How long they lay entwined neither of them could have said. Their kiss only ended when there was a sudden, shocked cry of "Rupert!" breaking the seal of their lips with an audible pop.

"Millicent! It's not what it looks like! I wouldn't kiss a servant! Hermione was just helping me set up the picnic when we were chased by a bull and - "

"I can only see one beast here," spat Millicent, eyeing Hermione's red bloomers with unconcealed distaste, " and he appears to have his hand in a servant girl's undergarments."

"Do I? Oh god. I honestly don't know how that happened. Listen," he scrambled out from Hermione and got to his feet. "You're the only girl for me, you know that."

Millicent merely stared, her eyes and mouth widening slowly in horror at the sight of the dark patch on Mr Rathbones trousers.

"What?" He looked down. "Oh that! No. God, no, it's not what you think. It's my hip flask, it's sprung a leak. Smell it, it's brandy. "

But Millicent had turned on her heels and fled. Damn. That was going to be a crushing loss to bear. She had huge assets.

"Never mind, " said Hermione as she adjusted her bloomers. "At least we can openly declare our love now."

"Well, yes," agreed Mr Rathbone as he further adjusted her bloomers to a new position somewhere on the other side of the hedge, and settled comfortably between her pillowy thighs "there is that."


You have been reading an extract from my exciting new literary project. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. It's a bit of a change from the usual blog book deal, in that my sexploits are not based on my own real life, really real, no honestly, they're real, experiences, but upon those I enjoyed in a past life as teased out of me under hypnosis and a quart of vodka.

"The Improbable Adventures of Hermione Saucebucket" is published by Van E. Tee Press and is available for just £9.99 + p&p from all good online rip off merchants or from a job lot in my shed.

Ties, Tied and Tired

Things are somewhat manic in the Boudoir at the moment.

Rather than depositing one challenge at a time into my life, fate, much like a postman gone bad, has decided it is easier to just sling the whole sackful under my hedge at once and fuck off down the pub.

I am heading off in the morning for the long drive back to the part of the world I call home. There will be no internet access but plenty of hospital visits and stress, so expect a bit of an interval between this picture of my arse and the next exciting bit of doggerel.

(That's my favourite nightie, that is.)

Content

He loves me in pajamas
He loves me in the nude
In hat and scarf and overcoat
He finds me rather lewd.

I turn him on in stockings
I turn him on in socks
In saggy, baggy knickers
He still finds his world rocks.

He loves me when I'm gorgeous
He loves me when I'm not.
In slippers or in killer heels
It's me that hits his spot.

Mole or Marmite?

Another quality pastime from Luka Leisure Inc.

All you do is put a small blob of Marmite somewhere upon your body. Then your partner has to guess mole or marmite. A quick lick will soon reveal whether they are correct or not.

A more hardcore variation of this game is "Flakey Skin or Corny Flake". (Luka's Top Tip: cornflakes stick to the skin well if you soak them in milk first.)

Head to Toe

It is good to feel the sunlight on my skin after weeks of chilly, rain-spattered days. I turn my face to the sun and feel myself unfurl.

My toes curl in anticipation of kicking off my flip flops and feeling the dewy grass beneath and between them.

It is early morning and I am alone in the world, just for a few moments. I need this space, this pause, to gather my thoughts and my strength for all that lies ahead.

My head is in the clouds but my feet are firmly grounded.

Pimp My Post

I have thought of a fabulous new feature, which I strongly suspect nobody will take me up on, which is even better since there is no imminent danger of having to do anything extra to fulfill my obligations.

Those of my eagle-eyed, good-looking, smooth-talking regular readers will have spotted my Real Sexy Sex Fleshbot Me Fuck Post was, indeed, Fleshbotted!

I was pleasantly surprised by this, given that it is the second silly post of mine to make the grade. My success in rewriting the standard sex blog post and crafting it into something entirely new and utterly stupid has led me to consider offering my services more widely. As things stand it is only those posts I stumble across in my regular rounds of this corner of the internet that have my light shone upon them.

So, if anyone has a favourite post of theirs - or even someone elses - that they feel is looking a bit tired, a bit uninspired and just hasn't generated the comments they hoped for, then send it my way. I will Pimp Your Post and make it so much better. I can add comedy, hilarious misunderstandings with a cream horn and a photo-me booth, coarse language and an utter disregard for social niceties. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll leave me offensive comments and you'll thank me in the long run.

