Thursday, September 19, 2013
Monday, September 9, 2013
28. Frivolous? Yep. Worth it? You bet!
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Saturday, August 17, 2013
27. Invitations, offerings and the space between us
Chaos over – okay, mostly over, but with a nice little pause, a break, a day of peace before the trailing end, and some light at the end of the cliché tunnel. We had intended to celebrate. Plans to get dressed up, plans to go out to a really nice restaurant… But the more we lazed about making no actual preparations, the more we talked about how nice it was to laze about making no actual preparations, and the more obvious it became that what we really wanted to do more than anything else was be alone together. So finally we decided to celebrate our way, and spent most of the day lying around in each other’s arms. It was blissful. Of course it also led to sex. So, even better, yeah.
Even if we weren’t going out though, I was damn well going to take a long, hot bath. I made a couple of moves to get up to do so, but was lured back by the soft, warm bed, the solid dip between shoulder and chest that fits my head and cheek so perfectly, the wandering hands, trailing fingers, groping… I’m a total glutton for groping. Is it any wonder I let myself be waylaid? This was a day of unapologetic leisure, after all. The groping became distinctly more deliberate, but he wouldn’t let me take off my panties or give in to my wordless, arching invitations to go under them. He pulled them back and looked appreciatively a couple of times, admiring the visible effects of his handiwork (also I’m sporting a pretty nice new little trim job – it’s a thin triangle with the point up instead of down, that I think suits me well), but he didn’t give in. I think he likes to make me come through my panties for the sake of the slow soak of moisture into fabric. I think the look and feel of that pleases him. Also, it’s a bit of a tease, and that pleases him as well. So I came in my panties for him, loudly, spread wide across the bed, in the broad light of late afternoon, with my arms flung indecorously over my head, and the bedroom door thrown wide to the empty house.
Afterward, I half-rolled away from him to reach my glass and got the full body grope, from behind. He still had his jeans on, but there’s a quality about wet panties that I can’t imagine was wholly undetectable to that rigid a cock crammed up against them. He knows I love it when he does this, so he always claims that I do it on purpose, like I’m beckoning him over, intentionally tempting, suggesting, every time I take a sip of a drink. I deny it every time. Oh, but I can’t get enough of his cock long and hard against me from my pussy up the crease of my ass. He may have initiated the grind (enticement or no), but I was quickly overcome by that slow writhe that starts with my ass and gradually incorporates my whole body working against him like waves over a beach. I’ll admit I got swept up into it. I was enjoying the unmitigated freedom of having nothing to do but enjoy each other, and I let it carry me so far off that I almost came again just from the sheer indulgence – full-on frottage. We have a little history with frottage. A fond memory of balancing along the edge of paired orgasm on the PATH train from NYC where we’d been listening to jazz on Bleecker Street, to Hoboken where we’d parked the car. It was a hot summer night, and too late for the train to be crowded enough to warrant being pressed so tightly against each other. I had on my favorite dress which was made of nothing at all, and the sweat ran from my neck down inside it. My husband (though he wasn’t then), had me pinned against a corner at the door, and the train was loud and rolling us against each other. He is much taller than I, and I could see nothing of the other passengers or where they were looking. I could only feel the heat coming off of him, and my own ragged breath trapped against his chest, and his body rocking against mine. We didn’t speak at all, but it might have been the most truly intimate – physically, mentally, emotionally, intellectually, sexually intimate moment of my life, up until then. (”Ever do it on a real train, Joel?”) I suppose it’s doubtful he was thinking about the PATH train, but he was as close to coming as I was, so we had to stop or risk the sex being over before he’d even gotten his pants off.
