Posts filed under ‘i am a femme top’

Rule one of assfucking

“Rule one of assfucking,” he said, “is that it has to come last.”

His belly was covered with his own come. I’d just come back from the bathroom, unhooked the harness, disposed of the condom from the newest addition to my pegging arsenal.* I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, even if he did have to request extra lube. I’d managed to get the damn apparatus on in a pretty reasonable time frame — the leather harness, even, which feels classier even if it is a bit more awkward to put on. And I’d been patient and…

…the feel of my finger in his ass. Hot. Warm. Close. Mine.

His ankles were on my shoulders, and I was leaning over him, trying to be gentle, to be sensitive, to be all the things men are supposed to be when they’re fucking a woman… and his ass, the feel of my being inside of him. Yes. Just as gorgeous as it ever was being inside a woman.

I wanted to fuck him face to face, even if it did feel awkward. I wanted to see his face, feel his skin against mine. I eased the head of my cock inside him, gentle, gentle, sway with the push, with the rhythm, with the in-and-out.

The leather straps around my thighs were loose.

I don’t think I asked him if I could go deeper — he’s always so considerate of that with me — I just pushed. Hoped for the best. His hands were on his cock, mine on either side of his head. Thrusting, regular, gentle now. Barely thrusting any amount of time before he said he was going to to come.

“Do you want to come? Go ahead and come,” I said, shoulders up high above him, hips down low between his legs.

“Oh, can I come?” he said, eyes closed. Face — beautiful agony.

“Yes, come,” I said. “Please come… COME!” And saw him spurt all over his belly, put my hand over his on his cock, wouldn’t let him go, licked his nipple, pushed him through his no’s, pushed him past the initial rush and into the aftershocks. Pushed through no to yes.

Rule number two of assfuckery: If you can’t take a little poop, then you shouldn’t be pegging. This is why latex — gloves and condoms — are as essential a part of assfuckery as lubrication. As is ready access to running water.

He was in no condition to fuck me after that. I do love him fucking me, but it was okay, really. Because I’d been feeling like a bad switch, been feeling like too much of a girly girl. Been going down easy and letting him do all the work. All the fucking.

I think all women should be expected to peg. I think it would give all those I’m-not-a-feminist-but-I-like-to-make-derisive-remarks-about-my-husband bitches some good food for thought. Fucking is hard work. Fucking well, paying attention to the needs and the pleasure of your partner, is even harder work. And men, frankly, even when you’re fucking them, aren’t nearly as demanding as women are. Women’s bodies — mine included — are like high-performance sports cars. They require constant tinkering and more than a touch of intuition to get them working properly. When they do, though, whoa. Men’s bodies respond well to tinkering, too, don’t get me wrong. But the ignition is usually pretty easy to find.

Eventually I broke out the Hitachi, and he and all my stuffed animals watched me moan and wail and mess up the sheets. It was what I wanted at that moment, even more than the burning-flight feel of him inside me, thrusting me into yes. I wanted his head in the crook my shoulder, watching me, admiring and unafraid, as I pushed my body into high gear, pushed it up and out, past no and yes and into pure sound. Into pure… something.

Some distant part of me still shrinks from letting him see me do that. From letting him see the deep and endless capacity for pleasure in my own body. But all he says is “you’re awesome.” All he says, later, is “I liked watching you come.”

And all I can say is… yes.

* I’m not getting paid to say this (I’m not even getting free sex toys for saying it), but I feel the need to tell all you dear readers that the Mistress Silicon Dildo is an excellent step up after the Bend Over Beginner kit. Once you’ve trained your victim’s partner’s sphincter to relax and let you in nice and easily, you’ll quickly become frustrated with the shortcomings of the ol’ fingers and other implements. Now I finally understand why gay men are such size queens! The nice thing about the Mistress, in addition to being the awesome product of a female-owned, sex-positive small business, is that aside from a semi-realistic head, it’s got a nice, medium-width, smooth shaft. Perfect for ass-fucking.

November 3, 2008 at 6:28 pm Leave a comment

The good, the hot, and the mushy

The good
Back when I was a wee recent college graduate (sans health insurance), I discovered one of the unsung consequences of sex with men: Urinary Tract Infections (UTIs). The standard medical treatment for a UTI is a short course of antibiotics. Which gets rid of the infection, but in the process also kills off all the helpful bacteria in your system which keep the yeasty beasties in check. Which means that the yeast colonies that live in, among other places, the hoo hoo, will run amuck. It can become an ugly, ugly cycle: UTI, yeast infection, UTI, yeast infection. Neither of which are good for the ol’ sex-with-men life.

