Thursday, November 14, 2013

33. Consistently Inconsistent, and the Harlequin

     So I’ve been staring at the next several pages of my journal for days and days. Here I’ve made this proclamation about getting this thing a step or two back toward what it used to be, but the next few entries are written very much in the style of what it has become (cue the funk soundtrack). So what’s a girl to do? I tried reading back over the early posts to confirm that they are more entertaining (they are), but wasn’t able to figure out how to morph the upcoming episodes into the view-from-just-a-little-further-away that I want. I don’t want to just bail on the idea; that would be too similar to the way I make grand statements about writing schedules and then immediately fuck them up. (It’s so consistent that some part of me has to be doing it on purpose. Self-sabotage or belligerence? Hard to say, maybe both.) But I really like the old style, even if I’m not going all the way back into it. Seriously, there’s funny shit in there! Look at this: “I got mine in pink, because I hate pink – I’m blonde and blue and so pink makes me feel like Barbie, which is only anything but heinous when it’s Barbie getting railed in the ass. Then it’s awesome.” That’s fucking hilarious! I don’t care if I’m the only one laughing, I crack myself right the fuck up! But this thing is one hundred single-spaced, typewritten pages long, and the best line in it is in the second post? There’s something wrong with that. So I asked myself what it was that made the early stuff come out so differently. I think it’s because those posts each had some kind of a point. They were all going somewhere. I had something to say besides “Yep, had sex.” So I tried to look at the new, as yet un-transcribed pages and figure out what the point was there… There wasn’t one. Not really. But as I was going back & reminiscing over the old stuff, I came upon The Way of the Moment. The point of that one is pretty cliché – we play by our own rules, I don’t give a fuck how anybody else defines this shit, blah, blah, blah. You’ve heard it before. However, that doesn’t make it meritless, and the idea translates. So I’m going to listen to my own advice and ignore any fabricated rules I feel like, even if I’m the one who fabricated them. (See my rambling and inconsistent defense of come versus cum.) If I have a point to make, I’ll make it. Maybe I’ll keep a better eye out for them, even. If I don’t, I’ll give you whatever graphic porn I’ve got in the bank. (Speaking of rambling and irrational declarations like the come/cum thing, have you noticed my refusal to call this erotica? I don’t want to derail this train what has to be a fourth time in one paragraph, but it’s intentional.) Anyway, somewhere in the mix, maybe a point or a shiny new thesis statement will pop up somewhere that I didn’t see cumming. (Hahahaha!) 
     Or it won’t, and that will be okay, too.

     Alright, so when last we left our fair heroine, she’d been assigned the task of finding a flogger suitable to the new era. I cannot adequately express to you how well I succeeded. Having exhausted the mediocre selections at the local adult stores, I went online. Dangerous, since you can’t try it out on your arm or your leg before you buy it. Also, I trust you have some inkling of just how much BDSM equipment is available online? Daunting as fuck. I perused noncommittally through those huge warehouse places, but as soon as I found Leatherbeaten, I knew that was where I was going to stop. The flogger descriptions were all written in a familiar vernacular that told me exactly what I needed to know, and there was a sense of humor inherent to the whole site. And then there it was. The Harlequin. I think my nipples got hard as soon as I saw what it was made out of. You can guess, can’t you? Rope. It was made out of rope. (Clouds part, ray of sunlight, and the choir goes “Aaaaaahhhh…”) I emailed back and forth with Billy (super nice, probably a ton of fun to get boozy with), and talked about options. He was out of purple, but was happy to make one especially for me, in… Red. See how poetically it comes back to the previous flogger discussion? If there are gods, at least one of them’s a kinkster for sure.
     The day it arrived, I went back and forth between feeling like I shouldn’t touch it and not being able to leave it alone. It wasn’t really mine to handle, it was only mine to receive. I swung it against my leg once but immediately felt guilty, so I settled for abstaining from holding the grip, and just indulged in feeling the rope ends against my palms and fingers. Eventually I hung it over the bedroom doorknob and waited for my husband to come home from work. I did all the prep and bath and shaving and lotion and crap to keep myself from going insane, and to make sure my skin was smooth and supple enough to sustain the night ahead. I let my husband know the package had arrived, so he wouldn’t be ambushed by a naked girl throwing herself at him in a puff of honey dust, the minute he walked in the door. (Actually, I went without honey dust, if you care. Just the good lotion. It makes for grabbier flesh and just slightly more palpable contact.) I tried to girl it up in skimpy little white things with tiny flowers, going for contrast with the thrashing that was surely coming, but (beside the fact that I can never take that shit seriously, anyway), I didn’t last an hour before I had to tear it all off and be nakednakednaked.
     He put on a Sex & Submission porn, and left the sound on. We never leave the sound on, so that was an interesting little embellishment. Something about the sound of the lash falling, as an accessory to the percussive soundtrack of the room. He started off testing the Harlequin on my ass and thighs. Love at first strike. All the fire and burn of the other floggers, but with the heavy smack I was missing in them. A bruisey thwack of seven looped tails, and the sensation of rope wrapping around me as it came down. No question it was going to leave deep purple marks. What is it about the marks? In the very first post here, I made reference to sex that you can see the evidence of on your body the next day, but it’s not just a reminder of the sex itself. It’s more than that, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Sure, there’s an element of exhibitionism to it when they’re somewhere you can’t hide, or when you’re changing in the locker room at the gym with an undeniably purple ass, but that doesn’t cover it either. It’s like carrying something with you, something less fleeting than the moments in which you got the welts and bruises. It’s something you gained from the experience, something created by it, and it’s a part of you, so that you’ve somehow become more than you were before.
     I was given instruction to lie back and play with myself while he watched. But of course he didn’t just watch. He had me grab and pull at my pussy and my clit, and the ropes would come down on me whether my hand was in the way or not. At the same time he talked to me about where this evolution was going, the admission of pain as one of my primary sources of pleasure, made me say it out loud, confirmed that he’d known before I’d admitted it to myself, and he flogged my snatch and the insides of my thighs while he did it. He went down on me then, with that languid, sucking, hedonistic mouth ravishing that’s very like being slowly devoured. When I started to climb the near side of the orgasm, he pulled away and went back to flogging me. Know what’s better than rope landing hard on flesh? Rope landing hard on wet flesh. He flogged me until I couldn’t keep still or quiet, then instead of punishing me for it, he took me in his mouth again. As a woman sleeping with a man, there’s something thrilling about the thought, when it’s had at that particular moment, of part of your body being inside of him, instead of part of his being inside of you. It never fails to escalate my arousal. The punishment came when I was denied again, at the rise of climax. And the rope tails came down between my legs and on my clit, made so extra sensitive by the near-orgasms and their contrast to the spikes of pain, and it wasn’t as long as the last time until I was squirming and crying out. Then again his mouth was on me, and I could think only of the wet, tactile kinship, the sameness of pussy and mouth, mouth and pussy, tongue and clit and labia, and warm, wet, pink flesh that parallels both chambers. That’s another thought that does it to me every time, but again I was denied.
     He lifted my knees, and pinned them back against my sides. With the language of a glance, that comes from being together for a very long time, he told me to hold my feet up, hands to the arches, keeping them wide over my head. It tipped my ass so that he had access to the underside, which he flogged with side swings and lifting strokes that came up from below. It gave him access to the backs of my thighs, which he flogged with hard down-strokes and across. He went on until I wasn’t sure I could. I have never safeworded with him. It’s not that he doesn’t push my boundaries – in fact it’s a particular pleasure of his to do so – but he can always see it on my face, and backs off right before I have to vocalize it. He told me later this night that he thought I was going to safeword then, and it made me wonder. There has to be an arousal in a dominant to bring a sub to the point of safeword. To hear it. I’m sure there are plenty who go there intentionally (though hopefully very carefully), and routinely. I wonder if he thinks about it. As I mentioned, I changed mine recently, and for the first time in my life. I did it to acknowledge the stripping away of that last pretense (by last I mean most recent – who knows if there are more), to let go of the word along with the time when I wasn’t admitting I might actually need it. It was never said aloud, except to confirm it, and I think it’s kind of fitting to cut it loose unspoken like that. I don’t know if I’ll ever use the new one. Maybe, maybe not, but I like it, I like having it. It has a potential that the other one lost under its pile of dust. It’s the potential that I like, I think. The not knowing. And I wonder if it made him think about it. I don’t know if bringing me to it would turn him on or horrify him. (Which is weird, because I feel like I should know that. How have we never had that conversation?) I think I’ll wait until he’s read this, and then ask him. On the night in question though, I did not. I was however, so overcome by being delivered from the flogging, when he stopped and went down on me again, that I got sloppy and let go of my feet. Try to guess what happened next.
     When he tired of punishing me, or maybe (hopefully), when he reached the point of being unable to continue not fucking me, he turned me onto my side and took me from behind. He did his progression and repetition thing where he starts super slow and goes on fucking me like that until my pussy melts onto his cock. Then he increases everything until he’s railing me fast and hard, and it’s like the orgasm is going to start at the very core of me, travel out from under my ribcage and my diaphragm and engulf the entire lower half of my body. After that point he was so deep inside me that he was just crushing himself into me and I was squirming back on him and squeezing his cock with my cunt.* And then, just when I’m going to die of pleasure, he stops, pulls almost all the way out of me, teases me with just the head of his cock nudging barely into my wet snatch, and he starts the whole thing over again. He still didn’t let me come. He pulled me up and put me forward over a wedge pillow. You know the stiff, triangle-shaped ones? High side under my hips, apex under my boobs, face in the mattress. He kicked my knees out wide, picked up the Harlequin and went to town on everything from my shoulder blades to my calves, including this upswing that would hit my whole pussy at once. I was beside myself. Went to another place, for awhile. In fact, I don’t know how that particular portion of the evening ended. He might have let me have a #3. I’m honestly not sure.
     The next thing I was aware of, was kneeling to face him. My front and my breasts were disproportionately pain-free, compared with the rest of me which was lit up like a string of Christmas tree lights – a hot, blinking fire hazard. I took my breasts and nipples in my hands, squeezing until my fingers were wet and slippery, holding them towards him for approval. He flogged them, of course. Again, wet skin under seven falling loops of rope. I think he was swinging more lightly than before, or my front bruises less easily than my back, because the stripes he raised there were gone by morning. He bent me forward again then, this time fucking instead of flogging, while he held my upper body flat. I remember the weight with which he held me down; I was restrained as surely as I would have been, had he strapped me to a table. (Which we don’t do anymore. I very nearly lost consciousness once, years ago, in Vegas. Good times.) He started to do what I thought was the same slow to fast, tip to depth maneuver he’d worked me over with earlier, but then one hand came off my back and I heard the flogger just the moment before it came down. He was definitely working more carefully now, because he was flogging and fucking me at the same time. Not even sparing my ass and unders, while he was inside me. Brave man. (Or a switch in disguise!)
     He left off then and motioned for me to suck his cock. It was hard to concentrate at first, because the flogging didn’t cease, and the angle (from over my head to come down on my ass), whipped the ends of the Harlequin’s tails right into my pussy. Finally I got my head around it though, and worked out that what was working for him was the deep stuff. So I went deep. I used the suicide squeeze with a slow withdrawal, straight deep throat with a swallow, deep throat with a tongue swirl, deep throat with an under-lick, deep throat with a pulse… Basically I got to work. Then, like he’d done to me, I backed out almost altogether and played with the tip. Tongue trap, ripe peach, I had to modify the Vegas trick because I was coming from straight in front of him, but it worked well enough to slow the attention of the flogger that was still messing with my control. I took the opportunity and lifted off him so he could see the volume of spit still left from all the deep throating, and I swirled it around the head of his cock, while he watched. That did it. A moment later he was pulling me up onto him.
     First there were a couple of deliciously smooth g-spot orgasms that oozed slowly, instead of gushing. Then he started talking me through my own rising climax. I was trying to recreate the awesomeness he’d given me with the slow to fast maneuver of hours earlier, but he was sitting up in a position that is one of my very favorites and instructing me on how to fuck him until I came, in this low, ongoing murmur, and squeezing my breasts until his fingers were wet, and I was closer and closer to just losing control in my typical cock riding frenzy. Then he said “Poor little clit, beaten and hasn’t come – rub it in your cum that’s all over my stomach…” And that was it, for me. Remember the vaginal orgasms I dubbed “Super Twos?” That sent me into the huge, ongoing, explosion of one of those, followed in short order by a second, of the same magnitude. Slightly ironic that he’d been addressing my clit, when he triggered that, and I didn’t have a clitoral orgasm all night.
     There was more cock sucking after that. I can’t resist his cock when it’s covered in my come. I brought him to the edge and backed off a couple of times, and was practicing the good gag (because it’s not enough to know how to keep from gagging, sooner or later you’re going to fuck that up, you also have to learn how to let yourself gag, and still stay in control). (Okay, plus, I think he gets a charge out of watching me gag on his cock.) I could have let him come then, but the fact was that I wanted him in my ass. He was still sitting as he had been when I climbed off of him, and I was tucked in between his spread knees, so all I had to do was turn around. I mean, I could have climbed back up where I’d come from and ridden myself to an anal orgasm like that, but my husband’s a visual guy; I wanted him to be able to see. Also, I can’t fuck him like that without losing control, and I wanted to make it slow for him. So I turned around and slid my feet and calves under his spread thighs, putting us ass to cock. I started with just the tip, working a little deeper then withdrawing, then the tip again and working a little deeper still, then withdrawing, then deeper still and withdrawing, while he watched. By the time I had him at full depth in my ass, I knew I was going to lose control like this, too. I was alternating between straight-up fucking him, and burying him in a backward grind and squeeze, when it happened. I’d wanted him to come in my ass, but I started getting hit with more of those long, low, slow-ooze g-spot orgasms I’d had earlier, and I got lost in my own pleasure. He probably would have come for me there, but I fucked it up in the throes of climaxing and blew the rhythm completely. I decided to make it up to him by blowing something else.
     He was all about the tip now, super sensitive to every move. I know what that’s like because he does it to my clit all the time, so I went kitten mouth on him. I teased him back from that with more of the ripe peach (which is exceedingly wet), and the tongue trap (which is exactly what it sounds like), and then I drew him onto a newer thing I’m trying to work the kinks out of. (I’m thinking of calling it the older sister, because when I fuck it up I end up punching myself in the mouth.) Anyway, it’s a variation on the half hand job, half blow job theme, so when he did come, it was one of those spilling, splashing, dripping-over carnivals of wetness that drenched me before I even got to swallow it.
     Cum stings a little, on fresh welts.