I got into the tub with a full glass of wine, an electric cigarette and a book of fantasy porn about a masochist and a djinn with a poire d’angoisse. It’s one of those books that pretty much opens itself to certain passages, due to the number of times I’ve read them. It’s possible I got a little over-friendly with the soap. My husband had music on in the bedroom and tribbing porn on the TV, which I could just see from my bath, if I looked up from my book. This is what life should be like all the time. Eventually, legs shaved to the thigh, I got out and set about the extras – hair, eyeliner, all that. I did it naked because I wanted to honey dust myself, but my skin and the air were still too steamy for it to really smooth and slide. I did the little knotted pigtails and black eyeliner, and then I threw caution to the wind and reached for the charcoal eye shadow, despite what had happened the week before. I don’t usually wear eye shadow at all, but the week before I’d been feeling badass as a result of listening to too much Joan Jett (as if there could be such a thing), so I’d dug out my gray-to-blacks and gone a little Do You Wanna Touch Me. I’d put on a tight, black tank top, and a pair of crotchless black panties made entirely out of straps. I’d had plans for my boots too, but my husband had responded before I’d gotten the chance. He’d never actually said Oh, you think you’re badass do you? We’ll see about that… What he’d done was slap my ass until his hand hurt, and sent me to get the ropes. Now, I don’t care if I think I am Joan Jett at the time, if you send me for the ropes my pulse is going to scamper like a kid for an empty swing. I’d brought them to him trying to maintain some trace of exterior calm, and sat on my feet with my hands clasped behind me like a good little sub, to watch him open the bag. Then, THEN, after fingering first the dark red, then the blue set, with the most artful, unspoken guile, he’d brought out the very PINKEST most pinkity pink ropes of pinkiosity that ever pinked into pinkness. Then he’d bound my feet sole to sole, cinched my ankles to my thighs, tortured my pussy as long as he’d felt like it, and then amused himself by fucking me stupid through my supposedly hardcore little straps-for-panties. It was a thing of beauty. He’d trumped my badassery without so much as batting an eye. (I highly recommend fucking people who are really good poker players. They can take all your chips and you never see it coming, but you’ll be happy to have fed the pot.)
So now I had the hair and the eyes and I was deliciously honey dusted from smooth neck to silky boobs, ticklish underarms to delicate inner elbows to sensitive wrists, long spine to smooth scoop, smooth belly to ripe snatch to lovely under-ass, pale thighs to oh-gods-how-I-love-when-you-touch-the backs of the knees to silver polished toenails. Fucking honey dust. It makes me feel like that every time – like I could go naked to the king’s ball. Speaking of which, what did I feel like putting on? Panties? Sweet or sexy? Little skirt and no panties? I could go school-girl… Or negligee? No stockings; I didn’t want to cover that much skin… While I was standing there considering options, my husband signaled me over. He had his pants open but not off, and he told me to sit on his cock which was lying hard against his belly. Have I mentioned that I love to be completely naked while he’s fully dressed? I kneeled over him and nestled his long cock lengthwise into the slit of my labia. My pussy was cool from air drying after the bath, and the heat of his cock against it melted me, made me gasp. He slid his hands (Jesus, he has these big, strong hands) up my bare torso, took one breast in each, and squeezed. Right away my nipples let go and I watched the milkiness run over his fingers and splash onto his chest, soaking into his shirt. The sight of it made me wet too, suddenly, like I was doused from the inside, and it was at that moment that I decided to stay naked.
So began a slow Slip n’ Slide with kissing and the taste of licked milk and honey dust passed between lips and tongues. Spontaneous, intermittent moments of penetration advanced into fucking, wet cock submerging in wet pussy, my brain saturated just as thoroughly, and then receded again into that luscious, self-indulgent slide. I leaned against him, my face and breath at his neck, and reestablished the full-body writhe Id been so enjoying from the other side, earlier. I wanted as much of my body moving against his as I could get, my nipples stiff against his damp shirt and his chest, my thighs bent double and working against his hips, and always his cock at my cunny, inside and out, but never so much as a bubble of air between them. His hands moved down my back to my hips and my ass and pressed me into him, over him, onto him, against him... The tactile element of my nature was positively delirious. As his cock slid out of me again, I sat up and leaned back, spread my pussy with my fingers. I pulled back and exposed my clit, displayed it for him, and then I positioned it just at the base of his wet frenulum and nudged forward, like a kiss, a lick, a slow, wet lick of clit to cock and again we both almost tipped over the edge.
Intrigued by my pussy’s early reaction to my nipples, I retreated to the bathroom and dug out my nipple rouge. To hell with clothing; I would wear raspberry nipple rouge and lipstick. Nipple rouge is fabulous stuff. It’s a pain in the ass to put on, but once in place it turns you instantaneously into an old-school burlesque show girl. If you are feeling self-conscious, it will make you a show-off. If you are feeling free and confident, it will make you downright bawdy. I traipsed back to the bed and kneeled somewhat apart from my husband, presenting him with my handiwork and a mischievous grin. The effect was apparently well-appreciated, but he is however (and of course), more mischievous than I, and I didn’t have time to so much as settle back against anything before he stole across the bed and buried his face between my thighs. This was particularly interesting because usually when he goes down on me he wants me as open and spread out flat and relaxed as he can possibly make me. I think he knows I like the luxury of it, and he likes to get comfortable and settle in for the long game. This was far from that. I was not uncomfortable, but I had to support myself with my hands on the edge of the bed behind me, so I was not free to writhe and flail. The result was that I found myself arched and offering myself to his mouth, the way I’d been presenting my nipples to his view a few moments before. Recognizing this, gathering the sense that I was feeding myself to him, tipped my head into orgasm before my body even had a chance to catch up. Then when it did, the position I was in, bracing myself, caused one of those involuntary shakes that an orgasm can throw into your thighs, only it shook the entire lower half of my body, and the shake spiked and extended the orgasm right the fuck off the chart. While I was panting in the aftermath and still getting my head around Holy shit, that was fucking intense, he slid his fingers into me and found my g-spot, and brought me off with a #3 before I’d recovered from the #1. Fucking hell, I was wearing nipple rouge, lipstick and cum today, and I might never put clothes on again!
