Things I’m not going to talk about

Bran asked me the other day if I was satisfied with our sex life.

Well, duh!

Let’s see ::counts on fingers::

Actually, I don’t really feel like listing the clinical evidence that proves the sexy quotient of our relationship is above, say, 164. S.Q. — like IQ, only sexier.

I don’t feel like exposing myself to the Intarwebs anymore. I don’t feel like sharing the intimate, deep moments when Bran is moving inside of me and I’ve got my hands on his back and we’re barely apart and he rises up to get a better angle, or maybe so he can move more quickly, but I pull him back down even though it’s probably causing him pain, and I know, because I’ve been on top, of him, and of girls, and I know the hard work involved in fucking,

in making love

in making another person come.

Yeah, I don’t feel like talking about that stuff.

Nor do I feel like talking about the great miracle of a successful threesome — our experience with Strap-on Jo was so good that we agreed to go out and find a playmate. As if finding one compatible sex-and-love-and-romance-and-hanging-out-and-reading-comix-with partner wasn’t difficult enough! Just try finding three people who not only like hanging out, but are also attracted to one another. So yeah, that was fun. But, as my sponsor points out, group sex is tiring.

“We have a new girlfriend,” he said, the evening after our playdate.

“Yes,” I said. I can’t even begin to tell you — let alone him — how fucking thrilled I am to have a third for bridge, in a situation where everyone seems to be on the same page.

“That’s kind of weird,” he said.

I suppose it it, to him. To me, it’s just like finally daring to believe that I might be able to get what I want.

Which is a strong, happy, committed relationship with someone. And some fun on the side. With everyone involved.

We haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks. Apparently, she’s a big Bruins fan. She invited us over to watch the playoffs with her last night, but mid-week is hard for me regardless, and my Wednesday meeting doesn’t get out until 8pm.

But Bran asked if I were satisfied because, in my last entry, I said “back to my boring vanilla life.” I was going to use the word “corporate,” but I chose the word “vanilla” instead, because this is a sex blog. And if you knew I worked in a corporate environment, you might be able to track me down, point at me, and shout whore!

Because nobody at my job knows that I’m even slightly alternative in my “lifestyle choices”. ::rolls eyes::

Say my name

“Say my name.”

The pause takes forever; I’m afraid he won’t give me what I want. And then, coming out of him like a cloud, a breath, a whisper. My name.

Comma.

“I want to make you come this morning.”

Sends me over an edge I didn’t even know I was near.

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.

Good girl/bad girl

“Am I a good girl or a bad girl?”

“I don’t know. Which one do you want to be?” He’s like a tai ch’i master — he moves with the motion of the other, but always, ultimately, firm, in control. I want him to tell me. But I know which one I want to be.

“I want to be a good girl,” I say. And maybe this is why he doesn’t tie me down. Because good girls can keep still. I’m eager to please.

Being a good girl is hard, though. Bad girls get punished, but they also get restrained. They don’t have to restrain themselves.

Later, I’m talking to him on the phone about military service. “One of the reasons I didn’t join up is because I didn’t think I could cut it.”

“I think you could have.”

“Well, I don’t like taking orders.”

“Yes you do.”

He’s got me there.

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.

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.

Truth, love, beauty

The mind-blowing orgasms continue apace. And I’m in love. I am loved – by friends, family, and a wonderful man. By the Goddess.

Truth and beauty: those are trickier right now. Beauty is still there.

Truth is subject to perspective. But I did something I’ve always had tremendous trouble doing yesterday. I spoke my truth. My emotional truth. Bran makes it easy. Well, no, not easy. But Bran doesn’t negate my truth. He doesn’t try to talk me out of it. He just offers his perspective.

After crying and talking for about half an hour, just as things had settled down, I blurted out something I’ve been thinking of and pushing away for months.

“I wish you told me you loved me more.”

He looked pained. It was a tough week for him — he bears up under the pressure, but I could see the strain. It was all I could do not to apologize for having wants and needs. God/dess knows it didn’t seem like a good idea to have them when I was a little girl.

But I didn’t.

