Merry thingie and a happy blah blah

Hi

No content today. No candid revelations. No opinionated nonsense (And for a girl who can't say no, that's a lot of negativity).

I've just dropped in to wish you a very merry Christmas and an extremely sssssssensual New Year. Okay.  A quick kiss if you must. An avuncular hug. Er, my uncle never did tongues. And he never squeezed my ass. That hand on my tit is bordering on incest. And the one sliding up my skirt and into my tiny knickers is little short of... of... Mmm, orgasmic. You have a lovely touch. And now your clothes are falling off, and so are mine. Funny how a quick kiss can speedily develop into naked 69. In my head, at least. 

In April, when I began this blog, I was all about writing and other everyday stuff. Now, after eight frenzied months, it's almost exclusively sexual. I have deviated; degenerated. And it's your fault! Yes, you! Observing. Measuring. Expecting. My occasional cheekiness has metamorphosed into full-on naughtiness. As I said above, I'm a girl who can't say no. No to teasing. No to showing you naughty selfies. To autobiographical erotica. And now, to masturbating on cam. Look what I have become! It is an addiction. The buzz is addictive. It is eating up my spare time, stealing my life. In the new year, I will get a grip. I must, before I go too far, before people close to me are hurt by it.

Wow. Another word-selfie. I'm so far up my own arse these days, you can see me on the tip of my own tongue.

Anyway. As I said above, merry thingie and a happy blah blah (as you may have gathered, I don't do holiday stuff, simply cannot do the heady hedonism, the galloping gluttony). I'll see you in 2015. And  I promise to be in control. Well-balanced. More civilised.

Finally:

Say sober, stay safe, while staying as sexy as you are. You don't need a drink to have fun. Certainly don't need one to get laid. Have fun, but keep your self-respect.

Lovingly and respectfully,

Alexandra :) xxx

World Gluttony Day, and a tentative celibate alternative.

Christmas,

Don't get me started on Christmas.

I don't know about you, but I'm fucking sick of it.

"Scrooge!' Some people may be shouting. 'Killjoy,' call the rest. Well, let me tell you why I dislike this celebration to end celebrations, why it really ought to stop right now.

Gluttony. That's just one reason. Greed is another. If he were alive today, Jesus would be turning in his grave. Except he's not in his grave. And he is alive today. Well, if one is a Christian, that is what one is led to believe. So, our Saviour, the chap who suffered for our sins and died in horrific agony nailed to a tree (for that is likely what happened. He would have carried his own cross-member up the hill and not the whole thing. If you've ever tried to get wooden furniture upstairs, I'm sure you have probably wondered how one man - already half-starved and badly-beaten - is supposed to have carried a quarter ton cross up Golgotha on his own. Or did you think it was balsa wood?), this terminally kind and benevolent creature, is gazing down on his billions of followers, nodding his serene head and smiling a beatific smile? Is he fuck. The guy who implored us all to live simply, to give our worldly goods away? The chap who said (in modern erotic parlance) that a rich man has more chance of shagging the eye of a needle than he has of getting into heaven? He's not smiling at all.

Let's consider that one word: rich. What would that have meant to Jesus? From his perspective, the stuff we collect about us today is the stuff of gods. For example, many people will receive a mobile phone this Christmas. Look at the power they give us. Think what they cost us. A third of the world lives on about a dollar a day, yet we wield such incredible-though-unnecessary devices as if we somehow deserve them. Humans don't need mobile phones. They don't make our lives richer. No, they don't.  Think about it. They water us down, spread us out too thinly, take away our here-and-now effectiveness, and distract us from what really matters. They are indeed the work of Satan (Satan: Santa - an anagram too funny for words), the Lord of the material. He tempts us and we follow, poisoning the planet with the process of mass production, while he laughs his demonic head off.

So, just to be clear: we are all rich. All of us who own a phone are not going to Heaven.

And gluttony? What of that once-deadly sin? On the day we celebrate the birth of Christ, we stuff our faces with all manner of food - the individual portions capable of sustaining a family of four for a couple of days - while half the world go hungry. On Christ's birthday we do this. Christ, you know, that bloke who...? Remember? That 'rich man, eye of needle' bloke? You gluttonous bastards.

But it's not just the greed and gluttony of individuals. That's not even half of it. It's the greed and gluttony of corporations. In our capitalist culture, so dependent on constant consumerism, we are bombarded by images of smiling families gathered around trees, by smiling children opening their presents, by candle-lit tables full of sumptuous food and sparkling wine. Buy, buy, buy. Consume, consume, consume. It has to stop. It has to. Stop. The world is sick. We are sick. Stop. Stop. Stop.