Luckily for me, my post-college boyfriend was a total SNAG (Sensitive New-Age Guy), and he asked one of his exes, who worked as a midwife, if she knew of any herbal remedies that help with UTIs. Sure enough, she did. So the next time I got one, I took this little herb called Uva Ursi, and then I drank nettle tea for about a month. Eventually my body got back into whack.

SNAG-boyfriend and I also took the advice of the expensively-out-of-pocketedly-paid-for nurse practitioner I saw, and started making sure that (a) he was keeping this bits clean and (b) I was peeing right after penetrative sex. In fact, peeing after genital contact in genital general is a good idea. While stinky, urine is also antiseptic, and flushing the pipes right after messing around with the plumbing can get rid of any newly introduced bacteria and whatnot.

The hot
Bran laughed at me on Wednesday night. “You’re so predictable,” he said. But apparently he was better at predicting my behavior than I was. After dinner, we came back to his pad to find his living room full of dykes from Wellesley — lovely friends of his lovely roommate. Neither of us was in the mood to socialize though, so I found myself in the interesting position of nodding hello to my fellow Seven Sisters… Sisters and then following the straight white man into his room. I love my straight white man. Part of the reason I love him is because he’s friends with more dykes than I am. I’d like to think that I’ve come to terms with the whole identity-politics-angst bullshit that haunted me for most of my 20s. And I know I had a better time after I followed him into his bedroom than if I’d stayed out there to talk to a bunch of strangers.

This is not why he called me predictable, though. It was because, as we lay there very carefully not making any heavy-breathing-bouncy-bouncy-type noises in his bed (the only thing that separates Bran’s bedroom from the living room is a curtain and a pair of French doors), and as he turned off the light, and we both rolled over in unison and began to spoon, it occurred to me that the probability of my actually getting out of the bed had suddenly dropped to .00001. I’d had every intention of shrugging on my jacket, hoisting my bag, and heading out to my car for the long ride across town to the silence of my lonely room my own bed and my snuggly kitty cat. But then he turned off the light. And suddenly all my body wanted to do was sleep.

I did sleep over. I even used his toothbrush. And in the morning, I slipped out of bed around 5:00 am, just as the very first hint of light blue was beginning to rise through the night-blue sky. In the half-light and the silence, I slipped on my skirt, and my blouse, and was fumbling around for my socks. And then he reached over out of his dreams and pulled me back into the bed. I went willingly, kissed his scratchy face, his soft eyelids, rubbed my cheek against the smooth fur of his hair. Then I rose up on my knees, above him.

I began to stroke him, first his strong arms and shoulders — arms that reached up to me and touched me about the waist. He had a t-shirt on, but no boxers. I slipped my hand down past the hem of his T-shirt, to the soft spot where his belly joins his hips, and then traced the curve of his little boy-ass, down the backs of his thighs and his knees. His legs opened under my touch, his eyes closed. I held him in the palm of my hand. A precious bird, a rare mushroom, an egg.

He bloomed under my touch, moving gently from side to side, his cock swelling, his thighs luminous in the early dawn light, his face open and innocent and utterly mine in his sleep.

I slipped a hand up under his shirt to pinch one nipple, gently, gently–rrr. Difficult to do it gently.

And slipped off my blouse and straddled him, cupping his face (eyes still closed) between my breasts. Face to heart.

And stepped back, undid the zipper of my skirt, let it fall from my waist, and carefully placed it and my blouse atop my bag on the other side of the room, where they wouldn’t get wrinkled.

“What are you doing?” he said.

I didn’t answer. I straddled him, slid his hard cock into the slick fault line of my labia, enjoying the wet/hard/push/pull.

“Can you feel how wet I am?” I asked, knowing how he’d answer.

His cock, skin to skin with my cunt, slick and inviting. Leaning over him, I bumped my hips up and then back, and he was sliding into me.

“No,” he gasped, suddenly awake.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” and now his eyes were opening, worried.

“We’ve both been tested,” I said. “And I’m still bleeding. It’s all right. There are no eggs left. We won’t make a baby. It’s just… sport fucking.”

And I began to move, up and down against him.