(Billie for Billy – Thanks darlin’! And hey, what else can you make out of rope...?)

*Yeah, I said it. Fuck off.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

32. Evolution

     Things that change: Everything. Things that don’t: Everything.
     And at the same time, neither of those statements is exactly true. Things are fluxy. This is me writing my way through it, from the inside. If you’ve been around for awhile, you might have noticed a few things. You might have noticed that the posts come more infrequently. (Yes, I see it. Once again, the English teachers present can, with all my love, fuck off.) There are reasons for my hesitation. Make no mistake, the biggest reason is that I’m lazy as fuck, but there are others. The easiest one is that originally this was all written out ahead of time (well, through the first eight or ten posts, anyway), and posted weekly while I was trying to keep ahead of it. On the other hand, I’ve been back to being ahead of it for the last couple of months, there are two or three more installments on the page after this one even, but I’m still slow to post. So I have to ask myself why. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, and I think it’s time to face the ugly truth of the situation. It’s another thing you might have noticed, if you’ve been around for awhile: It’s not as good as it used to be. It used to be about reflection and sexuality and sorting through my evolution from someone with a respectable career I was really pretty good at, to someone who is (instead) paying attention to all the other things I am. It has always been about sex, yes. But it used to be introspective and funny and maybe even a little philosophical, albeit inappropriately (which is the best way to be a little philosophical, if you ask me). Somewhere though, it has mutated. Mutated might be a little harsh. Let’s say it has metamorphosed into individual episodes of graphic pornography. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of graphic pornography, but what used to be an exploration, an investigation of my life and the sexuality inherent to it, has become more like a biweekly (if that) report. A play-by-play of my Saturday nights (and Wednesday nights, and Thursday nights, and the occasional Tuesday…), and while I sense that there’s a place for that, I think I’m better at something else. I think I need to shoot for something in between.
     I tried really hard not to become beholden to You, but the thing is, that was easier when there were four of You, than it is now that there have been fifty-five thousand. I think the motivation behind writing shifted from me sorting through my shit, to providing You with something to read, and much of the insight has been sucked out of it, in the process. One of the first four of You told me in the very beginning that she wished it was more narrative, sex stories if you will, and I think that’s sort of the same way I justified the diminishing art of the thing. It’s very possible that she’s in the majority, by the way, given the fifty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six page view difference between then and now, but remember way back in Fruit, Wine and Tantalization, when I said “I’m trying not to worry about you”? Right. So maybe this is me sort of returning to the inception of it all, by writing my way out of the flux. I’m trying not to worry about You.
     It’s no coincidence that the blog is fluxy right now. It’s the literary incarnation of my sex life, after all, and that’s fluxy right now, too. I’m doing things I never used to do. I’m capable of things I never was before. As much as I’ve always loved the riding crop, a few scant years ago I would have called you crazy if you’d told me my husband was going to take it to my clit and that it wouldn’t make me safeword. Or you may recall occasions on which my husband has charged me with bringing myself to a g-spot orgasm, and then sat and watched me fail until I came to tears of frustration and abject begging instead, before he’d take pity on me and get me off himself (which he can usually do in five seconds or less – I remember he made me count it out loud one time; I almost made it to three). I always blamed it on a near-impossible angle and the fact that my fingers are shorter than his, but I recently discovered that I was full of shit. It happened while I was backed up against the cushion at the foot of the bed, spread eagled and masturbating under his supervision and scrutiny. What I was doing wasn’t anything new or revolutionary. You know that thing you see from solo-performance porn stars, where they basically just finger fuck themselves super fast, with the palms of their hands slapping against their pussies? It’s just straight, self-penetration, with little to no finesse or any of the subtlety of slow manipulation that I love so dearly. It’s not like I’d never done it before, the point is that I’d never liked it before. Evolution, see? I got myself so close like that that it only took two quick little tries off the end of it, and I was spilling girl-cum into the palm of my own hand. I can do that now.
     At the other end of the spectrum is the slow-fuck that he loves so well. It used to be a delicious tease to me, an anticipatory stasis he’d hold me in until I could stand it no longer, at which point he’d let me off the chain and we’d burst into the hard-fast-and-out-of-control that launched me into wild, flailing orgasm. These days, that long, intense slow-fuck reduces me to a puddle of quivering, girl-shaped goo. Sometimes he does one, sometimes the other, sometimes both. The other night he flipped me face down, ass-up (still one of his favorites), and pinned my knees together under me. He slow-fucked me from behind like that until I was incapable of human speech, and then slammed me hard and fast until I was incapable of human thought. Then he backed off and started over again … and again. By the time he was finished with that game, I was a thing of pleasure only, aware of nothing beyond the sensation of fucking, from the tender skin over the arches of my feet, to the goose bumps raised on my scalp under my hair. Fully on another level of consciousness. It was a lasting condition, too; I went on a blow job run after that like I’d sacrificed my first born child to the goddess of cock sucking. There have been more than a few nights like that.
     And then, and then, and then… there is the element of submission. As always, there is that. I was hashing this out with Harpo, the other day, and I think I’ve got the metaphors right, now. She is my sounding board, and knows (like a good therapist) how to respond just enough to let me figure out on my own, what the fuck I’m babbling on about or obsessing over. She gives me someone else to write even the craziest of my shit to, and it lets me see the forest, even from among the trees. There is no beginning to the submissive aspect of my nature. Even more than a decade ago (dare I say decades?), every new element of domination to which I yielded only served to shine a light on something that was already there. It has never been about discovering something new, it has always been about recognizing something old. Reflections or sensory memories sometimes even from my childhood that were always just there without seeming like they needed explanation, that suddenly fit into place and make sense in a way that leaves me wondering why I’ve never questioned them. So I think of my sexuality as a big, old house that I’ve been living in for my entire life. After I came of age, I became engaged in lifting the sheets off of lavish furniture, reclining on the upholstery I’d never actually looked at before, instead of perching on top of the dust covers. In recent years, I’ve been wandering around opening the doors of whole rooms I’ve been walking right past, for years. Only now, very, very lately, I’m beginning to realize that some of that upholstery is actually just more sheets, that some of those rooms turn out to have walk-in closets in them. Should I stop playing around in the figurative and get to a practical example? You probably already caught the one I’m going to give you, if this isn’t the first post you’re reading; it’s just taken me a couple of weeks to come to grips with it. (Another reason behind being slow to post.) It was the thing with the floggers that really made me have to face it – remember? They didn’t hurt. And there you have it. Maybe it was obvious all along. It’s not just about submission with me, it’s also more about masochism than I’ve admitted to myself, before.
     So if you were one of the people who called bullshit on my whole It’s not about the pain spiel, here you go: You were right and I was wrong. It’s kind of a little bit about the pain. I can’t describe to you the internal turmoil I went through, trying to say that out loud to my husband. If you think it took me a long time to get to the fucking point here, you should have heard that. It was a monologue that was more pregnant silence than actual words, because I couldn’t get them to come out of my mouth. But I did it. I said it. Okay, okay, he had to fill in some of the words for me, but however it happened, it got said. And then (predictably) he Han Solo’d the shit out of me and said “I know.” Fucker. I love him so much it’s sometimes hard to breathe.
     So everything changes, and everything stays the same. He sent me online, tasked me with researching and finding a flogger that feels good because it hurts, and as a kind of symbolic acknowledgement of this next epoch in our long and storied relationship, I have changed my safeword for the first time, ever. I have a feeling I might need it.
     As for the writing, I have no idea where the fuck this thing is going. I’m trying to sit back and watch it happen, instead of pushing it toward somewhere I might assume – likely wrongly – that it will end up. I will put the words on the page, and then read them to find out what the hell they say. And on the side, I’ve started writing down the bag of tricks and blow job savvy compiled in my brain and referenced here. I’m thinking a little bit about an e-book. I don’t know if I’ll go through with it or not – I have a suspicion that anybody who might pay to read it probably already has a bag of tricks all their own. Still, I’ll write it and decide the rest later. Like with everything else, I’m curious to see how it evolves.

