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.

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