There was more kissing than usual, I think as a result of those intimate hours we’d spent earlier, entwined in each other’s bodies. If I could bottle the taste of our lips and tongues by the time it was evening: Rum, honey dust, breast milk, pussy, cock, raspberry nipple rouge, sweet wine and cum, I’m fairly certain I’d have a love potion that could end war. Kissing with that elixir shared between us easily enhanced and amplified the groping and again I was flooding his palm with cum. He played at that exquisite torture where he brings me just to the edge and then stops and starts over, and then he spanked my wet quim until my legs shook. Of course I went down on him. I was working a combination of my Vegas trick and the suicide squeeze (where you take the cock back just to that point that triggers a gag you have to fight, and then squeeeeze the head between the back of your tongue and the back of your throat), when he almost came again. He tossed me over and railed my g-spot again (No thank you, I don’t want a towel, I want to lie here in a pool of my own come – it’s part of what I’m wearing tonight). His face was at my hip when he began to bite me. Slow, small bites that just stepped a toe across the line into too much pain and then stopped. Hip to waist, he bit me, creeping up my body. The under lobes of my breasts to my nipples, biting carefully to just the point of too hard. The delicate flesh even of my underarm between those sharp teeth in his calculating manipulation, when at the same time he reached between my legs and made me gush again. Satisfied and surveying, he trailed his dripping fingers up my body and over my breasts and my nipples in a wet line that shone in the near dark – the sun was long gone. I took my cue and took his cock back in my mouth. The same combinations I’d been playing with before were as effective now, then I moved into the deep throat. I only used a basic swirl really, on the upstroke, but with his mounting responses it became something of a basic swirl gone somewhat hysterical. And then I felt his hand at the back of my head and let him drive me down. Deep throating is a third level cock sucking in and of itself, but forced deep throating is where he red-lines, and the sustained kick of it ripped into me harder than I’ve felt him come in ages. An offering as surely as those I’d made of my body for him, an acceptance of my invitation, and welcome.
Even if we weren’t going out though, I was damn well going to take a long, hot bath. I made a couple of moves to get up to do so, but was lured back by the soft, warm bed, the solid dip between shoulder and chest that fits my head and cheek so perfectly, the wandering hands, trailing fingers, groping… I’m a total glutton for groping. Is it any wonder I let myself be waylaid? This was a day of unapologetic leisure, after all. The groping became distinctly more deliberate, but he wouldn’t let me take off my panties or give in to my wordless, arching invitations to go under them. He pulled them back and looked appreciatively a couple of times, admiring the visible effects of his handiwork (also I’m sporting a pretty nice new little trim job – it’s a thin triangle with the point up instead of down, that I think suits me well), but he didn’t give in. I think he likes to make me come through my panties for the sake of the slow soak of moisture into fabric. I think the look and feel of that pleases him. Also, it’s a bit of a tease, and that pleases him as well. So I came in my panties for him, loudly, spread wide across the bed, in the broad light of late afternoon, with my arms flung indecorously over my head, and the bedroom door thrown wide to the empty house.