(It occurs to me that if you're a huge fan of something like dubstep, you should probably never, ever click on any of the songs I post...)


Saturday, October 19, 2013

31. A Day in the Flesh

     It was the comfortable, lazy morning of a day on which nothing in particular had to get done. You have to remember to appreciate those, when they happen. Groping is a pretty good way to do that. He had his hands all over me, and there really aren’t a lot of things on this earth that I like better than that. Unless I’ve had dirty dreams and stayed in bed far longer than is reasonable, I am not generally good for morning sex. I have trouble reaching orgasm at that hour. But he was touching me, and his body was pressed against mine, and there was a slow, deliberate mobility to all things tactile, and he brought me to an impressively explosive clitoral orgasm before we’d said five words to each other. Points to the husband; that’s hard to do to me. As I started to reach for him, he offered me a proposition. How about I start making the preparations for major event-sex now, from tip to toes and all points in between, and then maintain the state of readiness and anticipation all day long? I could change as often as I liked and play with myself at will, and luxuriate in the slow approach of a sure thing, in whatever way I felt like. I hand my hand on his cock, hard as ever.
     “So I’m just supposed to leave you like this, now?”
     “Yes.” He told me later that he’d wanted to come on my ass so badly that his balls hurt all day. I guess I’m not the only one who plays at deprivation.
     So I put on a negligee at 8:30am, and went to make coffee. Halfway to the kitchen, I noticed the familiar coolness of my bare feet on the floor, and went back for a pair of those slutty, lace, high heeled mules you can get for twelve dollars at Frederick’s. He’d already made a mental note of it as Infraction #1, but I redeemed it quickly enough to please him. So I made him coffee and then went to do hair and eyeliner and some of the more delicate, hygienic preparations for a no-holds-barred kind of encounter. I stopped short of honey dusting, because my next stop was going to be the pool. I haven’t mentioned the pool before, because it’s brand new – finished just in time for the weather to turn cold - but today was bright and sunny, and I had a book to finish. I was all set to go outside, gathering my things, when I discovered that my We-Vibe had died. This put a crimp in my plans, as it’s the only waterproof vibrator I own, but I set it to charge and went ahead anyway; I still had fingers, after all.
     I slid out of the negligee and stretched out on a lounge chair, with my thighs spread enough for easy, casual, self-inflicted teasing, and read for awhile while the sun toasted me. The book had been frustrating me for days. It had been recommended as a good, BDSM fantasy story, but it turned out to be unfortunate that the plot was decent, because by the time I figured out there was no actual porn in it, I’d already become involved. Kushiel’s Dart. It’s full of open reference to full-on kink, but reference is all you get. It walks right up to a scene with a swinging, curvy gait, trailing a whip and beckoning you over one shoulder, and then the chapter ends with only implications of all the action that followed. There’s no sex on the page. And it’s 900 pages long. I was considering throwing it into the pool when I was done. In the meantime though, I read and played with myself until the smell of sun-warmed skin wafted off of me, then I left my shoes on the top step and slipped into the water to watch my nipples tighten just under the surface. What is it about being submerged in water? There’s nothing quite like the sensation of swimming naked. I’m not a huge fan of the ocean (I‘m overcome by a healthy fear of Poseidon when faced with that kind of vastness), but a pond or a lake or a river or a pool will have me shucking clothes right into Autumn. So I floated about with my hands on my body, feeling wet flesh with wet fingers, tightened skin and the lift of breasts magically made lighter. Then I slid up onto a raft and spent the next hour finishing the book, with the sun drying and warming and toasting my ass, to match the work it had already done on my chest and belly.
     Back inside, I did a little primping and fixing, and changed for “lunch” (not sure I actually ate anything). I put on a white bustier and the tiny black hot pants, to match the good, black and white striped shoes. We lounged on the bed, watching porn and talking about sex. I got my We-Vibe off the charger and played with that while we talked, until the partial charge wore off. Kiss a little, play a little, suck a little cock. He held my face in both hands, and then slid them down to my throat, just looking at me without pressing, both of us knowing he might at any moment. I did a little more prep (because while I’m pretty casual about things like ass to mouth, it’s partially because I’m pretty fastidious about ass play in the first place). I returned and sat on my cone next to him while we discussed the potential directions the next several hours might take. He trailed his fingers down my underarm, teased my pussy, groped my ass. He watched me bring myself to orgasm in a conflicted state of desire and jealousy that he has come to enjoy.
     I still had some grooming to do – touch up the trim job and I wanted to wash off the taste of the pool – when he offered up another little proposition. He might just run out to the adult store and pick up a flogger, while I finished getting ready. We’ve never had a flogger. Their effects have always seemed a little frivolous and aesthetically they’re kind of stupid looking. We’ve had a little paddle/slapper thing for ages that we never use, because it’s more about the sound it makes than the impact it has. Pointless. Floggers seemed like the sort of things that would end up similarly collecting dust. Recently though, we’d had a conversation about the fact that we may have been judging them too harshly and based on almost nothing. It seemed a novel idea, so I kissed him and watched him go, and set about the rest of the girly stuff.
     The adult store is only a few minutes away, so I was still filling the tub when he returned. He had two floggers: One narrow one, with red accents on black leather and long, thin tails; the other shorter, fatter and all black, with tails that were thicker, heavier. He told me he’d been leaning toward the long, thin one, but knowing my dislike of the color red, had gone ahead with both. For science, you understand. I turned off the water and stood, and then kneeled and crawled onto the bed while he tested them against my thighs, then my back, then my ass. I liked it immediately. Enough so that I couldn’t tell which was better, the thud and burn of the fat black one, or the whip and sting of the red. They both felt… Good. I went undecided into the bath, with an early glass of wine and some responsibly graphic porn.
     We continued talking about sex and porn while I shaved my legs and my husband perused the movie library. Once out of the tub and mindful of the morning’s directive to keep all things just-so all day, I tweaked the hair and eyeliner until there was no evidence of my bath. Then I got out the good lotion and took up my perch on top of the backrest at the foot of the bed. Naked and still soft and steamy from the hot water, I made sure he had a good view while I overused it, until I smelled of warm cake from neck to boobs to snatch to toes. Someone once told me I had an ass like French vanilla ice cream, and though I suspect he stole that line from a movie, it does good things to my ego while I’m doing something like making a spectacle of rubbing lotion into it. I had a plan for what I wanted to ultimately end up wearing, but I wasn’t sure it was late enough in the day to put it on. My husband confirmed my hesitation with the suggestion that we spend a little time outside, while it was still light. He wanted to do a little mutual look-no-touch, and I quickly thought of a way to put a bit of a twist in that, while injecting a touch of pink into the affair that might just make him want to defile me that much more. I have a pair of panties that look exactly (deceptively) like the stretch lace ones that I have in several different colors. I’d had them for some time, but only worn them once and briefly, and I put my money on the likelihood that he wouldn’t remember them. They are deep pink, with a little purple woven in, and I put them on and got them adjusted to maximum disguise without his noticing anything. I slipped into a tight, nettie little white camisole, and a pair of ankle-strap heels that I never wear (too pink). On our way out, I grabbed a fat, pink make-up stick that triples as blush, eye shadow, and lipstick, and smells like lemonade flavored bubblegum.
     We went out by the pool, and he set himself up on a barstool, looking down on me, while I stretched out on a lounge chair turned to face him. There were people over the wall behind us, and our neighbors in their yard to one side, and we listed to them talking while he stroked himself for my viewing pleasure, and I propped one leg over the arm of my chair and did the same for his. He had cigarettes for me (two! – that must have been what he was up to while I was concealing the nature of my panties), and I smoked one of them while I played with my boobs and my nipples, and traced the fingers of one hand over the fabric at my crotch. Understand that I fully intended to defy the no-touch condition of the exercise, but I knew I had to wind him up a little before he’d let me get away with it. So I waited for his gaze to narrow from a full-body survey and ogle, to a visual devouring between my legs, accompanied by the increase of intensity in the stroking of his cock, and then I carefully revealed the split crotch of the panties. I was rewarded with a low, animal sound from the back of his throat. I teased both of us with a finger to my labia, splitting them like the crotch of the panties, just the tip inside and sliding from the bottom to the top, slow circle around the clit… Then I paused, took my hand away. He looked up at me and I smiled and uncapped the make-up stick. I looked back at him while I applied it first to the lips on my mouth, and then carefully, slowly to the lips of my pussy. I lit the other cigarette and hoped he could still smell the candy scented make-up from where he sat. I don’t know if that’s what did it, but that’s when he stood and offered me his cock. I abandoned the smoke and crawled forward, squatted in my high heels, at his feet. I tried briefly to maintain the integrity of my lipstick for the slutty Barbie effect of it, but before long I was on my knees on the deck, and his cock matched the color of my shoes and my panties and my pussy, and smelled like lemonade flavored bubblegum. He put his hand at the back of my neck and pushed his cock into my throat, just once, then he held me off of him and met my eyes when I looked up from the ground.
