Thursday, May 30, 2013

19. A tactile creature

     There’s always a certain amount of stress around here. My husband’s job is a bottomless well of the stuff, and of course I’m not entirely sane or stable, so while one of the arguments for quitting my job was that I would be able to maintain a certain amount of tranquility around the house and be reasonable enough to talk him down off the occasional ledge (instead of my own work stress serving to amp up his, until we were one big, spastic snowball), it doesn’t always work out that way. Usually, as should come as no surprise, we burn off stress with regular sex. It’s a pretty dependable method of dealing. Sometimes you just have to let the rest of the world go fuck itself while you hibernate and fuck each other. Nothing chases away the ultimately inconsequential aggravations of a shitty day like a hand to the throat or a face crushed into a pillow. When a Tuesday fucks you the way Tuesdays so often will (have you ever noticed how much more often a shitty day is a Tuesday, than any other day?), it’s cathartic to let somebody throw you down and fuck you better, until you’re gasping and your pelvic bone is bruised – or alternatively, to rip the clothes off of someone who knows exactly where your head is, and pound them into a puddle of human butter. However, sometimes the aggravations aren’t quite so ultimately inconsequential, and if you don’t keep up with blowing them out of your system in explosive orgasms, they can pile up and smother the static electricity of even the most well maintained regimen of sex therapy. A week or so ago, we found ourselves at the bottom of just such an avalanche.
      When life becomes impossible and it’s all my husband can do to keep his shit together and not simply burst into flames, he becomes almost claustrophobic. It’s like the radius of his personal space grows three times the size (just like the Grinch’s heart – pop, pop, pop!). He needs space. He needs nobody anywhere near in his face. He needs stillness and quiet. When I’m at the top of my game, I can draw him back. Even if I’m running on low, I can at least get him drunk and make him laugh and we get through. If I’m my own special brand of psycho though, it’s a different story.
      I am a tactile creature. (I know, gasp & clutch the pearls!) Lots of people are visually stimulated – it’s part of why humans escape into art and action movies and porn. Some people are auditory and need music to keep them sane. Some are taste oriented, and they eat. (I wonder if there are people whose dominant sense is smell?) When I’m one step away from pulling a Thelma & Louise, what I need is physical human contact. Touch me. Grab me. Hold me, grope me, tie me up and wail my ass with a riding crop, I don’t care, just don’t leave me dangling in the open air with nothing to cling to. See where this is going? When my husband and I are freaking out at the same time, we have to catch it quickly, usually by fucking like monkeys, or our methods of dealing with stress only serve to stress each other out even more. Roll in the big, spastic snowball. Sometimes when the natural disasters of life – like, I don’t know, every relative you have who shouldn’t ever be in the same room with the others are all arriving and staying for a solid week of intense awkwardness and uncomfortable silence – the sex that is possible just isn’t enough to hold it off. This is where we’ve been, since last you heard from me.
     Frankly, we were there before the relatives even started arriving. We had known exactly what we were in for, and the horrible, spiky dread of it had us shuffling around, twitching, like a cross between zombies and Sylvester the Cat, post-kangaroo. I don’t think we were three days into the actual horror, before we hit the wall. Really, hitting the wall was what we needed, because it forced us into desperation sex. Are you familiar with desperation sex? Where the last thing you remember thinking is Fuck it, and then you’re in a mutual throw-down, a free for all? There is nothing slow or gentle about it, at any time. What might otherwise be a caress is a grip that’s likely to leave a mark. Kisses are borderline violent crushings of lip and tongue. Often it even manifests as battle sex, and you come away with injuries you don’t remember sustaining. It’s the fight club of fucking. Panties get ripped away, hair pulled, wrists caught and pinned behind the back… Usually if I’m deep throating my husband’s cock, he leaves me in control – I’m going to be less than humble here and suggest that perhaps I’m skilled enough at this point to be left to my own devices – but if it’s desperation sex I’m likely to be grabbed by the back of the head and have that cock forced into my throat, intentionally gagged, and in that moment I wish for nothing else. Until he’s thrown me face first against the headboard and is fucking me so hard from behind that it feels like he’s pummeling my ovaries, and then I wish for nothing else but that. Until I’m sitting on his face and he’s sucking my pussy until he can’t breathe (turn around & fair play, etc.), and then I wish for nothing else but that. It’s fucking in the moment and caring for nothing but morebetterfaster and I’m gasping “I can’t fuck you enough,” and riding him and grinding myself onto his cock until he has to throw me off to keep from being actually harmed, at which point he’ll pin me by the throat and do the same to me. You come away reborn and redeemed and in a state of relief that looks a lot like collapse.
     Usually. But we were only three days in.
     The familial onslaught continued, even after everyone ran out of things to say, only they didn’t stop talking… So the uncomfortable silences that followed the awkward conversations were in turn followed by inappropriate rants and bizarre, nonsensical ramblings… It was very like being trapped on a long airplane flight with a crazy seat mate who won’t shut up. Have you ever thought you were going to be that person who just flips shit and goes for the exit door? That was us. The deep muscle exhaustion of holding a plastic smile for days on end… It was too much to leave us capable of recreating the desperation sex, but that one go hadn’t been nearly enough. That’s when the random grope assaults began. I’d be sitting there, in the middle of my first deep breath of the night, after seeing everyone off to (separate) hotels, and suddenly his fingers would have my clitoris in a toruring grip. Or my nipple was grabbed and tweaked until I cried out. Two different nights he fell asleep with his fingers in my pussy. This, of course, is exactly the kind of thing to spin me right the fuck up, and our usual sex life was sort of renewed – except that it was more like our normal sex life’s alter ego. The evil twin (who we know and love, but don’t generally see on the regular). Short bursts of maniacal ass fucking and violent orgasms that totally destroyed the mattress, even despite the handy little waterproof blanket – or because we didn’t take the spare moment to spread it out. It was fast sex, fast and fearsome (and fabulous). On top of that, I am in penalty. I was so stressed out by the whole of the week, that I tweaked my neck and decided to go get a massage. Since the massage was to be neck-specific, I asked for my collar to come off for it. He agreed, but until it is put back in place (at his discretion), my ass and pussy are fair game and must be accessible to the whims of his mind and fingers at any time, whether or not there’s going to be actual sex in the immediate future. (You might point out that they always are, and you would be right, but that opens another topic on the dominant/submissive aspect of the relationship, that deserves its own post. I know I’ve dangled it out there before and not yet followed through, but I haven’t forgotten.)
     So, our established sex life reasserted itself on the dark side, such that even now that our house is empty again, I am a tactile creature with teeth. Instead of curing me of my desperate needs, it has reignited them over and over again, and I am simply letting myself spin out of control. I have more reason than usual to be sending pictures to my husband in the middle of the day, because I can’t stop fucking myself at the thought of him. I have dirty dreams that I can’t remember, and spend my mornings smearing my body all over his pillow. I’m taking sex toys on long car rides and showing off at stop lights and on-ramps for semi drivers and motorcycle riders. I am wet. I am wet all the time. I am wet right now, writing this. I don’t know where it’s going, but I am definitely riding shotgun.