Cyber

Some people use the miracle of technology to provide cyber thrills when unable to be with someone in person.

I am no different. I too have found myself alone and bored and in possession of a webcam.

However, I suspect I may be decidedly different to my peers in the way in which I utilise this facility. While others may be writhing around on their bed, sensuously, or typing in an increasingly incoherent stream of "oh gods" and "ooohs" I choose to play the Borg game.

This is where you set up a webcam conversation with your chosen one and then give each other a ludicrously short amount of time to go off camera and reappear as a Borg using only objects you happen to have close at hand.

If you ever tire of sitting before the camera, cock in hand, or legs akimbo I strongly suggest you give it a try. The giddy delight I have from taping a plastic cup and a phone charger to my face and then dashing back to the camera to see my companion has outdone themselves with a penlight and a couple of bulldog clips is incomparable.

I mention this only if any of you should take up an offer to "cyber" with me and are then left confused and disappointed as I go off cam and then return with a camera lens elastic banded to my forehead rather than naked and with a cucumber up my chuff as you may have hoped.

Real Sexy Sex Fleshbot Me Fuck Post

Words were unnecessary. Just a look was all it took to have my thighs opening and my gusset moistening. He was a veritable love god, stood before me, hands on his solid hips, groin jutting forward, proudly displaying his gaudily stained, yet impressively full, Y-fronts.

"Is that a salami in your underpants or are you just pleased to see me?" I bantered, lustily.

"It's a salami."

I laughed.

"No, really. It's this stupid fucking ban on plastic bags in order to save the planet. I didn't have enough cash in the supermarket to buy a re-usuable bag. Or a salami, if I'm honest. So I put in down my trousers and legged it."

God, this wild-eyed, sausage-packing maverick made me wet.

I tore open my blouse, sending buttons pinging across the room.

"Take me now!"

He didn't need telling twice. He flung the salami aside, stepped out of his undercrackers and pushed me down onto the bed.

"Tell me about him," he grunted as he set to with his own peperami.

"Who?" I panted as I gyrated wildly against him.

"Mr Baskum," he gasped.

Ah, yes, of course. This was a well worn fantasy of his. He liked to fuck me while I told him of my bedtime adventures with Mr Baskum, a stuffed penguin toy of mine.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes! Yes! I have thought of nothing else since we last met!"

"Well, I was in bed with Mr Baskum before I came here, to you."

"Did you...?"

"Rub his fuzzy yellow beak all over my face and pretend to feed him a fish? Damn right I did. And I fucking loved it."

His face contorted with what might have been jealousy, or possibly wind. Still, his peperami was feeling more like a full blown salami now so I knew his desires were being met. The kinky fucker.

"Oh god...yes....uh...uh...uh....What were you wearing?"

"Exactly what I'm wearing now."

"The naughty nun habit and a pair of flippers?"

I nodded, seductively, my head bouncing off the headboard as he pounded even harder. He'd bought me those flippers. I wondered how he felt about the thought of me in them, waddling about the bedroom with Mr Baskum, making penguin noises. Yeah, he got off on it all right. He could barely articulate now.

"And did he...did you...at the end....what happened?"

"God, it was incredible."

"Oh my....did Mr Baskum squeeze the salad cream bottle?"

"Fuck yes. It went everywhere. All over my thighs, belly and breasts. Some even hit my chin and dripped off, salad creamily. Dirty, naughty, beaky Mr Baskum."

That was it. I'd pushed him beyond the point of no return.

"Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggg," he cried. And "Nnnnnnnnggggg".

In one swift movement he withdrew and squirted his own organic salad cream all over my chest of drawers.

"Fuck. I missed."

"It's ok darling. It was still impressive. Now pass me that salami."

Edit: To read this sort of thing written seriously (and far better) go here.

Undone

My fingers move to unfasten the small buttons of my blouse, impatient with the less dextrous fumbling of his thicker digits. This is my undoing, this rush of desire that bypasses restraint, resolve, reserve and goes straight to garment rending passion.

I could wait, but why should I? I could waste precious seconds of bosom fondling time while he faffs about with these dainty fastenings. We could linger over my slow unwrapping but I am too eager for the feel of his skin upon mine. Sometimes later never comes, so I am a great believer in the pleasure and immediacy of now.

I try to be patient, I try to enjoy the suspense. Yet I skip ahead to the end of the novel, I tear open the corner of the wrapping paper for a peek, I read the spoilers and I grasp what I want and pull it toward, pull it into me, greedy for instant gratification.