     “Go get dressed.”
     Now I could put on what I’d been waiting to wear. It’s an underbust corset I’d bought, after the night of Conflicts and Contradictions, when my good, black corset had proven to be in the way of the nefarious plans he’d had for my breasts. This one is of even better quality – it might, in fact, be the nicest thing I now own. You can feel how good it is just in the heavy quality of the fabric. It has vertical, black-on-black stripes (to go with the awesome shoes), and steel boning with visible steel closures down the front. It’s fucking beautiful. I put on the stripey shoes with appropriate ceremony, and they looked as perfect with it as I’d hoped they would. I went stockingless, so that my flesh was available for the floggers from my ankles to my hips and ass, and then above the corset from the underside my breasts, upward. The last piece was a little embellishment that I used to sport often, but hadn’t worn for probably years. Have you ever tried nipple bands? I highly recommend. Visually, it’s like dressing up your boobs, but without covering any part of them. Are you familiar with those thin, round, black rubber bracelets that Madonna had everybody wearing by the dozen, in the 80s? (I think they were really just vacuum seals, before they got popular enough to be mass produced.) These are the same thing, only nipple sized. They come with a rubber bulb, attached to a little glass nozzle that you slip over a nipple while you hold the bulb compressed. Let go of the bulb, and the suction pulls your nipple into the glass. Then you roll the nipple band off the outside of the glass tube, onto your areola, and remove the bulb and nozzle. Now your nipple is bound tight, erect and engorged and encircled, so the visual effect is topped only by the sensory one. Standing there admiring my breasts in the mirror and feeling the grip of those little rubber circles, I couldn’t fathom why I’d possibly abstained from wearing them for so long. Just the shoes, the corset, and the nipple bands, that (besides the not quite invisible personal climate of a full day of sexual tension), was all I wore, and the impression was killer, and I felt absolutely marvelous.
     Time for the true testing of the floggers.
     Standing, he took them by turns against the backs of my thighs and my calves, my shoulders and shoulder blades, my arms and my underarms. The differences between them were predictable: The long thin one has more sting to it, the kind that makes you suck in your breath through your teeth in a hiss, the shorter wider one has more weight, more blow to the blow, the kind that makes you lend voice to an involuntary exhale. The difference between both of them and the flogger or the switch was noticeable: Instead of a swat that cracks hard enough to make you gasp and cry out, and then deepens into a whole new type of pain that makes it hard to breathe at all, the floggers light a dozen little fires in your skin all at once, and then instead of fading or increasing, they simply stay lit. You can feel them for full minutes afterward, as though the tails are still coming down on your skin. As before, the way it presented itself to my mind was just that it felt good… Only there was a shadow of a but in the back of my head that was trying to get my attention. I knew what it was and tried to ignore it, because I really was having a lovely time of it. There were bright spots lingering, residing in my flesh as he summoned me onto the bed and cross-examined me on the merits of the thin one versus the fat. I sat on my feet, on my shoes, before him while he took them one at a time to my inner thighs, my outer thighs, my breasts, the undersides of my raised arms, my pussy. And here’s where the point came home. I like thud more than sting. That was clear by now, and (as everything has, for the last few years of sex becoming more and more based around dominance and submission), fell neatly into place with every erotic sensation and emotion I’d ever failed to pay proper attention to. So, when he told me to choose, when he made me voice a preference, select the flogger with which he would continue from under the blows that didn’t stop falling, why, why, why did I choose the evil, pointy slice of the long thin tails? I tried for a moment to suggest that it had something to do with the fact that it was the red one. I don’t like red, so I chose the red one. But that only made the point more obvious; I’d chosen the one I didn’t like. The whisper at the back of my head shifted quietly to the front: The floggers felt good… but they didn’t hurt. The lack of real pain in the sparks of leather raining on my flesh is fun at first, but then I miss it, and I can’t pretend I don’t. I did not voice this thought. I didn’t need to. I needed to know it and sit with it, and in the mean time give myself over to my husband, who had dropped one hand to the bed, palm up – a signal that I was to put my pussy in his hand, which I did, and let myself be carried away from introspection and analysis by the heady rush of g-spot orgasm.
     He made me sit immobile, arms clasped over my head, hands to elbows, while he let me try to recover and brought me off again before I’d succeeded. I was sitting in a puddle of my own come at this point, a pool of it in his palm, and his fingers at work and then at rest and then at work inside me. I was too caught up in the whirl my head becomes during recurring orgasms, to recognize that he was working left handed, and then the red flogger came down on me from his right. He flogged my breasts with their tight banded nipples, my thighs from the outside, sufficiently hard that I could lose myself in the loathsome sting. Then he pulled his hand out from under me, motioned me to lean back, and went to work on my inner thighs and my pussy. He flogged them pink and hot and then reached in and made me come again, and before I could recover the long thin lashes were back in play. He brought my nipples into it then, developing his skill at aiming with the new toy, to ensure that several of the very tips of the leather tails connected with the swollen raspberries they had become. He traded the flogger for squeezing my whole breasts, did their current state of constriction impede their ability to give milk? No, no it did not. Now my breasts were wet, and flogged again, splashing. He reached under me again, and watched my face while he slipped one finger into my ass and made me come.
     Finally, I was allowed to move, and of course I went straight to the cock sucking. I didn’t stay there as long as I usually do. I went slow and deep and decadent, and the overly wet state I left him in made me unable to resist rubbing his cock against my clit, my clit against his cock. He lay back and let me climb up to ride him, flogging me at irregular intervals so that I rose to the lip of a vaginal orgasm, and then just stayed there, not tipping over or falling back from it, as he curled the lashes around my sides and shoulders to whip against my back and my ass. I rode him hard and felt that cervix bashing like a wicked/wonderful deepening bruise. It was so good that it wasn’t even frustrating when the crest of the orgasm never spilled over. I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to stay in that brink-of-climax state as long as he’d let me. And he let me go so long that the bruised cervix sensation stayed with me for the rest of the night.
     He told me to lick my pussy off his cock, and while I did it, he put his fingers in my snatch, and in my ass at the same time. He fucked me like that while I sucked him, and then he produced my pink glass toy and turned me to face away from him. He flogged me while he worked it into my ass, alternating lashes against my ass and my hips with the motion of the slippery, smooth head pushing into me, pulling out. Again the stinging tails were only sting, but still they stayed alight in my skin and the sting was enough. He pulled me back up onto him and flogged me while I rode him again, but this time working the toy in my ass while he did it. Back and forth, riding, flogging, ass fucking, and then sucking his cock again and him flogging me more, breasts, thighs, abdomen below the corset. Finally he was close enough to orgasm that I could have brought him off in my mouth, but I didn’t want to. I slipped the toy out of my ass and replaced it with his cock, sinking back onto the full length of him. Three times I came with his cock buried in me, slowing down between each and leaning back, rising up onto my feet so that he could watch the ass fucking. We looked at each other and slow-fucked, while he talked dirty to me, describing it in all the graphic detail my book had been lacking, wondering aloud if he would choose to come in my ass or in my mouth. The talking, talking, talking pours like hot molasses into my ears, down through my insides, to my pussy, and back up into my brain. It always does. There is nothing I would not do for him, then. He called for ass to mouth, probably just for the pleasure of watching me do as I was told. I did, all too eagerly, and he came against the roof of my mouth and down my throat.
     And so the day ended, morning light to dark of night, and all that. It’s possible I kept his cock in my mouth longer than was necessary, I was so sorry to see it go.


