Thursday, July 25, 2013

26. The Rain and the Rain

     My friend Harpo is in town. This never happens. Really. It’s never happened once. We’ve been friends for twenty-seven years, and I’ve seen her twice in the last twenty-six (at our weddings). I drove up to her hotel the first day and fell into her arms and then onto her bedspread, where we proceeded to hyper-talk for four and a half hours without taking a breath. There is never a “So…” with Harpo. We are too easy together for awkward pauses; we always have been. She may not have been there in person for my growing up, but she was there when the seeds took root and she gets the ins and outs of the person I’ve grown into, so even though she might not know where all the bodies are buried, if she had to guess, she’d likely find them anyway. You have to understand that, and the fact that she has all my intimate details, and the fact that she has just as many of her own kinks, and that I have the intimate details of those, to understand how candid we can be with each other. So yeah, you get two old girlfriends together and they’re going to talk (among many other things) about sex, but you get a couple of freaks who accept and love each other for every last twist, and who haven’t had a chance to dish to each other in person for decades, and the conversation is going to go deep. You have to understand that, if you’re going to understand how spun up I was, by nightfall.
     We went to dinner together, all four of us, so that the boys could meet and so we could meet each other’s boys. (Yes, they are Men with capital letters and all that, but if I’m reclaiming the word girl – which I am, if you haven’t noticed – then I’m not going to be gender-biased about it.) Dinner was three and a half hours long. Safe to say we all got along. You would have been hard pressed to find another party of four in a thirty mile radius, who gave less of a collective fuck about what anybody else thought. Not only that, but it was common knowledge among us that Harpo and I had been spilling details all afternoon, so there was a certain freedom to the conversation. So much so in fact, that my husband was the first one to turn it to sex. That’s another thing that never happens – he always leaves that to me. Just that little bullet-point cranked me up another several degrees because I didn’t see it coming at all, but the atmosphere that led to it, plus the open truths of the afternoon, plus the state I’ve been living in for these last weeks, and I was wound up pretty fucking hard.
     We parted ways at the restaurant (sorry if you were hoping we’d taken them home with us), in an absolute downpour. I love absolute downpours. I have no interest in light sprinkles or cool spring showers, and winter drizzle makes me want to hibernate, but give me a sky-ripping hot summer thunderstorm, and I will walk right out into the middle of it. I didn’t have any real distance to walk this night, we weren’t parked far, but it was far enough. The entire surface of the parking lot was a churning puddle, so stepping into it meant not caring that the toes of my badass knee high boots were submerged. I was wearing a tank top and a skirt, so I had a lot of skin exposed, and the rain splattered all of it. They were those big, fat raindrops that you can hear hitting you individually, not like the blended whir of rain coming in sheets. I was splashed by rain as it hit me and then splashed again as each drop exploded on my skin. My clothes were thin, and I was drenched and dripping in a moment. Excellently so. I have always been like this about huge rain. My husband experiences it entirely otherwise, and so though we were both at the car in a matter of seconds, we spent those seconds very differently. He was going to the car. I was crossing the parking lot. He was giving up trying to stay as dry as possible. I was feeling what it was like to be wet. I was very wet.
     I was the driver, so I had a lovely view of my bare arms and the rivulets running off them. I could feel the same thing happening on my legs, water trickling from the tops of my thighs to the in-between where they met and it pooled and dripped slowly onto my seat, rolled back to further soak my skirt and my panties. Rain ran from my hair, traced tactile lines from my scalp to my neck, my ears to my shoulders to my chest, like streetlights coming on one at a time. We had to turn on the defog because of all the humidity we had contained in the car, and the blowing air raised goose bumps all over me. After awhile we were able to turn the air warmer and I got that full body shiver that happens with a sudden increase in temperature. That’s such a delicious feeling – it always makes me think of the way a horse’s skin will visibly ripple over its whole body. We had the radio on, but the ride was quiet. I don’t know what was going through my husband’s mind; mine was preoccupied with what was happening to my skin and what it was doing to my brain and therefore under my skirt. Sometimes being wet on the outside is the same as being wet on the inside.