What is this 'Christmas' for anyway? If it is no longer a religious ceremony, let's ditch the Christ bit, ditch the mas bit too, and call it World Gluttony Day. Let's celebrate the fact that we can celebrate. That we are so well off. That we, in the West - in Britain, Europe, America, China (for no matter how East you think they are, they are West if you go far enough west) - are top dogs. The world is ours. Its resources are ours to rape, and to hell with the future. To hell with the starving, the sick, the expoited.

I warned you to not get me started. Christmas is shameful. I have felt it since I was first able to think for myself. So why can't you? Or maybe you do. Maybe you do, but turn your back on it. If so, shame, shame, shame.

Damn.

I don't even feel horny now. 24/7 horny girl has just gone 24/6. I'm not even going to masturbate today. Yes. In honour of all those who live their lives in deprivation, I am going to deny myself my lifeblood today, go without my daily staple and walk a day in their shoes. If they had shoes. Today, my fingers will travel no further south (except for necessary hygiene functions, of course) than my shoulders. It's going to be painful, uncomfortable - perhaps deliciously so - but I feel the sacrifice is worth it. And I'm doing this for all of you, nailing myself to the cross of celibacy, for your sorry sakes and for your sorry soul-less souls. Feel my pain, my frustration, and perhaps join me in my suffering. Deny yourself your daily wank. Unite with me and take a stand against the depraved pornography that is Christmas, by not stroking yourself to orgasm.

                 No more of this today for me!

It's going to be hard. Very hard. And wet. Very, very wet. But I will not dip in. Will not even nip in. I don't often make a promise, but when I do, I generally keep it.

This is torture. Thirty seconds and my fingers are twitching, my pussy is dripping. Tie me up. Tie me down. Fuck, I don't think cold turkey was such a good idea after all...

But wait! Remember that guy I told you about? The one who made me climax simply by breathing filth into my eager ear while nibbling its diamond-studded lobe? What a train journey that was. What was his address? What was his number? If it's you, if you are reading this, call me. I'm going to need you later; by this evening, I'll probably even pay you for it.

They say the Lord moves in mysterious ways and so it has proved: I didn't know where this was going till right at the end (which is how those anal sex fetishists always get me), though knew it was going somewhere. Listen! I have a dream! And it's brilliant. Let's start A World Celibacy day, a day in which neither semen nor vaginal lubrication is spilled, to remind us all not to waste the natural resources we have. A day to think of others and not just ourselves. A day to give without thrusting; be one without conjoining. All I need now is the UN on board. Leave it with me.

See you later, masturbator,

Alexandra :) xxx

Where is all this porn taking us? Will we survive it?

Hi

Hope your weekend is going well x

Grab yourself a coffee, install yourself in a comfy chair, and let's talk about porn.

There is no doubt in my mind that - as with violence - an abundance of sexual imagery and sexual content in the media has desensitised us to its effects. I wonder just where this trend is heading. Within a lifetime, we have 'progressed' from banning a book depicting - rather prosaically - the sex act, to allowing TV in which fully-naked females simulate - rather graphically - the singular act of masturbation.

Many pop videos are pornographic, depict almost-naked beautiful young people almost copulating. TV schedules are similarly strewn with nakedness and an abundance of 'adult' themes. If I wasn't enjoying it so much, I'd be worried.

And there's Babestation and its ilk. Fully grown, fully naked girls, shaking their oiled tits, slapping their glistening buttocks, writhing in orgasmic ecstasy while spouting filth into a telephone. And it's free! Have you seen the things they say? Amazing how all the rude words are so easy to lip-read. Fuck, cock, cunt, cum, tits... you don't need to be Helen Keller to get the gist. They tug their nipples, twist their nipples, stretch their tits and suck their nipples. The camera angle is such that you never actually see their sex lips. Some girls clamp their thighs together, expertly hiding their slits while still displaying neat strips of pubic hair - though more often it's a fully-shaved pudendum on display. How long before they will part those taut thighs? Spread those long legs, peel open those lips and finger themselves to orgasm before the whole nation? The day will surely come.

Soon, the above will simply not be enough. A woman's tits and bare body are now a commonplace sight, will soon barely get a cock to twitch, never mind spring erect at the promise of erotic things to cum. And isn't that what this is all about? Erect cocks? Turning flaccidity into raging tumescence? Yes, where are the naked men clasping their groins and issuing oaths into mobile phones? Is it that women are not so sexually driven? Or are we too clever to fall for that old trick? (For me - a girl for whom the term bi-curious was invented - a wanking man would not get me off half as much as those pouting pussy-hugging girls do. And that's not because I'm gay. It's because I am that girl, stripped bare before millions, shaking her tits, slapping her arse, teasing and taunting, beckoning, smouldering. Concealing that tiniest part. The bit you all want see. And listen to me! Yes! Fuck my cunt. Cum on my fucking tits! How I would love to mouth that to camera, while special offers for my graphic pics and cummy videos scroll across the bottom of the screen. What a buzz that must be! I've soaked my knickers just thinking of it.