(I have no idea who this chick is, but she’s got a new twist on The Kinks, and I love a remake that departs from the original.)



Sunday, October 6, 2013

30. Spit, flip, thwack.

     I may have been touching myself a little, just lying there next to him, but I can’t blame myself; I hadn’t stopped thinking about Friday. Whatever other sexual escapades had transpired over the last four days, I hadn’t stopped reliving that riding crop trailing over my chest and my inner thighs, and the sensation of getting off while getting hit. He reached over and casually groped my pussy two or three times, before he committed. Once he did though, it was a slow, calculated (wet) assault.
     Here’s the thing about spit: Spit on the ground, in the street, into a cup, even on the baseball field, and I am disgusted. Spit on my pussy and I will shudder and melt. He knows this.
     I still had panties on. A soft little black dress, a bra, and panties. (Funny that I use that word all the time now. I used to object to it unconditionally. I think writing this has desensitized me.) They were wine colored stretch-lace – you know that lace that’s not actually lacey? Tight without elastic that will leave a line on your skin? He groped me through them, cupping my snatch and squeezing, fingers pressing into and against me, and then he pulled them back, peered inside, and languidly spit onto my clit. He watched it slip slowly over my labia and down toward my ass, and then he put the panties back and groped me through them again. The spit was hotter than my pussy, and while I was already wet internally, it soaked into the crotch of my panties like I’d been fucking myself all afternoon. He was apparently unmoved by my intake of breath and involuntary physical response – my back arched, my arms went over my head, and I slid down the bed toward him. He just kept groping me until the slow writhe against his hand began. He let me move on him like that, encouraging me with his fingers and his palm, until I was almost caught up in it, eyes closed and forgetful of every single other thing, and then I felt him pull the panties back again, and there was the hot dollop landing with the same clinical accuracy, and the wet slide down the length of my pussy repeated. He varied his method of assault again and again, slow and deep, light and fast, slow and light, fast and deep, but in between each there came the hot, wet introduction of spit. Gripping and pulling, stroking and circling, pinching and probing, and always there was that slippery, dripping drop rolling onto me, until I couldn’t tell the wetness from without from the wetness from within.
     He flipped me over and rolled my panties down just halfway over my ass, then he proceeded to repeat his procedure from that side, thumb to my ass, fingers between my lips, and the inevitable spit slipping from back to front now. It was a longer drip with my clit on the underside, the new ultimate destination, because I had to wait for the warm pool in my ass to spill over onto my perineum and across. Again though, once the journey was made, he’d readjust those wet, wet panties and mash them into me with his hand. I was debating the question of whether to continue letting him do to me as he would until I came, or getting his cock in my mouth (which I could do from the position he already had me in, if I could just turn without repercussion), when he threw me out. He slapped my ass, tossed me a cigarette, and told me he wanted two fingers in my ass and my other hand on my clit, while I smoked it. I tried to get to his cock, if only briefly, before I left, but only succeeded in breaking the cigarette at the filter. He pretended not to notice or to be tempted by my attempt, and I had a moment of panic over being stuck with no options and a broken cigarette. There was no way I would dare to ask for another, tonight. His dismissive manner and the tone of his voice had told me everything I needed to know. It’s funny how my head can do that – get so caught up in the sex world that it can forget something as basic as the fact that despite hardly smoking in the last two years (you’ve read about most of it here), I started when I was fourteen years old and could repair a busted Camel in four seconds with my eyes closed in the back of a speeding car, without the slightest issue. I had to laugh at myself as I retreated, chagrined, out the back door. It really can take over everything.
     There’s an element of submission (even as mild as mine) – whether you’re talking about taking a beating or simply doing as you are told – that overlaps with a sense of extreme competence. When you’re in that space, you can do anything that’s expected of you. Or I feel like I can, anyway. Like I could take anything he could throw at me, and wait patiently for more. (Maybe it’s why he sometimes sets me up to fail – an impossible task or a game I cannot win.) A hint of that came back to me, as I went outside. And I even have a chair now, so once I remembered that I knew what I was doing (compared to something like a caning with the shaft of the switch), two fingers in my ass and the other hand at my clit with or without a broken cigarette, was so easy it felt like cheating. I put my feet up, tipped my chair backward, and tried to imagine he was watching me for mistakes or half-assing, through the window. I wished for strangers in the alley or neighbors over the wall. I put on a lascivious show for no one, debauchery personified, with my wet panties stretched tight above my spread knees, and my ass displayed in self-violation, pinching my slippery clit. If I could have blown a smoke ring at the same time, I would have. Maybe he saw it on my face when I came back in, because he motioned me back into the position I’d been in last – face down, ass up – and barehanded spanked me until my ass throbbed and radiated heat. (That must have been when he got rid of the panties – afterward I couldn’t remember when they had disappeared.) Reversing the move he’d made earlier, he flipped me over to the other side then, knees up, and did it again, slapping my ass from the opposite angle and my wet pussy besides. Then he turned me back. I could get dizzy on a night like this. This time, between flipping me over and back, he took my throat in one large hand every time he brought me back to face him, cut off my breath and looked me in the eyes. He gave nothing away in his own expression but need. He may have been looking for my limits in my face, checking on where I was and how far he could push me tonight, but from the outside it read of love. Love and desire and no false bullshit piled on top or getting in its way.
     “Take off your bra.” He’d had me on my back, slapping my pussy until it jumped and glowed. I hurried to comply, and any delusion of that sense of competence I’d still been harboring evaporated, as I got myself completely stuck. The bra was a cross-back, so even after the hooks are released, you still have to take it off over your head. I’d tried to get the little dress off in the same motion, and managed to get hung up with it tangled in the bra and wrapped around my upper arms and head. Ridiculous. Instead of laughing, my husband was quick to press the advantage, and descended on my exposed breasts with practiced cruelty. By the time I’d freed myself, they’d been slapped and pinched to pink, and squeezed until milk rolled down my sides and soaked into the bedspread like spit into a pair of cotton, stretch-lace panties.
     “You have five minutes to drink your wine.” I didn’t try to guess why he’d said it or what he was planning. His ambush of my breasts had reminded me that I’d lately fallen in love (again), with their ability to lactate. Yes, I had some wine as the minutes ticked away, but mostly I played with my boobs. I’d been thinking about this almost as much as I’d been thinking about Friday (no, pretty sure that’s a lie), and I just let go all restraint and decorum (that’s not). I squeezed them until milk rolled over my fingers. I drew milk from my wet nipples with fingers that were already wet with milk. I covered my whole breasts until they were so slippery it was hard to do, and then the sweetness of it left them sticky, and I was able to start all over again. I was about to start a third round of this, when he got up and walked away. What was he doing? Where was he going? Was he just getting his own drink? Why would he do that on a night of this flavor? I tried not to get insecure about it and lay back admiring the shine on my breasts, droplets sitting at the tips of my nipples. Then he came back not just with a fresh drink, but also with the riding crop and a set of restraints. You have five minutes to drink your wine. Ah. Because after that I wouldn’t be able to.
     It was the same crop he’d used on Friday. We have another one that we refer to as the switch, even though it isn’t a true switch (it’s not a true riding crop either though, as the leather tip is a double flap instead of a loop). I prefer the true crop, because it’s more bruisey where the “switch” is more stingy, so it wasn’t just the memory of Friday night that made me glad to see it. He lay stripes down on my inner thighs, before he took it to my pussy. There, he started with sort of a general punishing before narrowing his focus to the thwack of my clit. It was almost parallel to the way he slow plays me when he goes down, bringing me along incrementally until I’m about to come anyway, and then hiking me up to a whole new level when he shifts into the next stage of intensity and slingshots me into orgasm. By the time he was done with my clit, my legs were jumping and shuddering and I was squirming disgracefully. The dripping wet that had been spit first and then breast milk, was girl-cum in this incarnation of the game. He’d strike me to a point where I could no longer hold still for it, then he’d jerk me off, slip his fingers in to my g-spot, and drench me with orgasm #3. Then he’d flip me over and start again.