What I hadn’t said was that I also had a sea sponge tampon inside me, which decreased the chances of any sperm actually sticking around, even on the off-chance that Ovum hadn’t yet left the building. And that woo-woo intuition part of me said that it had.

He relaxed into it, and then more than relaxed.

“I love… I love fucking you,” he said, in rhythm to our movements.

“Oh yeah? Why do you love fucking me?” I asked.

“Because I love you.”

It wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. It made me want to fuck him harder.

Which I did, and we made all the noises we’d been careful not to make the night before. Unashamed, I pulled my lips wide and worked my clit — hard — as he fucked me, as I fucked him. I came, or something approximately like coming anyway.

“Stand up and bend over the bed,” he said — suddenly, in my mind.

“No,” I said.

“Do it,” he said.

“Make me.”

He grabbed my wrist in a half-hearted attempt to wrestle, but then he used another, stronger lever.

“Do you want more cock?”

“Yes.” I was surprised to hear myself say it. But yes, yes I did.

“Then do it.”

I did. I stood up and placed my hands on the edge of the bed, bent over just as he ordered me to. He slid his cock, still hard, between my legs, then reached over and held a towel under my nose.

“What does it smell like?” he asked. It was damp.

“You,” I responded.

He dropped it to the floor, between my legs, and before I knew it — I didn’t think it would happen at all that morning, and certainly not so soon, I was coming, with his cock inside me and my finger on my clit, coming all down my legs and onto the towel. A pavlovian response.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes.”

“Did I tell you you could come?”

“No… I couldn’t help it.”

He continued to fuck me, told me to get my ass lower, he didn’t care how I did it, and I did, obeying him and loving every minute of it.

“Are you going to punish me for coming without permission?” I asked, working my pussy against his cock.

“You sound awfully confident for someone who’s getting fucked,” he replied.

And I thought of Bitchy Jones taking Jack’s voice and to my horror delight horror I found that I wanted Bran to take mine. I wanted to be… not the professional, competent, self-possessed, well-educated, eloquent, cerebral woman I am most of the time, but something else. Not self-possessed but possessed by another. Voiceless. To speak without voice. To not speak, to speak with the body. And I was silent. I bit the side of the mattress, I found myself growling.

He pulled out, sat on the side of the bed, leaned back. Winded, maybe — not physically, but winded.

I kneeled on the floor in front of him. I reached for his cock, still hard, with my lips. He pulled it out of reach.

“Not unless you want to,” he said.

I didn’t want to use my words. I wanted to show him. I whimpered.

Once again he prevented me from wrapping my lips around his cock.

“Not unless you want to,” he repeated.

And I knew then that I really wanted to. It wasn’t about him, his pleasure, it was about mine. Oh shame, shame! What will the Seven Sisters grads say! But it’s true, I loved to take him between my lips, and to taste myself on him, and to take him all the way down to the back of my throat. To have him fill that most hungry and forceful and overused of orifices.

“Watch what you do,” he said. And I knew he was close to coming. And I pulled up next to him on the bed, and pulled his hand to his cock, and stroked it along with him, our hands together, our bodies together.

“Please come,” I pleaded. “You’re so beautiful when you come.” And he did. And he was.

The mushy
So I came down with a UTI a couple days later. The fact that I was in a hurry and didn’t pee after sex probably had something to do with it. But I knew what to do, even though it hurt like the dickens, and now I’ve got enough uva ursi and nettle tea, plus a few other kinds of herbs (because you really can’t visit the bulk herb section of your favorite natural foods store and buy just one) and will probably float away any day now.

On Saturday we went for a long hike in the woods, which are still yellow but not yet orange-red, and had dinner at the Whole Foods hot- and cold-bar (it makes me homesick for New York). And watched a romantic comedy which I found annoyingly formulaic, although he pointed out the idiosyncracies of some of the characters.

“Given the fact that my parents will probably be divorcing in the next year, romantic comedies give me a hope for my own future,” he said as I pulled out of the parking lot of the theater.

“I’d say your future is looking pretty good,” I said. The fact that Bran’s parents are still together after forty years of marriage completely blows my mind. I wonder what my view of the world would be like if mine had stayed married. Well, if we’re talking about my parents, I’d probably be a serial killer right about now.

We didn’t have sex that night. Or in the morning. We had something far more intimate.

October 6, 2008 at 10:18 pm 3 comments

100 sexxay things about Omnivore

Inspired by Wendy Blackheart at Heart Full of Black, I give you 100 things about me, the sex list (with some love and truth and beauty thrown in for good measure).