And then, to top it all, there is the internet. A click of a mouse is all it takes to bring solo naked men, solo naked women - and every variety of naked twosomes and threesomes - directly into one's living room. There is no teasing, no subtlety; they will stroke for for you, squirt for you, insert fingers, vegetables, dildos... in fact, do any legal sexual act you care to name. Again, if I wasn't enjoying it blah, blah, blah.

I know I should be outraged. Indeed, there is a part of me, a not insubstantial part, that is. I worry for our future, fear for our children, and shake my head at the world we are creating for them, a world in which sex is shamelessly exploited for profit, where women are degraded into sex objects, a thing into which to shove a stiff cock.

And yet, it is simply because of this climate that I have been able to express myself sexually. Yes, had I been alive in the sixties, I could have written erotica, but what could I have done with it other than hide in under my bed? Nothing. So I could have, but I wouldn't have. The impetus to write springs from the ability to share my thoughts, desires and experiences, from being able to cast them out into the ether and to know they are being read by others. By you. So I can tell you how it feels, to me personally, to be fucked. Tell you how I masturbate, and what turns me on the most. I can weave love through these descriptions, along with lust, insecurity, fear, rejection, longing, hope... Indeed again, I can weave whatever the fuck I like, whatever I want. Whatever I need. It is a need. A hunger. A sensation I simply have to sate.

So, I ask you one more time: where is this going? Not sure? This is what I think:

It will run its course, go full circle. Nakedness will become tiresome. Wanking in public will become passé. And then normal service will be resumed. Decadence killed off the Romans, but surely we are better than that? Have learned something from that? Yes. Well, I have, at least.

But till that day when a glistening rigid cock entering a tight squelching pussy produces no more response than a world-weary yawn, pass me the baby oil and hand me that massive rubber cock. Oh, and while you're at it, be a darling and turn on my cam. Thanks.

Yes! Fuck my cunt. Cum on my fucking tits! 

See you later, masturbator!

Love,

Alexandra :) xxx

#Free # Erotica from the remarkably generous Alexandra Amalova

Hi

I decided to give my new book away for a couple of days. You know, the one that took me a year to write, edit and proofread, the one I poured my heart and soul into. What the hell, I thought. It's almost Xmas!

It's free now on Amazon and will remain free to download till midnight Monday PST (8am Tuesday GMT).

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Q3HVQEI

I hope you take advantage of me. Come on! You know you want it! Take it. Take it all!

If you do download it, read it and decide you feel like leaving a review on Amazon - whatever your thoughts - then I will be eternally grateful and - should we ever meet - do something very rude to you with my extremely dexterous mouth :) xxx

All the very best,

Alexandra xxx

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy...

Hi

Into December we go. Another twelve months, from J to D, almost over. I've looked back on my first year spent here (I actually started this blog in April, but, with the end of the calendar year growing ever nearer, it seemed like a good time to take stock) with mixed feelings. Those who read my sporadic posts will have got to know me quite well by now. Indeed, you know more than the people who imagine themselves to be closest to me. For example, if my friends knew I loved to cam in the naughty naked nude - bring myself to a breathless climax while ogling another solitary human somewhere else on this dirty little planet doing something very similar - they would be appalled. I say appalled, though, for all I know, they may all regularly (though surely not as regularly as me, I hasten to add!) do the same. As another example, no one I know in the flesh has any inkling I write erotica. I am too prim, too proper, too sickeningly nice, for them to consider something so perverse, and yet there it is. So, as I said, mixed feelings. I'd love to be the me I am on here and let everyone see it. Flirty and naughty, suggestive and foul-mouthed, open and honest and constantly gagging for it. But I can't. I just can't let myself go.

Last week, while camming (anonymously of course) on my favourite site, I actually read one of my stories out loud, hoping it might encourage someone to buy one (it actually worked: five tomes were snaffled during that short salacious spell). I was wearing my favourite pleated kilt, my most sensuous silk shirt, black lacy hold-ups and nothing else. My nipples were beautifully poky. My winking pussy was beautifully smoothe. The cam was occasionally allowed down my cleavage, given gory glimpses between my knees, and savoured sticky sojourns up my skirt. Fuck it turns me on to be so brazen. What a buzz! It feels so incredibly good, I constantly wonder why all the civilised world isn't constantly doing it. Yes, that's what I want to know. Why? After all: all the world is a virtual stage.