     Apparently his mind wasn’t far off from mine, because he had bondage porn on the bedroom TV before I came out of the bathroom. By the time I had stripped off my wet clothes (I left the wet panties on), he was casually stroking himself, but I got the feeling that I should abstain rather than follow suit. I didn’t know if I was reading him right or if it was a mental result of my deprivation game, but if it was my invention he was certainly playing along. When I tested it by moving to give him a blow job he slapped me hard across the face without saying a word. So I sat very still by his side, my cheek stinging with the shape of his palm and fingers, and watched that hand now on his cock. Occasionally he’d reach over and stroke my pussy, pinch my lips and clit and then leave off just as my tension had started to build. A few times he was cruel to my nipples until I gasped. Once he pushed me over onto my face, ass up, and toyed with me, fingers and thumb. Always he left me bereft just when I thought he might not.
     Suddenly he got up, left, and returned with a cigarette from the secret stash he keeps for me. He dropped it on the bed with a lighter and said “I like it when you come back from smoking with your ass wet, and stand over me.” Something about the way he’d said it, the fact that it was a statement, not an order, that he’d said I like it when, instead of I want you to… I had to look him in the eye. There was a time in our marriage when I finally understood with absolute certainty that he loves me as much as I love him. It was like a slow-erupting emotional orgasm, and it has never dissipated to this day. And what I was writing in February, about the state in which love and sex are not merely comingled, but fused to become the same thing, that is intrinsic to every one of our encounters. So when I looked at him, and saw in his face that behind the stoic aura he’d been creating for me, he wanted me every bit as much as I wanted him… Well I had to move the cigarette out of harm’s way and put his cock in my mouth. My confirmation was immediate, and his responses to me set off a physical response of my own – gods there are few things that make me feel sexier than when he cannot help himself, when he cannot maintain his calm or turn me away any longer, when he might just lose control.
     He had the presence of mind to throw me off of him before the tipping point, and I happily fetched my cigarette and put my boots back on (panties and boots – gotta love that combination – he simply said “Good choice”), and traipsed to the door. Before I went out it he added “If you aren’t actively fucking your ass, make sure it’s spread.” As you wish my love, as you wish. Outside, I bent and braced my upper body against the wall, ass out toward the alley in case anyone decided to stroll down it. I wanted spit, not lube tonight, so I twirled my finger around my tongue until it was wet enough, and then twirled it around my ass while I stretched up to take a drag from the cigarette in my supporting hand, my elbow and forearm steadying me against the wall from above. Then I was actively fingering my ass. I progressed quickly into the accelerating assault that has been known to bring me off hard and fast. I didn’t want to get there that easily, though. I didn’t want to get there at all, until I was back within reach and sight of my husband. So I carefully (and cunningly) traded one finger for the tight breach of two, and the rapid penetration for the somehow more deviant invasion of a slow, deep ass fucking. Oh, that worked so well that I kept forgetting I had a cigarette to smoke not two inches from my face. It was so good that I decided to stop (remembering to spread my ass as I’d been instructed to), and do it all over again. Tongue to finger, finger to ass, finger insertion, one, two, three, frenzied plunging, back off, withdraw, cautious press and stretch of the second finger, slow, measured, deep defilement… And right there I was on the brink of coming. It was all I could do on quivering legs to ditch the scorched filter of my cigarette and get back inside with my ass spread.