     I was face down when the demand came for my ass in the air. I had to have already been worn to slacking by that point, because I know how high it’s supposed to be raised. I adjusted promptly, and felt his cock at my snatch instead of the crop. There was no slow play now, this was a shock-and-awe pummeling. He crushed me into the mattress and fucked me hard, pinned me down with one hand to the back of my neck and the other at my lower spine, preventing me from fucking him back. So often he’s got his hand at my throat, looking in my eyes while he fucks me and watches me not breathe. This was literally the other side of that. His hand at the back of my neck forced my throat into the mattress and cut off the air just as effectively, while he slammed into me from behind. There was fear in it, because I always have the utmost confidence in his ability to recognize in my face the moment when he’s held it as long as I can stand (or just slightly longer), but now he couldn’t see my face. In reality I guess he could, as my head was turned to the side, but I couldn’t see him, so it felt very disconnected – isolating. The feeling was reinforced by the brutality with which he was railing me. There was no slow-fucking until I was beside myself, squirming and babbling lustful profanity; he was driving into me with force and at speed, and against all the stinging marks he’d laid across my flesh. Ultimately there is never any question of my safety with him, so I was free to feel the fear without actual panic, and free-fall into the sensations of his holding me down and using me.
     He stopped before he came, and pulled out of me. In a daze, I watched him produce the restraints he’d gotten out earlier. It was a hog-tie, so while I may have slumped in the aftermath of being fucked, I was hesitant to move from my position. He turned me back over himself then, and I saw that he had taken it apart. Now he had two wrist to ankle restraints, and he spread my knees and positioned my arms in front of them as he cuffed me, so that I could not close them. He knelt in front of me with his cock still hard and wet and took up the riding crop again. He started with my inner thighs and then my outer labia, and then he moved to the available underside of my ass that was still hot, sore and tenderized. Welts across fresh welts. It’s one of the things that most quickly tests my limits. Most other things walk me up to the line step by step, like a game of Mother May I?, but stripe-on-stripe runs me right up to the edge. (At least I think it’s the edge at the time – usually it’s really a different edge that will drop me into solace if I can just throw myself off of it.) His cock should have been cool against my crotch. It had been wet with my pussy and my pussy had been thwacked to bright pink. It should have been cool. It was hot. He didn’t fuck me right away though, he let his cock rest against me like that, barely inside the lower folds, then he gave me that look that makes all my bones dissolve and spit onto my clit. I closed my eyes and tested the cuffs holding my wrists to my ankles, feeling the restraint of it at the same time as the sensation of hot spit slipping down over my quim, while he watched. When it met the head of his cock, he pushed the tip into me just a little, slid out and over and around, spreading wetness. Now he slow-fucked me, holding my knees as far as they spread and my arms with them, for the restraints. With one hand he reached back for the crop and as slowly as he was fucking me, he put new marks down my sides and my hips and my belly. He flipped me again – manually lifted and flipped me, because I was still restrained, and this time the spit hit me in the ass, the splat echoed by the thwack of the crop against my outer thigh. Again, he met the spit with his cock and both of them disappeared inside me. He continued fucking and beating me, never quite losing control or getting carried away, and then he simply reached down and unlocked my cuffs from each other.
     “You’ll have to keep those on, in case I need them again.” He said it while he hauled me up by the shoulders, and then he pushed me over backward against the cushion at the foot of the bed. My ears were ringing, blood draining out of my head from being flung so quickly up and away, made me dizzy. There was a pulse in my temples that mimicked the smack of the crop as he used it to spread my thighs at the inside of my knees.
     “Touch your clit.” It was a whisper and I shouldn’t have been able to hear it over the music and the wooshing in my head. I remember having the strange thought that this was a space in which only his voice would carry. I played with my clit, pulling the way he does, squeeze and pinch like Nina Hartley, and then the simple two-finger-swirl of the prepubescent girl who’s just discovered what it’s for. Side to side, back and forth he smacked one inner thigh and then the other, working his way right up to the divot at the very meeting place of thigh and pussy, pushing me closer and closer to orgasm while simultaneously preventing it. Finally his objective climbed to my pussy itself, just under my slippery fingers, and his rhythm sped up until it was a constant patter of wet strikes against me and finally, finally, finally I came. Then came the tears. There’s a difference between tears and crying. I was not actively crying, but the tears fell out of my control while he pulled me to him, leaned back and sat me on his cock. It was clearly a reward, and he let me ride him as I pleased, arms draped over my own head with the D-rings of the unlocked cuffs dangling against the back of my neck. Twice I got off with his cock triggering my g-spot, full eye contact enhanced by the wet tear lines on my cheeks and the warm gush of my orgasms pooling between us.
     “Do you want to suck your come off my cock?” A simple “Yes” will not suffice at a point like this; I have to say the words. Before he let me off him though, he locked the wrist restraints to each other. I mistook this move for an invitation to a two-handed blow job, and was corrected with a hard slap to the face the minute my fingers closed around him.
     “Don’t you dare touch me with your hands.” The slap scrambled the shit out of me. It’s not even so much the shock of being hit, in those instances, it’s mostly the figurative slap of the correction itself. I’d misread him. Fucked up. The brain scrambling is a state I think of as ‘sub-head’; it’s a condition of being so desperate to please him, to redeem myself, that I forget I know how to do so. It’s the same thing that happened with the broken cigarette. In regular life it would be like panicking so much over the fact that your blow-up raft has popped that you forget you know how to swim. I do not need the use of my hands, to suck my husband’s cock. It took me a moment of frantic, undisciplined mouthing to remember, but when I did, I was praised … Praised and then Thwacked as the crop connected with my ass again. That’s how it went, praise and then thwack, praise and then thwack, as I sucked him off, the taste of my own come on his cock, on my tongue, pushed back into my throat as I took him deep. And now the spit was mine. I let it fall onto him from a wide-out – withdrawing from the deep throat with my mouth as open as I could make it. I spread it over him from root to tip, painting him sideways with my tongue. I spit down onto the head of his cock from above, and then smeared it down the length of him with my lips. I drowned myself on him, abandoned control and slid my whole face over his wet cock, like a cat rubbing her whiskers against your leg. I made a mess, while the crop relit the little, dying fires in my skin.
     Once I get on a roll like that, there’s not a lot I won’t try with a cock, whether or not I have the use of my hands. This is where I start inventing new tricks, making up new sequences and maneuvers. If I get too caught up I can get reckless with the approach of his climax. If he wants to fuck me again, he’ll often have to stop me physically, pull me up onto him... He wanted to fuck me again. He unlocked my cuffs and let me ride him as he had before. I was in such a state of arousal already, that I started having g-spot orgasms almost immediately, and the drench of spit became the drench of come again. At that point he grabbed me hard by the hips and held me still, with his cock buried in my pussy. I tried to stay just as he had sat me, but when he reemployed the riding crop to my thighs and even my clit, while his cock was still inside me (who’s reckless now?!), I couldn’t keep from squeezing. I did kegels on his cock while he smacked me, felt the wet splash of my come on his belly, and that over-emotional cris-crossing of pleasure and pain that I’d been obsessing about since Friday engulfed me. I let it. My husband trailed the wet leather loop up my body to my mouth, where I licked it, trading come back for spit, then he’d bring it down on me again and trade it back.
     Eventually we made that trade on his cock again, as well. I had my hands at my disposal now, and I was working some crazy embellishment of a cheek punch, with a tight grip and tongue across the frenulum (that remains undefined and nameless, as of yet), when he took one of my fingers, and held it up.
     “Put this finger in your ass.” I circled my ass with it for a moment, and then sank it in at the same moment as I pushed his cock into my throat until my lips were at his pelvic bone. He praised me for that, but again the praises came with punishment. I pulled up off his cock and met his eyes, then I withdrew my finger. I brought it to my mouth while he watched, exposing as I did so the side of my breast and my rib cage, on which he lay the crop (though not unkindly), while I coated my finger in spit. Holding his cock up tight in my other hand, I transferred my dripping finger to the tip, curled it around the head while he whispered loving profanity. Then I put him back into my throat.
     “Fuck your ass again.” I obliged, and repeated the sequence as before, while he verbally defiled me. I set caution aside at that point, and set to his cock in earnest. There was going to be no backing off before the end came now, and between tongue, hand, lips and throat, I employed as much spit as there had been girl-cum. When he went over the edge I sucked the come out of him like I was actually sucking the come out of him.