 (And the kid just called to say that he’ll be gone for the night. Fuck, yes.) 

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

18. New Territory – it’s another thing entirely.


        Do you know how to give a cat a shot? There’s a trick to it. I learned it from a vet when I was a teenager. Know how they like to have their faces rubbed, harder than you’d expect? How you can cup your hand over their whole face and almost rough them up with it? It’s very similar to that. You pretty much grab them gently by the head, from the front, and shake. The cat will kind of like it and be kind of confused, and will have not the slightest clue that someone’s giving it a shot, while it happens. This is because cats can only think about one thing at a time. If you overwhelm their senses with one thing, you leave them with no attention remaining for anything else. To say that I am not good at multi-tasking would be a drastic understatement. It would be closer to accurate to say that I’m a cat. I’m not just bad at doing two things at once, I’m virtually incapable. Honestly, given what you’ve read here previously, you’d assume that the sixty-nine would be one of my all-time favorite activities, wouldn’t you? A cock in my mouth with a mouth on my pussy? Nope. Can’t do it. Can’t do it at all. When I’m in a sixty-nine I’m in one of two states: I’m wrapped up in the blow job and giving no response whatsoever to  – disregarding even – the cunnilingus, or if I want to know what’s happening between my legs, I have to stop sucking the cock in order to even feel it, much less enjoy it and have any chance of getting anywhere near orgasm from it. It’s inconvenient, yes, but that’s beside the point of the other night. The point of the other night is that the fact that my husband had had his fingers in my pussy while I’d been giving him head, meant that my body was in a place that my head didn’t know about.
  I had been lying sideways, perpendicular to him, playing the early erection game initially, then following with the ice cream on the spoon thing, gently sucking and licking at the head of his cock while I had it trapped against his stomach. I was basically settled into the preliminaries of a leisurely, indulgent, wanton and wicked blow job. I was occupied. Meanwhile, because I was sideways, he had access to the good parts and his hand had travelled. I knew he was touching me; It was a pleasant sensation at the fringes of my consciousness, but I was busy. What I didn’t comprehend at the time was that he was engaged in a leisurely, indulgent, wanton and wicked fingering of my pussy. And though my brain was otherwise absorbed, my pussy was responding on its own.
Eventually, I shifted up and away from his hand, so that I could get a better angle on the rising seriousness of the cock sucking, so that I could shift grip and pressure and speed and deep throat the ever loving fuck out of him, but in doing so, I created a pause. In that pause, despite the excitement of being about to take this thing to the next level, all the pleasure he’d been caressing into my pussy finally found the way to my brain open and unrestricted. I was suddenly aware of and staggered by the heat and the swell of my labia and my clit, by the wet spread of myself, that sensitive bloom, just in time to feel the last pads of his fingertips slip over me, up the crack of my ass and away. Is there a vulnerability greater than that? Where the willing desire of the body and the willing desire of the mind conspire to show you just how true it is that at that moment you would do anything, anything at all? And yet I had just removed myself from his touch. He could no longer reach me and it was my fault. Self-imposed denial is a delicious mind-fuck, and I set about showing his cock exactly what kind of anything I was desperate for.
Think about the wash of saliva that a buried cock draws from the deepest part of your throat. Are there men in the world who are immune to that? Who can watch it come off your lips on the upstroke and feel it fall all over their own rigid prick without an involuntary audible response? I’m sure there are, but I hope not, nonetheless. There’s a deep satisfaction that comes from coaxing that sound out of my husband. I was there in that space, and deliberately trying to bring him to the state in which he simply can’t take it any longer, can’t help himself, and his passion is suddenly evident in his need to get his hands on me – the grab and capture, the forcible pulling of my body to him, the manual override of him putting me onto his cock instead of putting his cock into me. He had his hands hard on my hips and his cock flexed high inside me (yes, make it tall like that), and I came on him with the flushing body ripple of the vaginal orgasm. I will never get bored of the #2, and usually I either double up right there or follow it with a brief switch to a different motion or position and then go back for another, but that didn’t happen this time…
My theory is that it had to do with the early, sneaky stimulation of my pussy that had caught up to me with such effect, because I didn’t do a damn thing differently. All I know is that out of nowhere I was in the middle of a g-spot orgasm. And then another, and another, and another. Somewhere in the middle I tried to back off and take a breath, but the only effect the respite from girl-cumming had was to trigger another vaginal climax and then I was right back where I’d started. I have said before that the #3 can sometimes go on and on and on like this, but I have never had so many right on top of each other, in my life. I estimate it was somewhere around five or six bajillion, before they stopped being separate orgasms and started being one extraordinary endless one. And then something else happened that had never happened before. I have described orgasm #4, the ass fucking orgasm, as being like orgasm numbers 2 and 3 at the same time. This is when I found out I was wrong about that. Really, really wrong.
It was during the awe-inspiring endless one. I was just pouring come all over my husband in a continuing flood, and I began to feel the familiar climb to an inevitable vaginal climax. My attention may have been split earlier in the evening but it was acutely undivided now. This was new territory. Remember the discussion of the hyper-sensitive pussy? I was right back there, and feeling every sensation of one orgasm continuing while another kind rose. At the same time, my clit was underwater, sliding all over my husband’s stomach in a growing pool of my own come and the hot, wet stimulation of that on top of the ongoing g-spot orgasm I was already enduring, led to the hardest, most intense vaginal orgasm I have ever experienced. I’ll grant you that orgasm #4 may be like a combination of #2 and #3, but for the first time ever, I have now had two different types of orgasm at the same time, and I can assure you that it’s another thing entirely.
As it subsided, I didn’t have time to say more than “Holy shit!” before my husband threw me back down onto his cock. Fuck it, I didn’t need air anymore; I had become a creature no longer dependent on breath. I was sucking my come off of his cock and relishing that involuntary wash of saliva and then I was also drinking his come as his climax happened against the roof of my mouth… By the time I was lying flat on my back next to him, I was dripping wet from my face to my knees. Sweat, spit, boy-cum, girl-cum, tangible moonlight, altered consciousness, sleep.