  1. I took my own virginity.
  2. No, really. With a small, pink, very ladylike bottle of roll-on deodorant. I broke my hymen, and that hurt a bit, and then I pushed the bottle in farther and it felt good. And then I stopped. Because I was afraid.
  3. This was after an aborted attempt to “give” my virginity to a boy in the back seat of a car.
  4. While he was pulling down my pants, I asked him if he had a condom. “No,” he said, rising up to kiss me, “but you don’t want a piece of plastic in you the first time, do you?”
  5. He couldn’t penetrate my little 13-year-old cunt.
  6. There was no foreplay, which probably didn’t help.
  7. We broke up soon afterward.
  8. I was 14 years old and a freshman in high school the first time I had sexual intercourse.
  9. I was 19 years old before I had sex without a condom.
  10. Twice I went to the same anonymous HIV-testing clinic with a man so we could fuck without a condom.
  11. I think it’s kind of romantic to go get STD screenings together.
  12. I paid attention during sex ed. Back then, they actually told you about the various forms of birth control and how to use them.
  13. According to the current abstinence-only curricula taught in public schools across the country, I am a piece of scotch tape that has been stuck to so many arms that it can no longer “bond” properly.
  14. I’d rather be a slut than a whore.
  15. I reclaimed the word “dyke” early on.
  16. I didn’t reclaim the word “slut” until I was over 30.
  17. I didn’t reclaim the word “bitch” until this year.
  18. I fell in love with a little red-haired girl when I was in the first grade.
  19. I fell in love with a little brown-haired boy when I was in the second grade.
  20. I told my fourth-grade teacher that I loved my best friend so much that if I could I would marry her. Her response shamed me deep into the closet for a decade.
  21. When I was a toddler, I remember discovering the interesting folds of my vagina while sitting in the living room watching TV. “That’s a private place to touch,” said my mother. “You should only touch that when you’re in the bath or in bed alone at night.”
  22. I didn’t have a real orgasm until I was in college.
  23. The boy who gave it to me was a black boy with a moustache. We were never really dating.
  24. He did it by going down on me with enthusiasm, and by doing it longer than anyone had done it before.
  25. The first time I ejaculated was with a small, hard plastic vibrator. I was about 19 years old.
  26. I had to throw away that futon less than a year later because it started to smell really funky.
  27. My boyfriend said “Are you sure it’s not pee?” the first time I came on his face.
  28. Later, I asked my girlfriend what it tasted like and she replied, “your hot, salty cum.”
  29. The first woman I fell in love with was a summer exchange student from a local community college.
  30. She gave me a tiny hickey, and when my mother asked me who had given it to me, I told her.
  31. My mother’s initial response was “Ew”.
  32. Later, my mother told me she loved me no matter who I was or who I was with. She bought me combat boots and a toolbox.
  33. It took me ten more years to realize I didn’t have to be butch to be a dyke.
  34. I didn’t come to terms with my bisexuality until five years after I came out of the closet.
  35. I used to call myself a traitor to my own kind.
  36. I am very, very good at eating pussy.
  37. I am very, very good at sucking cock.
  38. I can deep throat, but only if I’m really into the guy.
  39. Finger-fucking gives me carpal tunnel syndrome.
  40. I like 69ing, but I’d rather be on top.
  41. My favorite way to come is on my back, with intense stimulation on my clit.
  42. After I turned 30, I started having vaginal orgasms regularly and repeatedly.
  43. When I come during PIV sex, my cunt has been known to clench so hard it pushes my lover’s cock right out.
  44. I have been known to ejaculate from PIV sex.
  45. I have been known to ejaculate from a spanking.
  46. I think cybersex is cheating.
  47. I don’t think I’m really polyamorous, but I like to pretend when I’m single.
  48. I once spent seven years in a lesbian marriage (the old-school, illegal kind) that suffered from serious Lesbian Bed Death.
  49. I have cheated on more than one partner.