     Afterward, I lay along the length of him, wrapped in his arms, while he lightly caressed the stingy places on me. Some would be gone by morning, some were already purple and lasting.
     “Not bad for a Thursday,” he said.
     “Or a Wednesday.”
     “It’s only Wednesday?!
     “Yes … Sorry.”
     *Thwack*

(Yep.)

Thursday, September 19, 2013

29. Conflicts and Contradictions

 (In the present tense, so I can relive it. I’ve been waiting and waiting to write about this night…)

     It’s a Friday. I’ve had a bath, and honey dusted (I’ve been binging on that, lately – it happens in phases). I am wearing black stockings and garters and a simple, long black corset with extra corded lacing between the breasts. Still, I am somehow uncertain of the nature of the night. My head is a little funny, and I know he has seen it in my face, so now I am worried that it will fuck with him, because I’m not sure what’s up with me. The moon and the tides are about to have their way with me, I guess maybe it’s that. It’s a strange contradiction – a combination of not feeling quite sexy, despite being in pretty good shape at the moment, and so wanting to get laid, needing to get laid… I cannot possibly stand to wait any longer, fucked up head or not.
     I fall easily into a casual, preliminary blow job, while he lies on the bed. It’s not a hardcore endeavor, or an ego-boosting let-me-show-you-how-this-is-done, project of a blow job; I’m just enjoying myself and playing and slowly bringing my head around. I know myself and cock sucking, it’s my territory, my home field advantage, and I trust that as I fall in love with the act all over again (as I always do), it will secure all my loose pins and settle me into the space I so happily occupy. This is when I feel his hands on me. He takes me by the hips and turns me away from him, knees and elbows on the bed, and he adjusts me, pushes my knees together even, but somehow I still don’t figure it out. I think he’s going to try to right my mental state with a fearsome, uncompromising g-spot orgasm. I have been so off-kilter that I don’t see it coming at all, until the first blow lands. A spank so hard that the outline of his fingers is still on my ass as I write this, the next morning. (Post-time edit: Those handprints crisscrossed my flanks until Tuesday. Made for a couple of interesting trips to the locker room at the gym.) I am reeling. Physical pain and emotional shock immediately drowning every linear thought I might otherwise be able to register. And then he does it again. And again. And again. Broad, flat, bare-handed spanking – he must be swinging from the full length of his arm. It hurts like almighty fuck, and I am instantly so fucking grateful that if he was standing in front of me I might actually have to kiss his feet. All my misaligned gears slip right back into place and lock. The world inside my head realigns, rights itself. All my shuffled cards fall neatly back in order – a film of Fifty-two Pick-up played in reverse. I dare to look him in the face as he directs me back to his cock, and he smiles, wordless. He’s known everything, all along. Then he takes me by the back of the neck and feeds his cock into my throat.
     It’s amazing what happens to my deep throating ability, even to its technique, the moment that bolt slides home. The submissive peg drops into the hole shaped like the palm of a hand. I am marveling at it like it’s detached from my experience of it, while I continue to not breathe, to have no need of air or calculated muscle control. His cock is as far down my throat as it is long, and I can work it with the wave or a swallow, a swirl and squeeze, without effort, like those people who can pick up an instrument and just play it without trying. With the flat of his hand, he’s put me right, put me right where I need to be, and I have become a cock-swallowing magician in return. And then a garter pops. It’s a back garter, so I go up onto one knee to fix it, and he says “Don’t move.” I shift one arm to find my balance in order to stay as I am, and he scolds me hard. He’s really not fooling around tonight, don’t move means freeze. Yes, sir. He traces his hands over the stinging marks on my ass and every agonizing touch sends me further into that place I’ve been headed for, all along. The place for which he knew I was unwittingly homesick, even as I stood dressing in the bathroom, wondering what was wrong with me. His hand slides underneath me, and he begins to pinch me. I am deadly still, as he pulls and twists my clit in his fingers, grips my pussy tight in an exquisite conflict between jerking me off and making me cry out in pain, which I dare not do. I cannot help but whimper, gasp, still he gives me permission to return to his cock. I have to kiss him first, taste the inside of his mouth with mine, show him what he’s done to me, and he lets me. I gladly recover my position with my face at his crotch, but this deep throat – I cannot bring myself to suck him any other way now – is accompanied by his maneuvering of me with that wincingly tight clutch of my pussy.
     He casually finishes his drink while his cock is still in my mouth, and I automatically rise to take his glass from him and get him another. (I don’t know what it is about serving him drinks specifically, that pleases me so.) Before he’ll give me the empty though, he says “Put on your shoes.” Oh, the shoes! Excellent. These are the shoes I’d ordered the week before, and had been waiting for, the night of the tie-side panties. They are completely out of character for me (except that somehow they’re not), and I love them. They are five inch heels, and all-over thin, vertical, black and white stripes, but for the heel itself which is black velvet, to match the piping. Around the top line opening and along the cross strap, is a ribbon of red lace. I almost never wear red (absolutely never, outside of the bedroom), and I don’t often like lace, and shoes this loudly girlish are not the kind of thing I would usually even consider. Again, I love them. He had seen them the night after they arrived, accompanied by the wide black garter belt, black stockings with red back seams, and a white and black polka dot, halter-top bustier, as far out of character for me as the shoes. I had been so hesitant to pull the trigger on that outfit that I’d left the tag on and tucked into the side of my boob, in case I had to bail out immediately and return it for feeling ridiculous. Like the tie-side panties, it turned out not to be ridiculous at all, and I’d ended up excusing myself in the middle of three hours of hot, fucked-up debauchery to cut that tag and enthusiastically fling it into the trash can. So my shoes go on with a certain amount of ceremony, and I’m about to enjoy the hell out of my traipse to the kitchen, when he stops me again.
     “Bring me the riding crop, before you go.” As you wish.
     I get to walk by a full length mirror while going to fill drinks, and I remember why I love corsets. They take the fun-house out of the mirror. I am a fairly thin woman and I’ve put on some good, carefully placed curves at the gym lately, but even so there are times when my head is wrong, that cause mirrors to show me my fears instead of my reflection. Even though I don’t even wear them tight (just tight enough to feel good), that can’t happen in a corset. So now for the first time since my early not-feeling-quite-sexy, I’m getting the full effect from hair to corset to pink-smacked ass to shoes, and even though I don’t like blondes, I’d fuck me in a heartbeat. That’s a good feeling.
     I come back and sit on my feet next to him, to wait. My shoes and the lace on them are digging in and prickling against the underside of my stinging ass. He takes the riding crop and uses it to spread my knees apart, light smacks in the place of words. Once he has me where he wants me, the smacks cease to be light. He focuses his blows on my pussy, then more specifically my clit, then my inner thighs and that high divot that sits at the line between thigh and snatch, and back again. He hits me until the flesh between my legs is hot and bright, then he strokes me with the crop, rubbing the loop of leather against my pussy, prodding my clit until it quickens and moves against his caress. He does this until my whole lower body is working back on the crop, and then he puts it back to its intended use and the pain of it striking is heightened by the pleasure it brought. Harder and harder the smacks fall, faster and faster until I’m writhing with the pain of it instead of the pleasure, and then again he’s stroking and swirling and brushing and patting and the fire of distress is confused with the fire of rising climax. Beating then teasing, beating then teasing, he does it until I shake, then before I come he shifts and concentrates on strikes to my shoulders, my chest, the tops of my breasts. In between these tight slaps he trails the riding crop over my skin, lightly caressing the flesh between the welts he raises, and the sensation is like an electric current from my body to the dark pockets of my brain where sex lives and grows like vines that insinuate their way into every other thing, every conflicting response made no longer contradictory. He pauses at that extra sensitive spot where my neck meets my right shoulder, that bonus erogenous zone that can suddenly tighten my nipples and wet my quim in even the least sexual circumstances. And with the shaft of the crop, he canes me in one deep, carefully placed stripe. This is a long-established game I’ll have to play for the next week, wherever I go. He leaves a mark on me that cannot go unnoticed, and that I cannot hide. To any person with enough moxie to ask me about it, I have to tell the truth, no matter who it is or what the situation.
     For a moment he leaves off torturing me, and instructs me to choose one toy for my pussy. I hesitate though, and in a moment he’s raining blows on me again, everywhere he’s touched before, and I cannot think.
     “I’m waiting for an answer…” But the waiting does not forestall the crop, and amid strikes that come at random, in varying speeds at unpredictable targets, I remember my rediscovery of the cone.
     “Good choice.” He tells me that I am free to get comfortable, if I can, so freshly beaten, and I settle back against all the little fires still burning in my flesh, wanting nothing more than for it to continue. Which it does. He takes the crop to my breasts, but it’s an overbust corset, so he has to bring it down hard to make it felt. The sight and the sound of that stir more of the vines in my brain, but when he notes it out loud I am incapable of denying him, so I unlace the cords between my breasts and expose them for him. He answers with an unyielding squeeze to each of them, until they spill over and wet his hands and his fingers. He takes the crop to them again, and I’m splashed in the face each time it meets a nipple. I am leaning back now, with my knees raised, so he shifts his attention to the backs of my thighs. Between cracks of the crop he’s trailing the loop across tingling marks to my abdomen (which was unmarked until now), my clit, striking and stroking me there again, to my outer thighs which he stripes to match the inners, the very last fraction of pussy – the undersnatch (mother of fuck that hurts), but always returning to my clit, which is smacked to blushing. There’s a transformation going on in me now, as I lie back and feel a milky trickle run outward from my breast, over its curve and into my underarm, a redefinition of what constitutes pain, and I am exploring the other side of it. Very like loving and fucking can cease to be two ingredients and fuse to one thing, pain and pleasure are losing their boundaries. I can’t find the places where one of them used to begin and the other end. I’m lost in the sensation of it when he speaks.
     “You’d better put that toy in front of your pussy or I’m just going to keep beating the shit out of it.” Done. But he sees my hands go behind me as I arch onto the cone. He gets up and returns quickly with a wrist to collar restraint; wide leather cuffs bind my hands behind my back, wide leather collar at my throat, D-rings link both to a wide leather strap that goes straight down my spine. Now I am bound and writhing against the cone, feeling the vibrations in my pussy comingle with the burning marks across my flesh everywhere I move, and the bonds that hold me chafing against them.
     I love to be bound. I love to struggle against it, just to feel how impossible is my escape. My husband watches and torments me. Periodically he reaches in with his fingers to play with my clit, my labia, amid the buzzing rubber pressed against it, to feel the wet heat inside me, to bring me closer and closer to orgasm, and then he strikes me again with the riding crop, just on all those same places that were about to tip me over the edge. It goes on forever. Now I have a new conflict somehow ceasing to be contradictory: Rising frustration at being repeatedly brought to and then denied orgasm for so long, combined with the total relishing of every moment spent in my skin, in this position. I am actively thinking about how fucking brilliant this night is (and not for the first time), when he leans over me and spits down onto my clit, from above. I cry out at both the act and its flawless execution, as the wet tendril slides down my pussy to my ass, and then at the sensation as he falls on me with fingers, crop and mouth. He assaults my nipples, then he sucks on them, pinches my clit, pulls at my pussy, now he adds lube and watches me slide. Twice as I get close again I have to beg him to increase the setting on my toy, both times he obliges me and then brings the crop down hard again, while he plays me through rising vibrations and pulses to the highest possible steady buzz. And finally I crest over one of those long, crashing climaxes that roll over you and over you, and he reaches in and seamlessly bangs me into a g-spot orgasm that leaves a puddle under my ass.
     He lets me suck his cock again then. I am still bound, and still feeling the restraint of being bound, pulling against the cuffs and strap and feeling it constrict my throat, with his cock in it. I am trying to make myself add more to it than the deep throat, reminding myself that there are infinite things you can do to a cock without the use of your hands, but all I want is to gag myself on him. He takes me by the waist and pulls me up onto his cock and I ride him slippery, closing off my own breath with my bonds. Technically I guess the result is an orgasm combination of vaginal and g-spot, a #2/3, but the sensation of it is in my whole body now, every part of me that has been licked, sucked, spanked, pinched, stroked, squeezed, whipped, and fucked, and every corner of my brain is filled with it, so it’s not the rise and drop-off that gives climax its name; it’s a constant thing that takes me over (just with girl-cum all over it), while I’m listening to the wet slap of him against me.
     He unbinds me, and steers me onto my feet, to straddle him. I don’t even know if he does it with words or with his hands - they act the same upon me. So now I am standing over him (in those shoes), and he lowers me not quite all the way down. He slow-fucks me from below like this, as he often does when I’ve completely lost control of my id, forcing me to hold still, supporting myself, and do nothing but take his cock. I cannot look at his face for long like this, without losing my composure, so soon I’m watching him fuck me, instead. I watch his cock disappearing into my cunny, fascinated at how it stretches and cores me. I lean back then, and show it to him, as he’s slow-driving his full length into me. I have to touch him, have to touch him touching me that way, slide my fingers against my clit and his cock at the same time. I sit up onto him and reach behind me to work his balls, but then I can’t help it, I have to feel him fucking me with my fingers. So I tip forward onto my knees and force two fingers inside me with him, stretching myself wide, so that they stroke his frenulum as he strokes into me, my thumb and other fingers squeezing him at the base of his cock. I love to play in the fucking like that, like a little kid will put her hands in her food and feel it squish between her fingers.
     He asks me to suck him again – asks, mind you. I reply with “I will do anything, anything at all,” and mean every word. Yes, I deep throat him again, but with that question that wasn’t a command, I’ve got a little control back (as well as the use of both of my hands), so I also start to make up a new maneuver I’m going to call Top & Bottom, where what’s happening to the shaft of his cock in my hands is seemingly disassociated with what’s happening to its head, in my mouth. Except that it’s not. This gives me a little sense of false authority, and I venture a little further into a game of My Cock. You want to know what it’s like to have a cock, don’t you? Just for once? I leave his cock drenching, slippery wet, and climb onto his thighs, facing him. My pussy is as wet as it’s ever been, and I slide it up against him, splitting my labia with the trunk of him. He’s big enough that even now there’s enough of his cock standing up between us that it wouldn’t be small even if it really was mine, and I pretend it is. I jerk off like I’ve seen him do it, like I imagine I would want to feel it, if the illusion was true. It seems to amuse the hell out of him to see me get off like this, so he allows me to play my little game, but there’s a wet quim rubbing against him at the same time, and though I’m getting myself off like that, as well as at the sight of it, I’m also well-versed in jerking him off and his cock is wet and rigid in my hands… I know that when a thing is working, when the orgasm comes, not to stop what’s bringing it about in favor of anything else. I know this. Still, once the first jet of come erupts, I cannot keep my mouth off of him. I’m still working him with my hands, but I have to close the head of his cock in my mouth, wrap him in my lips and tongue and suck the rest out of him.
     To do what you shouldn’t do, love what you hate, crave the denial of what you want, trade pussy for cock, pleasure for pain… I think it’s conflict and contradiction that make us human. Embracing it makes us free.

(Let's go live for once, shall we? )

Monday, September 9, 2013

28. Frivolous? Yep. Worth it? You bet!

(Do you care that you’re behind reality again? I don’t know, but you are. Life gets in the way of the posting, but not of the sex…)