(This really might be my favorite song in the world.)

Thursday, May 16, 2013

17. Hitting for the cycle


            It had been a long time since I’d hit for the cycle. Have I used that term here before? That’s what I call those lovely encounters when I reach at least one of each of my four types of orgasm. Those are whirlwind nights (or afternoons – mornings don’t generally get so far off the rails), that leave me in a blissful state of deep love and total collapse... We’d both been pretty spun up since the night before – admittedly, I’d been intentionally teasing the hell out of him then, so much so that he’d given me a little ravaging in his sleep. This happens occasionally, much to my delight. Early in our relationship we would sometimes come awake in the night, already engaged in full intercourse, and wonder how it had started. Neither of us sleep soundly enough for that to happen anymore, but sometimes if the mood is right as we drift off, or if the right dreams come in the window, his body will emerge from sleep without his consciousness and reach for me, full handed groping my body from my throat to my breasts to my stomach to my crotch… Actually I guess it usually goes in the opposite direction, but either way it’s delicious and makes me feel like the sexiest creature alive.  That previous night I’d been whale sleeping again, and he’d arisen in the small hours like a bear still deep in hibernation, and rolled me over, pulled down my little boy shorts and literally chewed on my ass. Then he’d pulled me bodily against him with his hands up the front of my shirt, like he’d wanted to submerge himself in me, if he could. He’d gone still again then, and I’d lain there like that, with the breeze coming in the window and the mockingbirds singing in the night, in a state of complete happiness and contentment. Time frozen in foreplay. There had been a full day of regular life between that frozen time and this night, but I’d been keeping those moments warm, throughout.
            It was a good night for sweet wine and porn. It usually doesn’t take me long to shift my attention from the TV to the cock, but it was Dani Daniels we were watching, and I was in the mood for Dani Daniels. (Sinn Sage is probably my favorite, but she only does girl on girl scenes and sometimes penetration is just necessary for my viewing pleasure.) So instead of turning away to take my husband in my hands and my mouth, I opted for starting out by touching myself. Watching each other get ourselves off is a welcome staple in our sex life. It has facets of exhibitionism, voyeurism, arousal, jealousy, depravity, familiarity, empathy… It just never gets old. So I knew my delectable lover would be anything but put off. He would be enticed and caught between the porn on the screen and the porn on the bed next to him. I went back to the Nina Hartley well (yeah, I’ve been binging on that a little, lately), and sure enough, it was only a minute or two before he was luring me right back, catching me in the same attention splitting dilemma. It’s really no contest though. I love to watch my husband stroke his own cock. I know his cock as well as I know my own face in the mirror, and I have memorized every single sensation of the touch of his hands, so to see them together is very like doing it myself and having it done to me, simultaneously – only through the tantalizing veil of being denied access to the actual tactile feeling of it. It’s provokingly, thrillingly, cruel. The only thing I can do, if I’m not going to give in and pounce on him, is lose myself in the sensation of it and get myself off, in mutually beneficial retaliation. Which I did.
After I came, smiling at him, I turned away from him to reach for a sip of my wine. Half of me knew he was going to come for me from behind as soon as I did it. None of me was disappointed, when he did.
I’d been using something of a hard version of the Nina Hartley (as I am wont to do), pulling my whole pussy, labia held closed, clitoris sheathed, so that despite the physical stimulation, arousal and orgasmic crest, there was none of what my beloved false historical porn calls “bloom.” All the moisture that hadn’t come away on my fingers was entirely contained inside me. I was shut. I’d effectively sealed my own quim. The result was that when I was assaulted from behind (barely managed to avoid spilling the wine), I was as close as I will ever be to virginal. (Now you know why I stopped and told you about my head full of virgins, when I did.) Of course it was nothing like really being a virgin, but that’s also what made it better. (I’m still unconvinced that more than a handful of women in the history of humankind have managed to reach orgasm on their first try.) And of course that’s what immediately came to mind when he had to breach the shuttered outer folds of my pussy, and what made it especially breathtaking (literally), when on doing so, he slid into the wet evidence of my orgasm of only a moment before. Is there a stronger word for provocative? Because I was provoked. I was seduced. I was carried instantly, violently, to the next level of arousal. It was more intoxicating than the wine, by far. Have you ever run down a hill so steep and fast that you fear your feet cannot keep up with the momentum of your body? That you will lose control and fall before you can regain your equilibrium? I was still in that unfixed rush of near-climactic instability when suddenly, out of nowhere, he had lube on his fingers, in my ass. And then before I’d ever had a chance to get a hold of myself, to regain my balance, he emptied me of his cock and refilled me where his fingers had been. Oh gods, how he fucked my ass. Relentless, and me on the brink of falling off the edge of some internal cliff, arms pinwheeling and nothing to grab onto. It was the good fear, but my head was spinning so, that as continuously close to orgasm as I was, it wouldn’t come. It was the opposite of letting go – I had never had any control, so I had nothing to let go of. (Serenity in a flat-spin, for the geeks in attendance, but in a good way.)
Finally I begged him to let me fuck him with my ass, from above. The familiar riding of cock with ass that orgasms flock to like birds. Those were only the second and third orgasms of the evening, but it wasn’t until later that I even realized that. At the time it felt more like the sixth and seventh.
            Again, you’re not supposed to go ass to mouth. Again, I don’t care. I remember telling him, with my lips and tongue wrapped around him, that he tasted “like my pussy, your cock and my ass, at the same time,” and then I deep throated him until I was gasping. It’s another whirl, after that. I know I came once more with his cock back in my ass again. I know I begged him to make me “girl cum” (because I seriously cannot use the word squirt to describe a g-spot orgasm – it’s just too crude – and I’d just feel silly crying out for a “number three”), and got two in a row, for the asking. I know I had his cock in my mouth again, because I remember licking my own come out of the divot in front of his hip. And I know that ultimately, he came in my pussy, the kind where you feel the sudden introduction of his hot wetness on top of yours, because he did it right after I came, the same way. Strangely, I think it was the only vaginal orgasm I had all night. Maybe even more strangely, as fond as I’ve grown of the #4, it was also my favorite.
            Afterward, lying wet and exhausted and happy, I peeled myself off of him to finish off my glass of wine, and got a look at the clock. It had only been two hours. Time and sex are a funny combination, sometimes.


(Poor Michael Hutchence. It doesn't matter what you do in life, if you die of auto-erotic asphyxiation, no one will ever think of anything else when they hear your name.) 