  50. The part of cheating I hate the most (in myself and in others) is the dishonesty.
  51. I like to have sex at least three times a week.
  52. I can go for extended periods of time without any kind of sexual contact, without missing it.
  53. Twice after long-term relationships I’ve used Craigslist to find and fuck a good assortment of lonely, horny men.
  54. Once I got an email from the girlfriend of a man I’d slept with once. It turned out that he had lied to me about being single. I apologized to her and confirmed that he and I had slept together.
  55. I have never had sex with a transgendered person.
  56. I find butch women very attractive, I’ve had sex with many “gay” men, but men in drag do nothing for me.
  57. I see transgendered people as my siblings in gender rebellion.
  58. I’ve fucked women with my “psychic cock” and made them come.
  59. I’ve come while fucking women with my psychic cock.
  60. All of my genderfuck is behavioral. On the outside, I’m very clearly a girl.
  61. I’ve taken people to task for using the word “queer” as a pejorative.
  62. I love the word “queer” because it includes all sorts of sexual and gender minorities.
  63. I have had lovers of many different races and nationalities.
  64. I lost count of the number of lovers I’ve been with sometime in my early 20s.
  65. I used to feel deeply ashamed for having so many sex partners.
  66. I have been deeply in love somewhere between four and six times in my life.
  67. I have never consistently enjoyed anal sex as much as I have with Bran.
  68. I didn’t come to terms with my BDSM tendencies until January 2008.
  69. The first time I heard about fisting was when Susie Bright came to speak at my college in the early 90s.
  70. Less than a month later, my tall, rangy boyfriend with the really large hands managed to fit all five fingers inside me.
  71. Cunnilingus is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  72. Sexual intercourse is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  73. Rubbing my face in a woman’s wet, juicy pussy is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  74. Group sex is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  75. The first time I made out with more than one boy was when I was 15 years old.
  76. My first threesome was with two men, as a freshman in college.
  77. FFM is my favorite threesome combination.
  78. Bran and I have fantasized about bringing a submissive woman to bed with us.
  79. I fall in love very easily.
  80. I’ve often confused lust for love.
  81. I’ve had sex in the back of a car on Highway One in Northern California, on the beach outside of Santa Cruz, in a hotel room with lots of other people having sex around me, on the kitchen floor, on a golf course, while driving, and probably lots of other places I can’t remember.
  82. I find double-penetration (one in the cock, one in the pussy) fascinating.
  83. I have never been fucked in the ass and the pussy at the same time by two actual men with actual penii.
  84. I have experienced double penetration twice with a man and a handy dildo, and each time it was AWESOME.
  85. Once, when I was walking by some neighbors, I heard them repeating something I’d shouted rather loudly the night before.
  86. The thing I’d shouted was, “Oh, baby, fuck me in the ASS!”
  87. The windows had been open.
  88. I was embarassed.
  89. I’ve let a butch woman get away with emotional and physical abuse I would never have tolerated from a man.
  90. I attended a support group at a local women’s shelter to get the moral support I needed to get out of that relationship.
  91. I thought I was different than all the other women in the room because I was gay and they were straight, but our stories ended up being exactly the same.
  92. On two separate occasions I have violently pushed my female lovers away from me.
  93. I used to think that men were made of iron, that I could say all sorts of mean things to them and they wouldn’t feel it.
  94. The only time I’ve ever hit a man was during a scene.
  95. I love to wrestle and win.
  96. I love to wrestle and lose.
  97. I love to dominate my lovers.
  98. With Ace, I discovered exactly how sexy it is to hurt someone.
  99. It’s only sexy if they’re into it too.
  100. I like to say I love power exchange more than sadomasochism, but sometimes I wonder if that’s true.