And this week, I hear you ask. What happened this week? Well, I got fucked this week. No, not at a distance, through some fish-eyed all-seeing lens, but in the sweaty spunky, seedy flesh. Actually prick-piercingly fucked. It was good. Not great, but good. He was a little lazy, let me suck and tease him for twenty whole minutes, then encouraged me to climb onto him, forcibly positioned me to sit astride him. After all, I am very petite and he is very strong. I was more than ready for him (so ready it appeared I had wet the bed), though would have loved him to reciprocate on the oral front, even imagined that he might at any moment roll me over and dive between my slippery thighs, eat me out till I yelped in ecstasy (please note: should we ever meet, I absolutely love being licked out). But no. He merely lay beneath me, feasted on my tiny tits, sucked my generous nipples and bounced me up and down, rather like some doll he'd just bought. Or some whore he'd just paid for. Whenever he needed me to stop, he clenched his imperfect teeth, grabbed my (lovely rounded, if I may say) buttocks, till his impending orgasm subsided, then started again. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy. Sucky, sucky, sucky

It was nice, though a little repetitive, and a little 'distantly intimate', if that makes sense, almost as if he were imagining me being there, rather than enjoying me being there, as though he were inventing me in his head, creating me as wanking fodder. Actually, I didn't mind, was enjoying contemplating my own sexy (there were three of him, one for every hole) scenarios, but suddenly realised I needed a change of stimulation; though my pussy could have stood his cervix-battering incursions for a good while longer, my nipples were getting a little raw. Being suddenly and uncharacteristically decisive, I donned my captain's cap, grabbed the rudder and took us on a different tack.

Laying flat upon his slender-though-muscled torso, I brought my legs together, nudged my knees between his, and assumed the inverse of the classic missionary pose. He quickly accepted his new role, splayed his legs like a bitch and lay back to take it. In this position, I was squeezing him very hard and obviously causing him not a little pain, though he persevered, probably as much in curiosity as anything else. With me between his legs, pumping in and out, ownership of the cock became blurred. Who was doing the fucking? Who was the penetrator, and who the penetratee? It was him then me, then him and him, then me and me and me, me me! I wrested it from him, rammed it so hard and deep up between his body-hugging balls and into his belly that he squealed. Bitch indeed.

As I moved - actually more back and forth than up and down - my clit was brushing deliciously against his hairy pubis. Now I had a cock and a clit. I shoved my tongue down his throat, pressed my breasts to his chest, intensified my horizontal oscillations and began to cum. He grabbed my buttocks, clenched his teeth, but I was having none of it. My twisted grin was of the dominatrix variety; it overflowed with silent authority. I'm in charge, mister. I choose. I decide. And I'm ready. Yes, I'm ready, so fuck you.

In fairness, and if the subsequent river of cum that pulsed down my leg in the shower was anything to go by, so was he. Anyway. My orgasm was long, intense, and went on much longer than his post-orgasmic discomfort could stand, but, as I said, today I was doing the fucking. He'd softened and slipped out before I had finished, my continuing horizontal oscillations suddenly bringing to mind a Yorkshire Terrier that had shagged my outstretched leg in the park one recent unseasonally sunny day. That thought instantly stilled me. I bit my lip then flushed and raised my eyebrows at his incredulous face. 

'You done?'

He sniffed.

'Yeah, all done here.'

'Cup of tea?'

'No, thanks. Better get back. Julia will be wondering where I am.'

I wish to fuck, with his cum still swirling inside me, his sweating body still pressed to mine, and our hearts still pounding in post-coital bliss, he would not use her name like that. 

So there it is. I got fucked. Is it better than writing about it? Almost. Better than camming? Some parts, definitely. Others? No, not really. Who could possibly be better than what I can imagine? Fitter, harder, prettier, more thoughtful, dirtier? I mean, he didn't rim me then lick his spunk from my cunt before pissing on me in the shower. It was nice, but decidedly lame. You would have done all that, wouldn't you, my imaginary fuck-buddy? Mmm, come on then. Let's do it now. After writing all that down, I'm wet enough, ready enough. Whip it out and have me quickly! Or, if your intensely curvy femininity means you lack the requisite parts, climb on top and let's get sixty-nining. Hurry! Before the kettle boils. You have precisely fifty-three seconds to have me before Earl Grey seduces me away.

See you soon.

Love,

Alexandra :) xxx