Friday, May 10, 2013

16. There are virgins in my head


            I’ve mentioned the deflowering of virgins. It’s one of the things I look for in porn. I think though, that I may have said it and just played through as though that was it. In reality I have to admit that I’m a little preoccupied with the idea. Infatuated, maybe. I don’t have sex fantasies like I imagine other people do. If I’m having a fantasy, imagining something happening to me or living a life that I don’t, it’s not about sex at all, it’s about needing to escape from the world for awhile. It’s about what it would be like to live on a pre-Christian earth, or it’s a new chapter and custom developed character in one of my favorite books. I think we all imagine things for ourselves, don’t we? If you’ve been the one everyone leans on at work for weeks on end, you might put yourself to sleep with the idea of somebody rescuing you for a change. Or if you’ve been used and unable to do anything about it, you picture the revenge, right? Justice served, redemption, we fix these things for ourselves, when the universe isn’t doing it for us. I think that’s normal. (If it isn’t, don’t tell me – just let me go on believing I’m not weird for it. I’m weird in enough other ways.) I also think it’s normal for people to have sex fantasies, it’s just that I don’t do those the same way. Don’t think I don’t make up stories about sex. I have many original erotic scenarios that play out in my head, but I’m not in any of them. They do not involve me. I watch them like movies. I don’t know why I don’t participate in my own brain porn. Maybe it’s the nature of the scenarios: They are all about virgins being deflowered. I’m pretty sure that’s not even an exaggeration. If there are any alternate plots or images, I can’t think of them off the top of my head. My head is full of virgins. If I’m about to orgasm and I’m not focused on the immediate present, watching and feeling and actively experiencing, trying to memorize every moment of what’s happening to my body and mind in that exact, delicious point in time, if my brain has unhooked itself and been swept away in the sensation of being righteously fucked, I’m thinking about virgins. Guaranteed.
            I don’t know why this is. I don’t think it stems from my history. My own first time was neither exciting nor catastrophic. It’s ridiculous to say “nobody ever” in a world so full of people; anything you can think of has likely been done at one point or another, but the number of women who reach vaginal orgasm during their first time has to be so small that “nobody ever” can’t be all that far off the mark. It hurts. There’s no getting around that, is there? Even if you don’t have a hymen, the penis would have to be pretty damn small not to stretch you beyond where you’ve been stretched before. So I think most of us have a deflowering story that’s either traumatic or embarrassing or sort of uneventful, beyond the life event of no longer being a virgin. I know there are lots of people with stories that are sweet and loving or whatever, but as far as the physical sensations go? I don’t think those really make great fantasy material either. I had a boyfriend who was five years older than I was, and in college. He’d been a counselor at my summer camp – the cute one, even – so he was a major score and of course I was totally caught up. I knew what I was doing. I lost my virginity on purpose. But as far as those physical sensations go, hell yes it hurt, and no way was I even close to orgasm, at any time. I pulled his head down next to my ear (missionary), so he couldn’t see the pain on my face, and I waited for him to finish. I guess it was good for him because he came twice (I didn’t even know enough to know that was unusual), but all my pleasure came from the knowledge that I’d gone through with it. That was it. So what’s the appeal?
            Unlike how I did it, the vast majority of the virgins in my head don’t know what they are in for. The one I think of as the first virgin (though honestly I don’t know if she really was there before the others), doesn’t intend to lose it at all. She has said, previous to the act, that she doesn’t want to. It’s not a rape fantasy though. My head doesn’t go there. It’s a manipulation. He talks her into letting him put the head of his cock against her pussy and asks her if it feels good. Of course it does. When she admits that, he takes it as a reversal of her decision and is so quick to shower her with “I knew you’d like it” and flattering dirty talk over how good and hot and tight she is that she lets it happen in order to live up to his praise and expectations of her. She makes no attempt to stop him. She lets herself believe he didn’t exploit her naïveté, that he didn’t engineer the whole thing. Okay so it’s borderline date rape. Maybe not even borderline, but she’s not unhappy afterwards. At least she wouldn’t be if I ever let her get to afterwards, but I never do. Either I’m back in the moment by then or I’ve brought up a new virgin. I have a lot of them to choose from. There’s one in corset and petticoats – you know how I love the false historical porn – who loses it in public in the balcony of an opera house. Half the people in the other balcony boxes are watching her instead of the opera (you’ve seen Dangerous Liaisons, right?), so she can’t protest for fear that they will laugh at her, not to mention her desire to please the man who skillfully arranged for it to happen. Actually I can get her twice: Sometimes the opera happens the night after she’s been deflowered, so she’s still incredibly sore. Her lover exploits that while he has her bent over the rail by pulling out to save her the pain and taking her in the ass, instead, whispering to her that no one can tell where his cock is, so as long as she doesn’t show her surprise, they can’t tell how much she likes it there. Yeah, most of the men are total assholes in disguise. There’s one who is especially bad. The girl in question is a willing participant, but he makes her look him in the eyes at the moment of breach, so he can see the pain of it on her face, makes her tell him as it happens, say it out loud… The scenes aren’t all about fear and discomfort, though. I’ve actually played with that idea of how it could be possible to have a vaginal orgasm the first time having sex. That’s another willing girl – more than willing – she’s dying to lose it, but her lover has dragged it out. He has spent weeks doing everything else to her, teaching her, bringing her to orgasm with fingers and toys, so that she is accustomed to coming before she ever feels a cock inside her. Imagine how great an orgasm that would be, if it was the first time you’d ever felt your pussy full of real, flesh and blood cock. (I wonder now if that happens to women who saved themselves until they weren’t young and stupid. Maybe it’s not as uncommon as I’ve always assumed. I’ve mostly only known women who lost their virginities as I did, at a very young age – which I guess is why all the virgins in my head are girls. There is one woman I know. I’ll have to ask.)
            I guess when I start lining them all up like this, it’s pretty clear what must be the appeal for me, after all. The thing they all have in common is a lack of control. You don’t have to read back very far here to see that’s got me written all over it. Some aspect of knowingly being used. (In fact, sometimes even that man in the delayed, orgasm intended deflowering brings in somebody else at the last minute to do the actual deed, much to the virgin’s ineffective dismay.) Maybe that's also why I'm not in any of my own sex scenarios - like I said, my virgins never know what they are in for. The hottest part of the scene is knowing exactly what's going on. This has been happening to me a lot, lately: I have some really early memory or take a close look at something that’s been true of me forever, and see obvious evidence of the submissive it took me so long to recognize in myself. For a smart person, I can be pretty fucking obliviously stupid. So, virgins. Young ones. There aren’t many people more easily manipulated sexually, than young virgins who want to please a man. I guess it’s no wonder my head is full of them.