     Wednesday, the day of Invitations, Offerings and the Space Between us, was our anniversary. I didn’t mention it at the time, but there it is.
     “I think it counts for something that all these years later, I still want to fuck you. And understand I don’t just want to fuck you, I want to defile you.” He’d said it as we were lying sprawled and entwined in the wet aftermath, breathing in the atmosphere of cum and honey dust and raspberry nipple rouge that hung in the air around our bed.
     Out loud I’d simply said “As you wish,” because as always, it pleases me to quote The Princess Bride so inappropriately to him. Internally however, I was revisiting a little idea I’d been thinking about for months and months. I’d made a half-hearted attempt after the night of the LBPs, but had failed in the shopping department. There was something about the word defile that resolved me to succeed this time. He’d also mentioned something recently about a desire for the reappearance of garters and stockings that I hadn’t worn in quite awhile, and that would provide the perfect context for the little embellishment I’d been harboring in the back of my mind. The next morning I’d gone online lingerie shopping (dangerous, I know), and bought a couple of garter belts, a couple of tops, a couple of pairs of stockings (okay, several pairs of stockings), and a very specific pair of panties. Also a pair of shoes – but more on those later. Shipping was not only free but remarkably fast, and by Saturday I had a box of goodies waiting at the foot of the bed.
     I took a hot bath, washed my hair, shaved to the thighs, and rubbed myself neck to toes in the good lotion – it’s this exquisite cream that leaves me smelling indefinably delicious (and then I tell you what it is and you recognize it immediately: Yes, it smells exactly like warm cake). I admit I was dragging it out on purpose. He knew I’d been garter shopping per his request, and he was expecting a fashion show, but I didn’t want to give him a full parade, because the shoes were still to arrive separately, and some of the good stuff was reserved for them. Also, the set of attire I needed to end up in might not, at first glance, appear to be the most interesting thing I’d bought. I had to navigate carefully. So yes, I was stalling. I tossed on a loose, see-through tank top, and brought out The Cone, while I waited for my hair to dry.
     Though it used to be in constant use, I hadn’t had my cone out in some time. I’ve had it forever; I don’t think you can even get them anymore. It’s very simple, and exactly what it sounds like. It’s a big (like, probably eight inches at the base, five inches tall, big), heavy, round, rubber, vibrating cone. It has sixteen different vibration settings, and requires three C batteries to operate. It’s a monster. Despite being almost fully non-penetrative (it does come to a point at the top, of course), it’s far more versatile than you might expect. How many different positions can you think of to sit in, lean on, grind against or back up into? And there’s no reason you have to keep the thing upright… Imagine how disappointed I was, that it wasn’t as awesome as I had remembered. Had my standards changed that much, over the last year? It had been my favorite thing for so long… And then my husband pointed out the obvious: When was the last time I’d changed the batteries? This correction and its resultant success (Oh, fuck yes! THAT’S the toy I was so in love with!), provided me with another convenient delay. As distracted as I quickly became, I was beginning to realize that I was nervous about my little scheme. It wasn’t like I was about to bust out something entirely new or mind-boggling, but with the action so close at hand I began to question whether it would really go over as well as I had imagined it would. What if it just turned out to be silly or ridiculous? The saving grace though, was that he wasn’t expecting anything but new garters and stockings, and he’d be getting those, so my little embellishment was just that. He didn’t know about it, so I hadn’t built up to anything that could fall flat (except to myself). With that thought, I abandoned myself to the renewed vitality of the cone, smeared myself all over it, desecrated it in any number of shameful positions, and ended by begging him to finger me in the ass while I bent over and debased myself all over the far side of it. It was beautifully profane.
      After I came, I naturally took his cock in my mouth. (It wouldn’t be fair to leave him hanging after he’d just watched me come like that, would it? Plus, maybe just another couple of minutes before I pussy-up and get dressed…) But the next thing you know I had his cock buried deep in my throat and he’d turned me and driven his fingers into my pussy, to distract me. He nailed my g-spot like that and I came all over his hand and down his wrist with my mouth still wrapped around his cock. Then suddenly he had me by the collar.
     “I need another drink.” He almost growled it. Of course I was quick to oblige, but just as I turned away to go do so, he took me by the hips and pulled me back against him. I still had his empty glass in my hand when he drove his cock straight into my ass. He rode me like that with my loose hair (dry by now), falling all into my face, soft and long and already a complete and total mess. Eventually I refilled his drink and came back to more cock sucking, but my hair was everywhere: All over his cock, in my mouth, flying against my face and his thighs and his stomach. It was time to get my shit together.
     I fixed the eyeliner, brushed my hair out, did the little knotted pigtails because this was going to be a dirty-girl type of endeavor, and started opening packages while he watched. I started with the garter belt I didn’t want to end up in. It’s really wide, like a waist cincher but not a super tight wasp-waist maker. I put on black stockings with a Cuban heel and a back seam, and my black, ankle strap Mary Janes. I rotated through a long sleeved fishnet top and a little white thing that’s mostly a wrap-your-boobs-and-tie-it-off kind of thing, but that and the wide garter belt were waiting for the shoes he didn’t know about, so I was in and out of them pretty quickly. Quick though it was, I got a definite rise out of him. He summoned me back for more cock sucking while I was naked from the thighs up. I think it was the huge rigidity of his cock, even from only watching me change, that gave me the push I needed to go ahead with it.
     I left on the stockings and the shoes. I got back into the fishnet shirt (don’t you love how it’s almost like having your nipples tied, the way fishnet frames and constricts them?), then I put on the panties. They’re not extraordinary, they have no miraculous new gimmick to them, they’re just little tie-side bikinis. I got them in red plaid because I knew it would put him in mind of my slutty little school-girl skirt (and to pick up the red in the shoes, once they arrived). After that, I added this super-minimalistic garter belt – a thin strap barely wider than the garters themselves. Our bed has a backrest on one side, toward the foot. It’s like a partial extra headboard, great for bracing your feet against or bending somebody over, ass up, or any number of other conveniences. When I had my little outfit just-so, I stepped up onto the bed and sat on the top of it, with my knees spread. He was sitting on the bed, so my panties were at his eye level. I began to play with myself, for his viewing pleasure. I didn’t reach under – I’ve mentioned my husband has a thing for wet panties, right? I touched myself through them, stroking and pinching and watching him watch me. Really, I should have gone down on him again to stretch it out longer, but his cock was so hard that I didn’t know what he’d do, if I did. I was afraid of losing my opportunity, if he decided to rip it all off me and fuck me in ways I am helpless to resist. So I continued working myself wet through the panties, until I got an audible response from him. He hadn’t been silent the whole time, but his responses had been words, compliments, approval; I was waiting for the involuntary, guttural groan. When I got it, I looked him in the eye and began to pull those panties tight against me, separating my labia and slicing into my clit. He was fully involved now, stroking himself while he took in my little show, and I pressed my fingers – and the crotch of the panties – into my pussy, the way he likes to do it with the LBPs. I got another involuntary response from him with that, so I went further, what little ass there is to the bikinis slipping out from under mine, as more and more of them was pushed up inside me. Now the string sides were tight, cutting into my thighs below the hip, and trapped onto my body by the garters and stockings… Except that they are tie-sides. I smiled at my throbbing husband and pulled the strings. The ties untied, and with periodic attention to my little pinking clit, I licked my fingers and slowly tucked those panties up into my cunny until only a couple of ties were left to show him where they went.
     Have you ever stuffed panties? It’s frivolous and impractical, because fabric wicks moisture, but it’s dirty and degrading as fuck, and there are of course, near unlimited resources for liquid, in my sex life.
     It doesn’t take much to get my husband to tear off my clothing, but to get him to tear off his own the way he’s been known to rip away mine, is a feat of which I’m a little bit proud. If his shirt had been buttoned while he’d been sitting there watching me, I’d have spent all the next day sewing them back on. He dove between my legs and I got to relive that experience of coming while holding myself balanced at the point of falling backwards off the bed. If there had been any further question of enough moisture to go around at that point, it would have been resolved by his fingers on my g-spot. I came all over his hand and the panties still inside me were drenched through. He rubbed and coated his cock with my girl-cum, and pulled me from my perch by the under-thighs. Then he hard-fucked me with my brand new little panties shoved up inside my pussy. He pulled out before he came, and stroking his wet cock, told me to fuck my ass with my fingers to get it ready for him. I was bent, my upper half still leaning against the backrest, my lower half thrust forward, pussy out to him, and my knees spread as wide as they go (which is wide – I’m pretty fucking flexible). He was watching me with this unsmiling pleasure that I’m not sure he knows looks dangerous on him, so, desperate to keep him that hooked, I twined what was still visible of the panty ties between my fingers as I pressed them into my ass, slid them in and out until I was relaxed and wet and deep enough to take his cock. He took the backs of my thighs in his hands then, and flipped me further up, only my head against the cushion. He held me like that, with my ass out and my knees splayed wide, and he ass fucked me while I held onto the heels of my Mary Janes and felt my quim still crammed with little red panties. That sensation got the better of me, full to stretched in the top and the bottom, and I couldn’t help freeing one hand to rub my clit.
     “That’s it,” he said, and began dirty talking to me with a seamless, running play-by-play of exactly what was happening every moment, in the foulest, most accurately degrading phrasing possible. I came hard, and looking him right in the eyes, I called him by name, when I did it. It was absolutely on purpose; there was no question, and we both knew it. Without a word, he took me by the hair, pulled out of my ass, and drove into my mouth.
     “Do you want me to come in your ass?” He asked the question, but it came out sounding like a threat. Yes, I did, definitely, but not yet. I was desperate for his cock in my pussy again and I told him so. I begged. He told me to take my wet, dirty-girl panties out of my pussy first, then he sat back on his haunches to watch me do it. I took them out slowly. They were so wet I could have wrung them out like a wash cloth, but I knew better what he wanted. I looked to him and he simply nodded at me to go on. Not quite as slowly as I’d drawn them out of my snatch, I proceeded to stuff them into my mouth. Gagged myself with those panties sopping with my own come. You want to defile me? Yes, I am defiled. For you.
     He fucked me so hard that even with my mouth packed tight I got too loud and, looming over me, he had to cut off my breath with a hand to my throat. His cock was huge, inside me. I’d been so full before, with my pussy stuffed and him in my ass, that I felt stretched, but a little pair of panties was nothing to his cock. I couldn’t help it. The second time it happened, after he released my throat (again) and allowed me to breathe, he took the panties from my mouth and gave me permission to take a drink. He pulled out of me so that I could get to my wine, but I hesitated too long – his cock was a monster and I couldn’t turn away from admiring it. I paid for my delinquency with a forced deep throat, made to finger my ass while he held my head down on his colossus. He gave me another chance after that, but I wasn’t allowed to stop fucking myself in the ass, while I took it. Clearly he wasn’t finished there.
     He was generous, though. He asked me if I wanted to ride his cock with my ass, until I came. He knew I did. When have I ever not wanted orgasm #4? He asked because he knew it would make me weak to hear the words, weaker to answer them out loud – because the answer can’t just be “Yes,” you understand; I have to say it. I have to tell him how I want his cock in my ass, how I want to ride him like that until I come from it, until I come all over him. He lay back casually, watching me, amused by my obvious conflict of lust and fear. I climbed onto him and paused a moment, breathing. Then I slid backwards, eyes closed. As always, no matter how often I go through the ritual, there was a flutter of panic in my chest as the head of his cock breached me. I know the reward though, so I pushed through it, back and back until the fear gave way, as it always does, to the sensation of him as deep as his cock is long, in my ass, stretched tight around him. There’s a mechanism in there, balls-deep in my ass, a switch that trips the breaker of my inhibitions. After that, there is only the fucking. There is no thought in my mind, no sensation in my body, no awareness in any part of my consciousness, except for that of the fucking. It is all-encompassing, and even at the peak of flailing, body-wracking orgasm, I cannot fuck him enough. I’ve said it before: I cannot get enough of fucking my husband. When we're fucking, I want to submerge myself in him, drown in him, roll like a dog in the grass. I want to lick him from head to toe, suck on his flesh, I want to consume him. I want to absorb him. If our sex was a popsicle, I would eat the stick."
     I was weak and wet with the force of the orgasm. Any muscle still holding the tension to support me, shook. Still he stood me up over him, hand at my hip, hand at my pussy. He slid his fingers into me and I came down over him again. My legs shuddered, but he lowered me onto him still on my feet, hovered me over his cock.
     “You want it in your pussy,” (he was right), “but it’s going back in your ass.” Oh, now it was deprivation and fucking at the same time. Does life get this good for other people? Does anyone else love like this? He held me above him and fucked me from beneath. The pure sensation of it began to threaten to submerge me again, and my body began to fuck him back, of its own volition. He stopped and held me still, waited for me to regain control. I cleared the haze from my brain and held there for him and he stroked into my ass, long and measured. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, holding motionless like that, I clenched onto him, squeezed his cock with my ass, though I didn’t dare move on him again. He pumped into me like that, while I begged him to – never even close to calling him anything but Sir.


(So this was a hard one to write about - or it likely wouldn't have taken so long to post - but really, dirty hot sex has its place, and you know it. Judge me if you want to.)

Maybe one day I'll fix the songs so you can actually hear them.