     He was lying on the bed where I’d left him, cock hard in his hand. I stepped up on the bed and straddled him, turned to face away so that he could see my ass, then I showed him exactly what I’d been up to, outside. Again, he responded visibly and audibly, jerking himself off while he watched my progression of finger to mouth, to ass, one to two, fast to slow, and again his responses drew a physical echo from me. He reached up when he saw how close he’d brought me, and took my clit in his fingers, squeezed and rubbed me while I fucked my ass for him. I don’t think I’d had an orgasm that was a combination of 1 and 4 before. Maybe I’d find it if I read back a few pages, but it doesn’t matter – it felt new, and I came all over him, from above. Poured onto his cock like hot rain. The orgasm left me trembling and I almost lost the support of my legs, but I held there while he used my come as lube all over his cock. Then, when he was as close as I’d been, he reached his free hand up again and slid his fingers into my pussy, found my g-spot. As relentless as the storm earlier in the night, he gave me three 3s in a row with only enough time between to register the full measure of my arousal and make the connection to the deluge we’d come home in, from the deluge I’d become standing over him. I think my rain soaked him nearly as thoroughly as I’d been soaked. His cock was dripping with my come as he stroked it.
     He pulled my pussy down onto him, then. I was still facing out and yes, there was still bondage porn facing me. He took hold of my hips while I watched a defiant sub spit in the face of her Dom and get tied to a table and punished for it. My husband dipped his cock in my slippery, drenching quim and began to alternate between just the teasing tip and sinking into a full-to-the-hilt burial. At the same time he alternated a vertical lift and plunge with a horizontal back to front grind, and all the while I had that super-sensitive pussy sensation I’ve written about before (15. The Night That Followed), acutely experiencing every changing quality of friction and touch, from labia to cervix. I don’t know if he was responding to my responses like I still was to his, if we were spinning each other up further and further that way, or if he was hypersensitive himself, but he got too close again and I had that same dizzying sense of the potency of my sex as he pushed me off of him again. I went back down on him then, and looked him in the eyes while I sucked the hot liquid of my own personal storm off of him. Usually blow job eye contact is a transitory event, with me. I’m too enamored of his cock to look away from sucking it for long. This time I couldn’t look away from his face. I was completely absorbed by his looking back at me with the exact way I was feeling, in his eyes. True Love–True Fuck.
     I climbed up to ride him as I so love to do, and added kissing to the look still passing between us. At some point in my history I managed to convince myself that I am no good at kissing. It’s not true, and I know that intellectually, but I can only completely let go of that nagging thought when I am swept up in the complete abandon of this kind of soul fucking. It makes it all the more intense when I go there, and I guess not just for me. I duplicated the alternating motions he’d used when I was reversed on his cock, tip slip to full immersion, vertical rise and fall to horizontal slip and slide, and I could see the wave he was cresting in his eyes. He warned me that he was going to come, and hearing him say it triggered me, drunk with the power to make him unable to help it, “Come inside me, come inside me…”
     The whole thing was both quick and infinite. The soaking panties (which had only ever been pulled aside, never removed), made an audible splat when I peeled them off and threw them from the bed. They went unreplaced, and when I woke this morning I couldn’t stand the idea of re-covering a pussy still so aware of every pleasure it sustained last night. So today I go pantyless, with soft hair long and loose so that I can feel it fall against my skin, trail warm and dry but no less reminiscent of rain.

Epilogue: My husband went to London on business the next day, and two days later I woke in the night to a thunderstorm that shook the house. The rain fell in torrents while I lay soft and warm on his side of the bed. I couldn’t help myself. I came, thinking of standing over him with his dripping fingers in my pussy and mine in my ass, and then the rain slowed and I drifted back to sleep. In the early morning, it stormed again... I made a thinly veiled remark about it while we were chatting today, because as usual I am incapable of keeping anything from him. He did not fail to notice that he hadn’t received pictures. (Did I do that on purpose? I think I probably did, yes. Why? I do not know.) This was his response: “…given that I sense it's not a single infraction, you can bet your sweet ass you will have marks to show for it, and a little something else...” He comes home tomorrow night.