(Fourteen, fifteen, close enough.)

Friday, May 3, 2013

15. The night that followed


           I decided to go full pink, for the evening. I’ve mentioned before that I sometimes like pink because of how much I hate it, right? I can’t stand any of that girly shit. Do you get what I mean if I say it’s like blondes wearing light blue eye shadow, or am I the only one who wants to punch those people? It’s cute, by which I mean gross. The only acceptable response to cute, as far as I’m concerned, is to defile the ever loving shit out of it. But the defilement of it, the desecration of it, well that’s a different story… Because that’s so hot that it makes the pink worth having in the first place. So I got out the little pink and white panties (they even have white-on-white butterflies, if you look closely – they’re so sickeningly sweet that I own two pairs in case one of them ever gets irretrievably adulterated), and the clingy little see-through top. I have exactly two pink hair ties that I got from my niece, and I used them to make those little knobbly pig tails. (My hair is too long and straight for regular pigtails; even I can’t debase myself that far.) I can’t let go of my youth enough to ever forego too much thick, black eyeliner, but I made up for that with pink lipstick and eye shadow and toenail polish like bubblegum ice cream. I made the preparations necessary for railing Barbie in the ass.
            If I can get to the cock before it’s erect, there’s a move that’s among my very favorite things to do with a penis. You flip it up, and rest the side of your head on his stomach. Take the head of his cock in your lips and gently suck it all the way into your mouth, then use your tongue to gently push it almost all the way out again. Repeat. What you get is a blow job with your standard in and out motion, but the cock is the thing making it, while your head is completely still. It can only continue very briefly because it stops working once he’s hard, but you get to feel every increment of that hardening in your mouth, as it happens. Maybe other people aren’t as fascinated by the workings of the cock as I am, but I love to bear witness to that shit – especially as the instrument of the transformation. After the mood of the day, it was only seconds before my little trick was no longer viable, but the result was gloriously huge, and hard as calculus. That’s when he threw me onto my back and loomed over me.
            The first thing he did – because sometimes he’s a fucking mind reader – was the Nina Hartley. Unbelievable. I didn’t tell him that that had been my first method of the day, because his not knowing he’s a damn psychic was part of what was getting me off. (Well, that and the fact that he’s really good at the NH!) He didn’t let me come though. He brought me right up to the edge, and then he took me by the collar and pulled me back onto his cock. I went down on him for awhile, alternating between the deep throat and a wet tongue – or thumb, or both at the same time – to the frenulum… That’s stupid to say ‘alternating,’ because what it is really is everything in between and on either side as well. I love that head space in which there is nothing but the sucking of the cock, but infinite ways in which to do it. You can be doing one thing and just slightly change the position of your hand or your lips or your tongue or your grip or your mouth or your spit and that one thing becomes something else. Change two things and it’s something else again. Switch to a different first something and all the changes change again. It’s beguiling. Sometimes it makes me a little delirious. Apparently this time I got fairly caught up, because eventually he had to stop me physically so he wouldn’t come – I tend to miss or ignore the signals when I get like that, so he pushed me away from him onto my face and put a few beautifully distinct hand prints across my ass. Sometimes when the marks are really good he’ll stop and let me admire them in the mirror, but this night he was too absorbed with the prospect of going down on me.
I am unmistakably fortunate that my husband likes my pussy in his mouth as much as I like his cock in mine. Also, the man is skilled; sometimes when he’s going down on me my mind just untethers and floats away to a whole other place (where undoubtedly there are virgins – remind me to tell you about all the virgins in my head, sometime). I even have a game around trying to stay present in the throes of his attention – to watch and feel every fraction of his wet flesh on my wet flesh without letting myself get carried up into the spinning delirium of it. That’s a really good orgasm, when I win that battle. This night though, we skipped right over the clitoral orgasm. I’ve told you how adept he is at bringing me to Orgasm #3. We have a really soft blanket with a waterproof interior layer, to save the mattress, because of it. That’s where he went next, right to the g-spot. I don’t think it took three seconds before I was raining into the palm of his hand with a puddle under me. He looked at me with that cocky little eyebrow thing and said “Really? It’s not even a challenge anymore.” I started to laugh but before it even made it past my lips he was making me come again, and again, and again. Sometimes there’s just no end to Orgasm #3.