Afterward, I half-rolled away from him to reach my glass and got the full body grope, from behind. He still had his jeans on, but there’s a quality about wet panties that I can’t imagine was wholly undetectable to that rigid a cock crammed up against them. He knows I love it when he does this, so he always claims that I do it on purpose, like I’m beckoning him over, intentionally tempting, suggesting, every time I take a sip of a drink. I deny it every time. Oh, but I can’t get enough of his cock long and hard against me from my pussy up the crease of my ass. He may have initiated the grind (enticement or no), but I was quickly overcome by that slow writhe that starts with my ass and gradually incorporates my whole body working against him like waves over a beach. I’ll admit I got swept up into it. I was enjoying the unmitigated freedom of having nothing to do but enjoy each other, and I let it carry me so far off that I almost came again just from the sheer indulgence – full-on frottage. We have a little history with frottage. A fond memory of balancing along the edge of paired orgasm on the PATH train from NYC where we’d been listening to jazz on Bleecker Street, to Hoboken where we’d parked the car. It was a hot summer night, and too late for the train to be crowded enough to warrant being pressed so tightly against each other. I had on my favorite dress which was made of nothing at all, and the sweat ran from my neck down inside it. My husband (though he wasn’t then), had me pinned against a corner at the door, and the train was loud and rolling us against each other. He is much taller than I, and I could see nothing of the other passengers or where they were looking. I could only feel the heat coming off of him, and my own ragged breath trapped against his chest, and his body rocking against mine. We didn’t speak at all, but it might have been the most truly intimate – physically, mentally, emotionally, intellectually, sexually intimate moment of my life, up until then. (”Ever do it on a real train, Joel?”) I suppose it’s doubtful he was thinking about the PATH train, but he was as close to coming as I was, so we had to stop or risk the sex being over before he’d even gotten his pants off.
I got into the tub with a full glass of wine, an electric cigarette and a book of fantasy porn about a masochist and a djinn with a poire d’angoisse. It’s one of those books that pretty much opens itself to certain passages, due to the number of times I’ve read them. It’s possible I got a little over-friendly with the soap. My husband had music on in the bedroom and tribbing porn on the TV, which I could just see from my bath, if I looked up from my book. This is what life should be like all the time. Eventually, legs shaved to the thigh, I got out and set about the extras – hair, eyeliner, all that. I did it naked because I wanted to honey dust myself, but my skin and the air were still too steamy for it to really smooth and slide. I did the little knotted pigtails and black eyeliner, and then I threw caution to the wind and reached for the charcoal eye shadow, despite what had happened the week before. I don’t usually wear eye shadow at all, but the week before I’d been feeling badass as a result of listening to too much Joan Jett (as if there could be such a thing), so I’d dug out my gray-to-blacks and gone a little Do You Wanna Touch Me. I’d put on a tight, black tank top, and a pair of crotchless black panties made entirely out of straps. I’d had plans for my boots too, but my husband had responded before I’d gotten the chance. He’d never actually said Oh, you think you’re badass do you? We’ll see about that… What he’d done was slap my ass until his hand hurt, and sent me to get the ropes. Now, I don’t care if I think I am Joan Jett at the time, if you send me for the ropes my pulse is going to scamper like a kid for an empty swing. I’d brought them to him trying to maintain some trace of exterior calm, and sat on my feet with my hands clasped behind me like a good little sub, to watch him open the bag. Then, THEN, after fingering first the dark red, then the blue set, with the most artful, unspoken guile, he’d brought out the very PINKEST most pinkity pink ropes of pinkiosity that ever pinked into pinkness. Then he’d bound my feet sole to sole, cinched my ankles to my thighs, tortured my pussy as long as he’d felt like it, and then amused himself by fucking me stupid through my supposedly hardcore little straps-for-panties. It was a thing of beauty. He’d trumped my badassery without so much as batting an eye. (I highly recommend fucking people who are really good poker players. They can take all your chips and you never see it coming, but you’ll be happy to have fed the pot.)
So now I had the hair and the eyes and I was deliciously honey dusted from smooth neck to silky boobs, ticklish underarms to delicate inner elbows to sensitive wrists, long spine to smooth scoop, smooth belly to ripe snatch to lovely under-ass, pale thighs to oh-gods-how-I-love-when-you-touch-the backs of the knees to silver polished toenails. Fucking honey dust. It makes me feel like that every time – like I could go naked to the king’s ball. Speaking of which, what did I feel like putting on? Panties? Sweet or sexy? Little skirt and no panties? I could go school-girl… Or negligee? No stockings; I didn’t want to cover that much skin… While I was standing there considering options, my husband signaled me over. He had his pants open but not off, and he told me to sit on his cock which was lying hard against his belly. Have I mentioned that I love to be completely naked while he’s fully dressed? I kneeled over him and nestled his long cock lengthwise into the slit of my labia. My pussy was cool from air drying after the bath, and the heat of his cock against it melted me, made me gasp. He slid his hands (Jesus, he has these big, strong hands) up my bare torso, took one breast in each, and squeezed. Right away my nipples let go and I watched the milkiness run over his fingers and splash onto his chest, soaking into his shirt. The sight of it made me wet too, suddenly, like I was doused from the inside, and it was at that moment that I decided to stay naked.