Wednesday, July 17, 2013

25. Unabashed and Unashamed

     I have been on a slow boil. No, it’s a smolder. An underground fire, the kind you can get in places like Ontario where the earth is made of nothing but decomposed leaves and pine needles, and the fire just goes deep and goes on burning. Again, like I was a month or two ago, I am hyper-sexual. Really I think it’s the same phase, it’s just growing. I think it’s cumulative, and I’m just acutely aware because there was another definite lack of sex for awhile. Or maybe it’s intensified because instead of just letting it roll me over, I’m actually encouraging it. Maybe both. Likely both. It was probably a week without sex, but it felt like a month. It was only circumstances beyond our control. Insidiously coincidental poor timing and travel that wasn’t the fun kind. Impossible conditions. I’m not sure when I started making it better by making it worse. At some point I decided to play it as a deprivation game, making no sex into something sexual by pretending it was intentional. A new, diabolical torture inflicted for the very effect it was eliciting. It was a really good idea, but doing this makes everything sexual. Everything. No Sex turned to Sexual Deprivation makes every moment you’re not having sex, sexy. There was no moment during which I was not conscious of my pussy and every open expanse of my skin. Last time I wrote about it I was just letting it spin out of control. Now I’ve gone active – I’m the one doing the spinning. I am my own gyroscope.
     I think I first started ratcheting myself up because I was writing about blow job technique. Then I abandoned most of the books I was reading (I somehow almost always end up in the middle of three books at a time), and started reading nothing but porn. Up until then, I’d been denying myself masturbation as well. I don’t know if I stopped because I gave in or because part of me knew it would make it worse, but it made it worse. Deliciously worse. I got to the point where I could think of nothing else. Even the act of painting my toenails became about sex – I squirmed over just deciding which color was most delightfully devourable (purple), and squirmed again over the cold touch of the wet brush against each toe. Driving (and I was doing a lot of driving), became internally pornographic. My whale brain set one half to following directions and my ability to operate a car, while the other recalled the specific sensations of being bound. The difference between ropes and leather restraints and the stinging edges of latex straps. Fuck me, the visions of being bound – bound in public, bound and slapped, bare-handed spanks skin to skin, spanked and fingered to orgasm at the same time… For once, I was a player in my own fantasies and all the nameless virgins in my head faded into non-existence. I lost control of what was going through my head for days. And always, it was his cock inside me – in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass, his cock filled every available space in my mind, the way it usually does with my body. It still does.
     I can’t keep my fingers out of my pussy. I’m dropping everything I’m in the middle of twice a day to go touch myself. I take toys and porn into the bathtub at noon. I pinch my own nipples under my shirt, when I think no one is looking. I touch my breasts in public when I know for sure they are. Putting on lotion has become vaguely masturbatory (though to be fair, it always has been, to some extent). Putting on lip balm has become like tracing lube or a fingerful of spit over soft labia. When my husband brought me a Blow Pop from the office of one of his clients, I stared at it for twenty-four hours. Impossible to imagine the lick and suck of it – especially as it had come from him especially for me – in this condition. Surely it would kill me.
     When we finally got a chance to fuck, it was a frenzy. I couldn’t shut up, couldn’t stop telling him how good his cock felt fucking me, how I’d been thinking of nothing else for days. I pushed my fingers into my pussy with his cock, so I could feel him fucking me. I buried him in my mouth and my throat and sucked him like that longer than I usually dare, my face in his belly, gagged myself on him and loved it and came up gasping. He milked my nipples hard while I rode him, came away from my orgasm wet at both ends. He held me over him and fucked me from underneath, my pussy so wet that I could hear its slickness on him. I fingered my ass at the same time, so he could feel it while his cock was stroking into me. He pinched my clit and pulled my labia wide while he fucked and fucked me. Gods I loved it when he did that, held me tight with his fingers so that every time I rocked my hips it tugged and stretched me. Usually I don’t play around with his come when it’s already in my mouth. I make sure the spasm is complete (though I’ll admit I fuck that up sometimes), and swallow. But when he came, he filled my mouth so full that I couldn’t bear to be done with it so quickly. I let it pour down over his cock, still in my mouth, sucked it back over him.