Do you ever have those moments when your vagina is hypersensitive? I don’t mean in the bad way, where you can be oversensitive, like a clit in the hands of someone who needs more practice at it. I mean in the way where you are aware of every bit of it. There’s the kind of fucking where your pussy is completely and utterly full, where there’s no more give to it at all, and you feel yourself impaled as though your whole body is nothing but a tight wrapper for the thrust of his cock. Then there’s this other kind of sensation, when it’s not just varying stages of filling and withdrawal, but when you are aware of every single smidgen of his cock moving against every last scintilla of you, from your labia to your cervix. When the nerves in your pussy behave more like the nerves at the back of your knee or the inner of your elbow, places where you don’t just feel yourself being touched or not touched, you feel the exact quality of the touch – the extent of the pressure changing and the very particles of its motion. That’s how he fucked me next. He put me on my side and took me from behind and in the pleasure of that sensory overload I ended up taking over most of the movement, the slow (and then not so slow) writhe of pressing back onto him, all but still, and feeling everything like my pussy could taste him. Is it any surprise that he would make the leap of only an inch, from there? He fucked me in the ass from that sideways and behind position, and then he pulled me onto my back and put my knees beside my ears and fucked me in the ass like that. Then he flipped me and put my face in the pillow, pulled my hips up onto him and fucked me in the ass like that. I don’t even remember which of those positions were the ones that made me come.
You know how you’re never supposed to go ass to mouth? Yeah, I do that all the time. Sorry if I offend your tender sensibilities but it doesn’t bother me even a little bit, and if it has thrown off my internal flora it has never done it in a way that I have noticed. A blow job after ass fucking is not the same thing as a blow job after vaginal fucking. That I think I once described as a taste that brings out a territorial streak in me, like a cat rubs itself against anything it wants to mark as its own – That’s right, that’s MY pussy all over your cock… With ass fucking I think it’s more about the taboo of it. You’re really not supposed to do it, which is probably why I like to so much. Which is why it then always leads me to put it back in my pussy again, because you’re not supposed to put it there after ass fucking, either. I really am a simple creature. It’s no wonder my husband always knows what’s going on in my brain. And that’s how I got to the vaginal orgasm of the evening. My dear friend Orgasm #2. Not the most violent or uncontrollable of the four (that would be #4), but always that beautiful internal body melt, always something like coming home. That’s how my husband came too, in my pussy. Sometimes I feel him come with the wet sensation of the come itself. Sometimes, like this time, it’s the rigid spasm of the cock I feel, like it is a separate entity that even he can’t always keep in control. It’s hard to let him go after that. It makes me want to grip him in a kegel and just hold him there.
            I’m not sure how I want to end the story of that evening. I’m tempted to go back and tell you about the part that I skipped, but I think I’m going to save that bit for a later time, when the topic is more about the intricacies of the Dominant/submissive aspects of the relationship. There are other bits of the night that I’ve forgotten, too. I know because there were moments in the evening when I was saying over and over to myself Oh gods, remember this! Remember this for later! knowing that doing so would bring me to orgasm some day while my husband was at work or away on business. However, when I told him that and asked him “What did we do right before ___?” he’d been too caught up to recall it either. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s pleasing to think that there are those things we’ve done that though lost to memory, cannot be undone. I think I like the idea that our sex life goes deeper than even the two of us know.



