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.

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)

24. LBPs

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23. The brief payment of a minor debt

     Without going into the background details, let’s just say that I owed him. It wasn’t a bet I’d lost, but you can think of it that way. (Plus, the night before had been a pink night, and while those were originally designed for his benefit, they have since clearly become about mine.) So I had dressed to amuse him: Little knobby pig tails, infinitesimally tiny boy shorts that I bought in the stripper section of the adult store, and my polka dot bra – I don’t know what the full effect is in reality, but in my head it makes me feel like a pin-up girl. All that was missing were my high heeled Mary Janes with the ankle strap. I had every intention of a straight (five star, major league, righteous) blow job, that would bring him all the way through to the finish.
     I was settled in, and I was showing off. The Vegas trick, kitten mouth, ice cream on the spoon, the envelope, ripe peach, tongue trap, lady left, threshold, the hitchhiker, deep throat with a wave… He stopped me three times. I took it as a compliment, he wanted to make it last as long as possible and didn’t question, but on the third stop, he stopped me.
     “It seems counter-intuitive that I would stop you here, but I’m going to.” Then he got up and walked away from the bed. His demeanor suggested that nothing was wrong, so I sipped my wine and waited to find out what he was up to. He returned with a cigarette, a lighter, and a bottle of the good lube.
     “Don’t come back until you’re ready for me to fuck you in the ass until I come. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to make yourself come before I do that. Take as long as you need.” I guess I’d need the Mary Janes after all.