September 16, 2008 at 9:10 pm 9 comments

Just lay there

“Just lay there,” he says.

I am on my back, naked except for dark blue satin panties. I am laying on a blanket on the floor, knees bent and lower legs on the couch. He stands above me in his birthday suit, his cock erect.

It’s against my every instinct to just lay there. I pride myself on being an active participant. I look on women who just lay there with scorn. They’re a discredit to their sex. My desire (female desire) is strong and powerful, like the ocean — eternal, slow-moving. Bran’s desire is like an oak tree: strong, straight up and down, sustained. The ocean ebbs and flows with the moon. Oak trees grow, burst forth into bloom, die, and are reborn.

I lay there. Open. Exposed. Not helpless, but accepting. To accept a gift is to open yourself. To be vulnerable. I have issues with vulnerability.

But I know this man. This is a man I know. To be vulnerable with him is not the same as exposing myself to a stranger (like, say, hypothetically, some asshole multimedia designer I meet on Craigslist who orders me to strip and suck his cock while he’s fully clothed, zips up after half an hour, and asks me to drive him back downtown). I am safe with Bran. He’s been vetted and approved.

He leans over to kiss my lips, gentle kisses, mouth half-open, no tongue, butterfly kisses, again and again. I do my best to just lay there, to keep my hands above my head, my hips and torso still, my ankles and my knees together, bent above me.

And his kisses make me rise, like wind over water. Small sounds escape me, my body undulates of its own free will. Again and again I force my hands to lay still above my head, until I can’t stand it any more and I reach up to him. He takes my hands, gently, gently, and places them back above my head, holds them down. With love. I need him to hold me down. I want to be free within the circle of his arms.

September 16, 2008 at 11:21 am Leave a comment

I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 1 of 2)

I slap your face and it changes. You go to that other place, the place where I can tell you to take your clothes off and you will, without hesitation. You grab the collar of your T-shirt and pull it over your head, unbuckle your belt, step out of your jeans and place them next to me on the couch.

-All of them, I tell you, and you look at me a question. We haven’t been naked together before. You haven’t been inside of me. You’ve never seen me with my pants off. Right now, I am fully clothed. But that’s the point. I want you naked in front of me, naked and on your knees. I know you’re eager to get there yourself, and that, in part, is what makes me hot. Hot, and scared. What do I do next? I wonder, as you look up at me, good boy, so naked and low and ready for me to do whatever I want to you.

Am I doing it right? I wonder, as I pull your belt from your pants, throw it across the room.

Earlier today, I told you I was going to beat you with your own belt, make you crawl naked across the room to pick it up and bring it back to me in your mouth. That is so sexy, you said, and even through the keyboard and the screen I felt the heat rising through my own body, a slow boil, my body burning and aroused and all alone on a chair before a computer. Yes. Yes it is, I said.

And now I’ve got your hair in my hands and I’m pulling your mouth toward my own, your mouth so eager and ready, so open and ready to please.

I pull you forward between my opened knees, your bare shoulders touching my thighs beneath my skirt, and I’ve got my hands on your back, and I’m raking my nails across your shoulders, up from your waist to your neck, and you make that noise, a hiss of inhaled breath and a moan together.

– Go get your belt, I say, and I don’t have to tell you to do it on your hands and knees. You crawl across the room to where I’ve thrown it and you pick it up with your teeth, carry it back to me, still with that look in your eyes that tells me you’re in that other place.

I take the belt from you.

-Good boy.
-Thank you. You say it with relief, the release of desire.

I should push you backward now, turn you to the side and stand above you so that I have the proper angle for the belt. But I like the feel of your bare skin against my thighs, your naked back stretched out before me like a promise and your head in my lap, where it belongs.

I slap the belt across your back, not particularly hard, but you cry out, and again that moment of fear — you’re not doing it right, he’s had better, it’s not good enough, you’re inept, you’re a terrible top, it’s no good — but I put that aside, push it down because there’s a wave that will carry me if I just keep going. You’re not a blank slate, you’re alive and so am I and what we are doing is perverted and wrong, but it brings us so much joy, so maybe it isn’t really.

So I beat you with your own belt, just like I promised you I would. I do it badly, ineptly, and you still like it. I put you over my knee, and with you over my knee I can’t resist spanking you with my open palm. I’m so wound up I smack you hard, very hard, and your reaction makes me realize it’s causing you pain, not the good kind of pain.

-Whoa, you say. You really go right to it.
-I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to warm you up first (and here I slap your bum lightly, repeatedly, delicious, remembering the delicious feel myself, how it softens you up, makes the nerve endings ready for the big, hard slaps to follow).

-But may it’s not about your pleasure, I say. Maybe it’s about what I want.

You moan as I say all this, and I’m spanking you at the same time, building up from soft to hard and then running my fingers over your warmed skin. That light touch on my own skin, red and warm and sentitized, always drives me wild.

-It was very selfish of you to think that this is about you, to expect me to be serving you, I say, and I’ve got your belt, and I’m using it on your back and you begin to undulate across my knee.

-I’m sorry.
-Why are you sorry?
-For being selfish, ma’am.

I love it when you call me ma’am.

>> NEXT: What do you feel when I slap you?>>

January 23, 2008 at 8:11 pm 4 comments


The search for truth, love, beauty, and mind-blowing orgasms

This blog contains sexually explicit material. If you are under 18 or offended by sex-talk, smut, kinksters, liberals, bisexuals, queers, poets, switches, bitches, or outspoken women, it's a free Internet (mostly) and you can go someplace else.

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