Wednesday, May 1, 2013

14. I’ll bet Nina Hartley doesn’t “Use as directed”


            So I had a morning of masturbation to complete. “Cum twice before noon, and then not again.” (Cum or come? Like grey and gray, I always have trouble choosing a spelling. I definitely prefer come to cum, which is somehow gross and uncivilized, but if you use come, occasionally you have to worry about forcing the reader to go back and reread, as they may have misunderstood your meaning the first time. I’m just going to continue going back and forth, using the better option when there is little question of it being a problem and the ugly spelling when the need arises. Any English teachers present can shut up or fuck off.) There are a couple of different settings in my maturbatory practices. I usually either go old school minimalist, or all out overboard. That’s not to say I don’t play around in the middle occasionally – one simple dildo or leave the panties on just for the hell of it scenarios, if I’m mostly getting off because I’m bored. (Sometimes I have an assignment that makes specific requirements like that too, but not often.) But otherwise, I’m generally just going fingers to pussy because I have a serious need to get off, or I’m setting out an impressive array of toys and lubes and settling into the long game, because I’m unemployed and can get away with shit like that. This day however, I had the luxury of being able to break it up into two events, so I decided to do both.
            Heading into the long game first would have been deliciously difficult, as I had already been spun up so efficiently that morning, and it would have been in keeping with the atmosphere of tantalization my husband had been cultivating. Of course, I don’t have that kind of self-control. So straight back to bed I went, to tumble myself in the sheets that still smelled like the man who’d just left me in this condition. I wasn’t going for your standard fingertip circle, though. I wasn’t even going for the combination fingering of clit and pussy and ass, though I like that the same way I like having a playlist on shuffle, where you know what the options are, and they’re all good, but you don’t know which is coming next until you get there. Today I was headed straight for The Nina Hartley. Do you already know and love Nina Hartley? She’s such a wonderful badass, provided you don’t get freaked out by the whole Mary Jo Buttafucco thing. What I like to call The Nina Hartley, is one of the methods that she demonstrates for getting a woman off. It involves a full handed grab of the vulva, a rhythmic pulling of labia and/or clit, that essentially results in jerking off a woman the same way you might jerk off a man. The first time I saw her do the basic technique, I thought to myself, “Well of course. We all do that!” But then I realized I was wrong. Yes, I certainly incorporated the idea when I played with my pussy, but as I watched the video it dawned on me that I had never seen it all the way through (the technique, not the video). All this time I’d been using the method to open a door, standing on the threshold, and then backing away and climbing out through a window. Spectacularly short-sighted. Oh, and what fun to discover a new way to pleasure this same body that I’ve been pleasuring my whole life! It’s been among my favorite solo activities, ever since. (The Nina Hartley, for your viewing pleasure.) So Orgasm the First came to pass through the grip of my fingers on the folds of my pussy, with the sound of how wet I was as better evidence of it than the wetness itself, which even still was enough to leak out onto my hand, despite the fact that I was virtually holding myself closed. Bliss.
            I’m honestly not sure what I did with the in-between time. I took and sent my obligatory picture, then I likely started a load of laundry, maybe even swept, but sooner or later I always end up at my computer, which means I was either staring at drafts of poems and doing nothing with them (I’m mostly down to the unfixable ones), or I was translating the journal form of Laundry and Blow Jobs to this, its postable incarnation. Either way, I almost certainly ended up on reddit, because the next thing I remember is looking up to discover that it was already eleven o’clock. Whoops. I got out my favorite pink toy, about which you have already read, and then my green Lelo vibrator and my purple We-Vibe and a bottle of the good lube (I like the white, lotion kind that looks like come). (It’s possible that cum should be the noun and come the verb, but I’m going to pass on the over-analytic grammar geek-out, for the time being.) I almost tapped the Sasi vibe, because it’s essentially the previously discussed customized playlist on shuffle, but frankly it’s not that great a toy and it has no penetrative properties. After spending my first orgasm without that, there was no way I was going to deprive myself of it again. I started with the Lelo just externally, you know, just to get the pussy warm. Just to get the pussy warm... Hmm, there’s a poem somewhere in that, I think. Anyway, having kept