     I fell asleep immediately, finally spent and sated, but awoke in the morning with his warm body against mine, and I knew as I watched him leave for work that it wasn’t over. That I’d lie soft and cozy and naked on his side of the bed, when he’d gone. That I’d put my fingers in my quim and remember his cock there. That I’d put a toy in my bag before I left the house. Add lube to my drive. Go in the steam room at the gym and lie naked in a puddle, feeling hot water fall onto my wet body from the ceiling. I am shameless – and I don’t mean that in a bad way, I mean I am without shame. I am obvious and careless (see previous comment about shameless). If I happen to run into you, in this particular epoch of my post-career, stand at the gas pump across from yours or thank you for holding that door for me, pay you for my paint at the art store, I’m going to be imagining you flushed in the reckless abandon of sex, and you’re going to know it, because I can’t get the look off my face. I don’t want to. If the lines had started to blur for you, so that the myriad acts of not being fucked had begun to take on the mental/emotional characteristics of fucking, would you?


(Unabashed and Unashamed)

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

24. LBPs

     At first, I didn’t know how to even begin to write about this night, but it has to be with the little blue panties. Not the regular blue ones, but the light, light blue ones. Barely blue. Lacey. Too sexy to be girly. When I put them on in the morning I thought These are the ones that should have been totally stretched out, after what happened last time I wore them. Miraculously, they had survived. But apparently something about those little blue panties turns my husband into a monster. The best monster ever. It shouldn’t have been an event-sex night. The night before was The brief payment of a minor debt, and the night before that had been full-on pink and defilement. We were exhausted. I was sore. At best it should have been follow-up sex. (You know, where you’re still spun up but also completely ruined from the last sex you had?) We were just watching TV in bed, but my pussy was noticeably wet. I’d never expected to end up with come in my ass those last two nights in a row, and I couldn’t shake the sensation. I couldn’t help checking it out – just a couple of fingers to the quim – and then (because I didn’t want to be impolite), I wafted my fingers under his nose, just once. He didn’t react. I mean, he very obviously and intentionally didn’t react. Then, when the show ended (it must have been Banshee, there’s always graphic sex in that), he just fucking assaulted me. Grabbed me by the hips and hauled me over. He was like that the whole night – no orders, just manhandling. If I was in his way, he threw me out of it. If he wanted me to move, he moved me bodily – put me where he wanted me. First he abused my ass and my pussy from behind, working my g-spot hard as he said “You have a choice; I can fuck you hard and fast, right here and now, or you can go make me a drink and we can draw this out.” Try to guess which option I chose.
     I don’t even know what order it all happened in. I know I barely had my mouth on his cock before he tossed me aside. He put me on my hands and knees, not his usual face down, ass up (I assumed that at first and was physically corrected with a hard yank to the back of my collar). He faced me to the porn he’d set up while I had been making drinks (I still had enough presence of mind to note that the pornstar had no technique to speak of). He pulled my little blue panties just barely down and took me by the hips, fucked me hard from behind as the porn scene turned from blow job to ass fucking and from there to ass to mouth. Then he did put my head down into the covers, and he pulled those little panties up through me, stem to stern. He pulled me around by them like that. (This is what happened to them last time I wore them. Something about those little blue panties.) Now they were wet, and he made them wetter. I don’t know when the first g-spot orgasm happened. I don’t know when the fourth did, either. It might have all been right then with his hand tucked in underneath them, because the next thing I remember those LBPs were wetter than anything should reasonably be. Then he put them back on me properly, righting and straightening them like he was making them just-so, only he didn’t stop at just-so; he pushed them into my pussy with his fingers and he made me come through them.