So began a slow Slip n’ Slide with kissing and the taste of licked milk and honey dust passed between lips and tongues. Spontaneous, intermittent moments of penetration advanced into fucking, wet cock submerging in wet pussy, my brain saturated just as thoroughly, and then receded again into that luscious, self-indulgent slide. I leaned against him, my face and breath at his neck, and reestablished the full-body writhe Id been so enjoying from the other side, earlier. I wanted as much of my body moving against his as I could get, my nipples stiff against his damp shirt and his chest, my thighs bent double and working against his hips, and always his cock at my cunny, inside and out, but never so much as a bubble of air between them. His hands moved down my back to my hips and my ass and pressed me into him, over him, onto him, against him... The tactile element of my nature was positively delirious. As his cock slid out of me again, I sat up and leaned back, spread my pussy with my fingers. I pulled back and exposed my clit, displayed it for him, and then I positioned it just at the base of his wet frenulum and nudged forward, like a kiss, a lick, a slow, wet lick of clit to cock and again we both almost tipped over the edge.
Intrigued by my pussy’s early reaction to my nipples, I retreated to the bathroom and dug out my nipple rouge. To hell with clothing; I would wear raspberry nipple rouge and lipstick. Nipple rouge is fabulous stuff. It’s a pain in the ass to put on, but once in place it turns you instantaneously into an old-school burlesque show girl. If you are feeling self-conscious, it will make you a show-off. If you are feeling free and confident, it will make you downright bawdy. I traipsed back to the bed and kneeled somewhat apart from my husband, presenting him with my handiwork and a mischievous grin. The effect was apparently well-appreciated, but he is however (and of course), more mischievous than I, and I didn’t have time to so much as settle back against anything before he stole across the bed and buried his face between my thighs. This was particularly interesting because usually when he goes down on me he wants me as open and spread out flat and relaxed as he can possibly make me. I think he knows I like the luxury of it, and he likes to get comfortable and settle in for the long game. This was far from that. I was not uncomfortable, but I had to support myself with my hands on the edge of the bed behind me, so I was not free to writhe and flail. The result was that I found myself arched and offering myself to his mouth, the way I’d been presenting my nipples to his view a few moments before. Recognizing this, gathering the sense that I was feeding myself to him, tipped my head into orgasm before my body even had a chance to catch up. Then when it did, the position I was in, bracing myself, caused one of those involuntary shakes that an orgasm can throw into your thighs, only it shook the entire lower half of my body, and the shake spiked and extended the orgasm right the fuck off the chart. While I was panting in the aftermath and still getting my head around Holy shit, that was fucking intense, he slid his fingers into me and found my g-spot, and brought me off with a #3 before I’d recovered from the #1. Fucking hell, I was wearing nipple rouge, lipstick and cum today, and I might never put clothes on again!
There was more kissing than usual, I think as a result of those intimate hours we’d spent earlier, entwined in each other’s bodies. If I could bottle the taste of our lips and tongues by the time it was evening: Rum, honey dust, breast milk, pussy, cock, raspberry nipple rouge, sweet wine and cum, I’m fairly certain I’d have a love potion that could end war. Kissing with that elixir shared between us easily enhanced and amplified the groping and again I was flooding his palm with cum. He played at that exquisite torture where he brings me just to the edge and then stops and starts over, and then he spanked my wet quim until my legs shook. Of course I went down on him. I was working a combination of my Vegas trick and the suicide squeeze (where you take the cock back just to that point that triggers a gag you have to fight, and then squeeeeze the head between the back of your tongue and the back of your throat), when he almost came again. He tossed me over and railed my g-spot again (No thank you, I don’t want a towel, I want to lie here in a pool of my own come – it’s part of what I’m wearing tonight). His face was at my hip when he began to bite me. Slow, small bites that just stepped a toe across the line into too much pain and then stopped. Hip to waist, he bit me, creeping up my body. The under lobes of my breasts to my nipples, biting carefully to just the point of too hard. The delicate flesh even of my underarm between those sharp teeth in his calculating manipulation, when at the same time he reached between my legs and made me gush again. Satisfied and surveying, he trailed his dripping fingers up my body and over my breasts and my nipples in a wet line that shone in the near dark – the sun was long gone. I took my cue and took his cock back in my mouth. The same combinations I’d been playing with before were as effective now, then I moved into the deep throat. I only used a basic swirl really, on the upstroke, but with his mounting responses it became something of a basic swirl gone somewhat hysterical. And then I felt his hand at the back of my head and let him drive me down. Deep throating is a third level cock sucking in and of itself, but forced deep throating is where he red-lines, and the sustained kick of it ripped into me harder than I’ve felt him come in ages. An offering as surely as those I’d made of my body for him, an acceptance of my invitation, and welcome.
(Sometimes you just have to submerge...)
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.
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.
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