everything so contained earlier in the day, I was still fairly wet internally. The thing is though, unnecessary though it may have been, I had lube at the ready. Understand that when it comes to lube and masturbation, I don’t believe in moderation. The lotion/come kind that I like is brutally expensive (I buy Pink, not Liquid Silk because Liquid Silk tastes like battery acid), and I couldn’t possibly care less. If I’m playing with lube, I’m overdoing it. I like to feel it fall all over my pussy and then hold still and let it run down to my ass. This was especially conducive to the day in question because I own both the vibrators I had selected for the occasion (the Lelo and the We-Vibe), specifically for use not-as-recommended. They are both designed to stimulate your clit and your quim at once (not to mention a male partner’s cock, in the case of the We-Vibe), but I can only do that for a very short period before it makes me come. I can toss in a thrust or two like that while I’m on shuffle, but if I keep it up the orgasm is there and over far too quickly for my taste. No, I own those two vibrators because you’d be surprised at how hard it is to find one that’s designed for double penetration. I don’t know why that’s true – maybe I’m just looking in the wrong places – but you’d think that kind of thing would be standard in 2013, and it’s not.
So I played my lube raining game, followed by the slow, exploratory spreading-of-the-slippery with full fingers and open palm, and then returned to my little green friend. There’s one setting that I particularly like, with three subsequent levels of rising speed, followed by a pulse that drops you off the edge of a cliff every time it ends and starts over again. I found that, even with lube all over both my hands, and used-as-directed for as long as I could without touching the brink of orgasm, and then I flipped it over. That’s the luxury of the thing: You can flip it over. Most vibrators that have a clit stimulation feature have such an unnecessarily complex clit stimulation feature, that you’d never want to put it in your ass. Not so with this one. So now I had one side in my pussy and the other in my ass, and they were both on that setting that climbs and climbs and climbs and throbs until you’re almost there, and then drops you with a gasp and starts again. Even without anything touching my clit at all, that wasn’t going to take long, if I kept up the motion of penetration and withdrawal, pushing in and pulling out, introduction and separation… I was definitely walking up to the edge, and I was only going to get to jump off once before I’d have to wait for the evening to come. Before I got to the point of no return, I traded green for purple. It was obvious by now that I was never going to get to the pink toy, but at least with sex toys, it’s always better to have and not need than to need and not have. Just for kicks, I started with the factory intended placement, but the time available for such activities had grown narrow indeed, so as with the other toy, I flipped it around. With both heads inserted, one in the pussy and the other in the ass, the device no longer receives the signal to change settings (design flaw!), but in a way this was part of my plan. Time was short – both for my ability to hold off climax and for the expiration of my tasked assignment – so a steady setting that was both stimulating and also a holding pattern wasn’t a bad idea. I left myself there, hands free (oh, that’s another fun way to make myself come sometimes, when I can pull it off!), with a doubly penetrating buzz going, while I tried to catch my breath and let the incipient orgasm back a couple of steps away. It did, but even though I kept my hands thrown over my head, it wasn’t long before I was starting the slow motion writhe and twist that was going to get me there anyway. My id was not going to obey. So, as I’ve been doing with so many things of late, I embraced instead of fighting. The eventual climax that would come from doing nothing wasn’t going to compare with the extended fireworks I could get from taking immediate action, so like any sane person I opted for the grand finale. I shifted my position so that the motion of my involuntary squirming would have direct consequences on the toy still humming inside me twice at the same time, and I brought back the other vibrator, as well. I slipped the whole thing – big head and small, between my labia, but keeping it external so that I could slide it over every available trace of my flesh –every lick of snatch, if you will. I rubbed and slid it over the full breadth of my pussy, from the edge of my ass to the prow of my clit, and when I came, since no one was home because it was the middle of the day which I could manage because I have NO JOB, I didn’t have to stifle my cries or bite the side of my hand or bury my face in a pillow.
All I had to do (once the trembling had subsided), was send another picture – which I did, and begin the measured patience of Waiting – which now you must, too.


(You didn't really think I was going to put The Divinals here, did you?)