     He fucked me with my panties on. Not pulled to the side or rolled down just a little, he fucked me with them on. I’m trying to find a way to describe the slow push of his huge cock, the resistance of the sopping cotton crotch against it, and the stretch of lace cutting in from all sides, the background intuition there’s no way that can possibly fit, competing with the knowledge that he was well aware that I was imagining the breach of virginity… And all of it highlighted by indismissible pain as the little blue panties, forced deeper and deeper into me, were splitting my ass and my pussy farther and harder, the deeper he went. (For the record, it made me wet again just writing that.) It was a long time before he stopped. I only know he did because I remember touching myself, feeling the overflowing drench and the amazement of those little blue panties disappearing inside me. I’ve had panties up my quim before. It’s kind of a fun magician’s trick, but usually I’m not still wearing them at the time, and they tend to impractically soak up all the moisture. Then, it’s about the putting them in, the knowing they’re there, and the drawing them slowly out. That’s all there is. It’s fun, but that’s it. This was not that. This was nothing like any of that.
     I also remember my husband feeling it for himself, with his fingers. I remember more #3s that happened from that position. Much of my memory of the rest of the night is likely flawed, because writing this is very like trying to recall the details of an acid trip. I remember cock sucking – not trying to blow him away with well-developed skills like the other night, but just fully out of control, licking and sucking my own come off of him. I remember being covered again in spit and sweat and come and mascara and hair fallen loose – I had to have looked like I was in a sexual car accident, thrown from a shattered window and rolled to a stop in a roadside ditch. I remember he was cruel to my nipples, making them seep wetness through my shirt which was already see-through and stuck to me with sweat and come. I know there was forced deep throating, head fucking... He gagged me so hard with his cock that I actually wet the bed. No kidding. Oh, he got a kick out of that – promised to file it away in his memory for future use, with this little sideways smile on his face. It was frightening. By this time, he was maneuvering me by my nipples (which were vaguely purple for a day or two afterward), and he pulled me up onto him. I think it was a prize for that gagging that he let me ride his cock (but don’t forget the LBPs were still in play). From the explicit explanation he’d demanded of me, about the tangible (soaking) results of his having gagged me so hard, he’d had his eyes locked on mine – or mine locked on his, I guess – I was totally unable to look away. He was watching every flicker of pain, pleasure and emotion that crossed my face, like he was memorizing or confirming his own insights and expertise, and he didn’t look away once as I came down on those panties, rending me like a virgin on his cock. The feeling was so complete that I thought I was full of him right to the hilt, and climbing to a vaginal orgasm that was just skirted with pain. Then, between thrusts, the little blue panties finally slipped off the head of his cock, and it was suddenly, shockingly, like being fucked at full depth for the very first time – not believing it could go any farther and then having him slam into my cervix at full-bore… A few weeks ago I wrote about the hardest vaginal orgasm I’ve ever had in my life. This was one of those. I hereby dub them Super-Twos. And he watched my face, and replaced the lost pain of those slicing little blue panties with cruelty to my splashing nipples while I came and came and came.
     He probably forced my head back down onto his cock, after that. I know it got there somehow, in the dizzy, teetering aftermath, and I’m not sure I could have done it on my own. Then he threw me over onto my back and told me to finger my own ass (“Not like that – spread your knees wide, like the slut you know you are”). He added lube to the spectacle and watched, with that dangerous expression of supremacy, then he pinned my knees beside my shoulders and fucked my pussy while I fingered my ass (“Don’t stop, don’t even think about stopping”). He hooked one of my legs over his shoulder and freed a hand to split my clit with those panties again. Then he did away with the LBPs altogether (a quiet Rest In Peace went with them from the back of my head, as I assumed they’d given all they had in this life), and he used his hands to spread my ass for me. He pulled out of me and used two fingers on my g-spot to make me girl come into his palm, which was a tweaked and amplified orgasm, as my finger was still in my ass when it came. Then he used my come to lube up his cock and he put it in my ass. He fucked me slow to fast, watching me feel it like a virgin at a new depth all over again, then he’d stop and repeat until I came, and he’d start over. Ass fucking and talking to me, telling me what I was feeling while he kept going slow to fast in mytightlittlepinkasshole. He came long and hard and a lot, and when it was over, I was altered. Altered, body and mind. But by some blessing from the gods of raunchy sex, the little blue panties survived, intact. I’m wearing them now.