This is my undoing. I am undone.

Fashion Tips for Sex Bloggers

Everyone knows that sex bloggers type up their hot and steamy escapades while dressed in Bovril stained dressing gowns and baggy underwear. But when they are offline and meeting fellow bloggers for a bit of mutual material garnering they need just the right outfit for that all important scene setting. Something that says "I am sexy, intelligent, thoughtful, adventurous and definitely up for a right good porking at the nearest Travel Inn."

So, to help things along I have come up with my guide to sex blogger clobber.

Girls:

1. A skirt. Short. Trousers are a big no-no. It has to be something he can stick his hand up or it just won't work in the blog.
2. A blouse with buttons down the front. No other top will suffice. It has to have buttons that reveal your heaving cleavage, buttons that can be slowly undone later, or sent flying through the room as he rips it off you.
   
3. High heels of some sort. Boots or shoes, doesn't matter which.
   
4. Stockings, of course. Tights have no place in sex blog writing.
   
5. Underwear needs to be sexy and impractical. The kind of elaborate basque or corset that can only be unhooked by a team of super-dextrous helper monkeys or something. Knickers are optional. If you do wear them you must ensure that they are sodden at all times and do remove them during dinner.
   

Boys:

1. Anything you like. It's only your hands, tongue and cock that'll get a mention so you can go mad and turn up in a wedding dress or a spacesuit for all it matters.

Lucky Stars

I have decided to dabble in astrology.

I have studied the charts carefully, consulted my almanacs and composed a whole new value added feature for this most varied and interesting of blogs.

It's in the Stars - Your Horoscope for the Week Ahead!

Actimel
21 January - 19 February

You will exchange money with a shopkeeper in the early part of the week. Expect to confront the raider of your dustbin. Cornflakes will be of significance after Thursday. The potato masher will turn up in the next drawer down.

Panties
20 February - 20 March

Be aware of elastic marks on your upper thighs as Pluto moves into your aura at 9.45pm on Tuesday. Be bold in your business dealings and throw away the funny smelling ham.

Hairpiece
21 March - 20 April

Expect a text on Friday from someone called Dave. Disappointment may feature in your life but you will find comfort in pies and vodka. Your lucky colour is puce.

Testes
21 April - 21 May

An old friend will spill tea on your correspondence and ask to borrow some money. The number 7 is significant this week. Those shoes will cause a blister.

Jammy Dodger
22 May - 21 June

As Saturn rises before you most weekdays you will discover there’s not enough hot water for a bath and all the towels are damp. Beards are important on Thursday.

Catflap
22 June - 23 July

You will receive a message from overseas, possibly about money or enlarging a body part. An argument on Monday will lead to unexpected chafing.

Duck
24 July - 23 August

Mars moves into the spare room in the later part of the week causing unrest and a disproportionate increase in milk consumption. A mix up with a post-it note and a tub of fromage frais leads to hilarious consequences.

Vimto
24 August - 23 September

You will put your hand in something sticky on Saturday. The salad drawer of the fridge contains an unpleasant surprise. Oven mitts are lucky for you.

Lilets
24 September - 23 October

Venus slides down the banisters this week, bringing romance and an unsettled stomach into your life. Trousers are important on Wednesday.

Sago
24 October - 22 November

The signs are promising that this is a propitious time to have a nice sit down and a cup of tea. Those spots are a reaction to your new deodorant and nothing to worry about.

Halibut
23 Nov - 21 December

A work colleague will eat the last Hobnob and trigger a chain of events that lead to financial crisis and a broken stapler by the end of the week. Listen to your heart when it comes to that spider in the bath.

Caravan
22 December - 20 January

A business deal will go favourably when you keep your cool and wear your lucky hat. The cat has left a surprise in the sock drawer.

Diaphanous

I have my softer moments. Times when I am not barbed, not clad in black and not tottering about in pointy-toed high heeled shoes.

Times when I am pulled so tautly in every direction I feel my substance thin to a sugar-spun translucence. I stand at the window and hold up a hand to the sun and gaze at the red glow of capillaries illuminated, my blood pulsing still, proving I am not yet as other-worldly as I feel. I am still a solid mass, I still cast a shadow where I walk.

How can someone who takes up this much space in the world simultaneously feel so insubstantial? Is it just my fancy that pain and problems are slowly eroding me or am I disappearing up my own most substantial and earthly backside in an agony of self-indulgent angst?

How can I be this gothy while wearing pink?