     I went outside slightly baffled (he does this to me with malice of forethought, no question). It had only been a few nights before that he’d sent me outside with a cigarette and similar instructions. This hadn’t been such a common occurrence for awhile; he must have read the same thing I did, about inconsistent reinforcement. I started in a squat – you know that good, ass to Achilles’ tendon, high heels and elbows on your spread knees position that’s great for smoking a cigarette, half naked. I rolled my stripper panties down so that they were cutting into my thighs just below my ass, took a drag, and slid a finger into my ass from the front, on the exhale. I understand smoking porn, I really do. I’d rather be the object of it than watch it, but the concept gets me off just the same. I was enjoying myself, but there was something about his instructions that was nagging at me, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I tried to appreciate the cigarette, long, straight exhales through just-pursed lips and perfectly round smoke rings sailing away wider and lighter. (It’s not easy to blow a perfect smoke ring while you’re fucking yourself in the ass, you know.) I tried to appreciate the ass fucking, too, to feel the full sensation of entry and withdrawal through the nerve endings in both the finger and the ass. But the cigarette was done too quickly, and I’d barely added a second finger to my ass from underneath and behind, and his orders had been so definite, like the ringing of a bell. I was missing something. I decided I just hadn’t done enough preparation, and he’d said I could take all the time I needed, so it didn’t matter that my cigarette was done. I dropped the panties to my ankles and bent over from the waist. I added more lube, spread my ass and used two fingers well and good, from behind. I introduced my other hand to my pussy from the front, but I didn’t want to get off completely, without my husband there to witness. Then I had it: “Don’t come back until…” Did that mean if I was going to come, I had to do it before I went back? Knowing my husband, he couldn’t possibly have meant it that way. He likes to watch me make myself come as much as I like making myself come while he watches. But his words were spoken with such casual command that I was scared to death to get it wrong. I really didn’t want to ask. I just wanted to get it right. My first instinct, the way I’d immediately understood it when he’d said it, included getting off in front of him after coming inside with a lubey ass and a brain that was mentally prepared. I would trust my instinct.
     And then I went inside and couldn’t make it past the threshold of the door. Technically you see, I wasn’t back yet. I had thought I was sure, but I just couldn’t pull it off. I never can. I have to ask or speak or whatever it is, every time. It’s the same as my inability to lie to him. Holding something back feels like not telling the truth. So I stood there and waited for him to acknowledge me, and I asked for clarification, when he did.
     “I can be as specific as you like.” He said it with this dangerous nonchalance he’s possessed since the day I met him. It’s a little scary and a lot sexy and it makes the air in my chest flutter. “The next time my cock goes in your mouth, when it comes out, it’s going straight into your ass, and I’m going to slow-fuck you until I come. What happens between now and then, is up to you.” He looked unblinking into my face as he spoke, and I had to hold onto the door frame to keep from going weak at the knees. Did he want to watch? Of course he did.
     I left the Mary Janes on, and re-lowered the panties to the tight bands I’d made of them, outside. I got out my pink toy and left it nearby – I wanted to bring myself almost to a clitoral orgasm and then put it in my ass and throw myself over the edge with the amplified intensity. I far overdid the lube, not bothering to count how many pumps came out of the bottle, and didn’t touch it at first, letting it slide from my clit to my pussy to my ass. I fucking love that sensation. It’s not hot like come, when you pour it straight from the bottle, but since it’s gone untouched by my fingers it does almost the same thing to my head, like being creamed on in pulsing spurts. Also, the lotion kind has the right look and feel to it, so if I’m sitting in a position from which I can see myself, I can imagine it from my husband’s point of view and try to know what it would have been like to shoot it there. At that point I can’t help but touch it with my fingers, play in it. I hadn’t been doing that long before I felt his fingers in my ass. He had said I could get myself off and that he wanted to watch, but he’d never said he wasn’t going to get involved; that had been my mistaken assumption. And he didn’t just fool around a little either, building me up – that had been my job to complete, outside. He went straight in with two relentless fingers and reminded me just how tight my little pink asshole actually is. How is it possible that he can fit his whole cock in there?! By the time he withdrew his hand, I’d changed my mind about my little pink toy. I left it abandoned on the bed while I produced my green Lelo vibe with the two heads and pulled the stripper panties off over my shoes.
     I backed up a little – physically, to be sure he had a good view, and in the masturbatory progression, to get a good build up going again. I started with it the “right” way, little head on my clit, big head deep inside me and out again fucking myself while he watched, and then of course, I flipped it over. I had the big head still in my pussy with the little one in my ass and my fingers on my clit and the whole thing was so slippery with lube that I could barely work the controls. I went from the weakest to the strongest continuous buzz, to the rising one that gets more and more intense and then ends in a pulse. This is usually where I keep it until I come, but I knew what was going to come next on this night, so that wasn’t going to be enough. I flipped the vibrator over again, so the little head was back at the top, but this time I put it in my pussy and slowly pressed the big side into my ass. So fucking tight, but there was more than enough lube to work it into a good rhythm. Then I went back to the slippery controls and switched to the fastest, most intense pulse it’s got, trying to keep enough of a grip on the thing to fuck myself as hard as he was going to fuck me, any minute now. That was the thought that did it. Well, that and the fact that he was whispering to me as he watched. Whispering about my tight little ass getting fucked like that and how it was going to take his cock next and how much he knows I like it… I came with him whispering to me to come for him.
     I was rewarded by getting to suck his cock again. Threshold, tongue trap, three piece suit, lady left, the ripe peach, the hitchhiker, three piece suit, deep throat with a swallow, happy dog, tree trunk, envelope, ripe peach, threshold, deep throat, push-pop, three piece suit, envelope, tree trunk… And then he was talking me onto his cock. It was just as effective as if he’d grabbed me and pulled me up onto him, fingers digging into my hips, but he did it with words in that calm, deadly serious undertone. He spoke my ass onto his cock. The whole time he was whispering to me, half filthy, half instructional, like he was teaching a neophyte concubine how to be sluttier. I was trying so hard not to lose control and just fuck him until I came, it would have been so easy, I was so close, but he kept reminding me with that voice bordering on reproach, “This one is for me.” Then he took me by the ass cheeks, holding me above him and spreading me open at the same time, and from underneath, he slow-fucked me just like he said he would, with his eyes locked onto mine, until he came, pulsing deep in my ass.
     Like I said, I owed him. It’s not my place to question whether it’s better to be the creditor or the one in debt.