And I know he loves me.

I feel loved. In all sorts of ways.

Ways Bran and I fucked this weekend

1. Missionary
2. Girl on top (do they call this cowgirl? is that why they call the other one reverse cowgirl? I hate reverse cowgirl)
3. Side to side
4. Me on my belly, him behind me
5. The really cool one where you keep fucking and turn every few minutes, starting in missionary and ending up facing the other way
6. Wheelbarrow (my face and chest on the bed, my ass in the air)
7. Standing up, me bent over with my arms on the dresser
8. Double penetration with a dildo in my ass
9. His cock in my ass
10. My strap-on in his ass
11. His cock in my mouth, straddling my shoulders
12. His entire hand inside me — he slipped it in while I was screaming and making a mess with the Hitachi
13. My little clit tickler in his ass. Oh, he liked that one. He liked it all over his belly.
14. 69

I think I’m forgetting something.

I’m a little sore. But happy. And satisfied. And still horny.

Forget everything I said before

So a while back I wrote this really pretentious essay all about how Our Society Doesn’t Really Know About All the Different Kinds of Love. And I made this case for how I’m all enlightened because I think love doesn’t mean ownership. And how since I don’t want to own or be owned by anybody that I should be able to fuck and/or beat whomever I please.

Forget I ever said that.

The essay was bad to begin with. I should just scrap it and start again, except that this is the Intarwebs and it’s already out there. Plus, I have a perverse desire to parade my mistakes out for all of you to see.

It’s not exactly a mistake. It’s just that I change.

About a month or so after we started seeing each other Bran and I started having these difficult conversations about Where The Relationship Was Going. At some point in the conversation, he’d invariably bust out with “I think you and I just have different long-term goals.”

I’d been so vocal about being this big proud liberated kinky bi poly slut. But inside of me is still that little girl who grew up on the Prince Charming stories. And what’s hard to describe to him, or to anyone, is how I am basically of two minds about the whole thing.

The biggest reason I’m uneasy about traditional marriage and kids and the Donna-Reed-type setup is that I don’t trust it’ll ever work out the way it’s supposed to. It’s not really because I want to dedicate my life to the pursuit of the corner office. It’s not because I’m averse to a long-term, monogamous relationship. It’s because deep inside me is a belief that that sort of life happens to other people. I wouldn’t mind seeing that belief proved wrong.

But only if I still get to get laid.

No vacancy

It was just what I wanted: white walls, blue floaty curtains, bumpy white bedspread. And private. The cabins were small and close-set around a wide horseshoe of grass, but they’d been designed in such a way that you never had to worry about catching a glimpse through your neighbor’s window.

Which was good. Because the first thing I like to do whenever I check into a hotel room is to take all my clothes off and lay on the bed.

We’d decided to take our chances on finding a decent place to stay without a reservation. In late July on a sunny Saturday, that’s a real adventcha. And the farther up the Cape we went, the more likely it seemed that we would be sleeping in the car. “Nooooo vacanceeeeee,” we chanted to each other, again and again after every hopeful stop. But the driving and the blue sky and the beech pines and the glimpses of the sea — even the ebb and the flow of the Cape summer traffic — that was all part of the journey.

And sure enough, on a quiet stretch of Route 6A in Truro, we happened across a little cluster of cottages, set off from the road, newly built, decently priced. I’d been trying to convince Bran all summer to let me pay for a weekend away — he’s been job hunting since he finished his graduate degree in May, but I’m flush and it’s not nearly as much fun to spend a weekend at the shore by yourself. That weekend I finally managed it, and I have to tell you, there’s really nothing like pulling out the ol’ wallet so you can be the Vacation Daddy.

He opened and closed the cabinets in the tiny kitchen. I opened the windows, flicked the curtains closed, threw off my top, and sprawled across the bed. Blue fabric floated in the breeze, against the bare white walls, and there was the smell of the sea nearby. All I really wanted from the weekend.

“I thought you wanted to go to the beach before it got dark,” he said.

“I do. But we’ve been driving all day. I just want to lay down for a little bit.”

How did we get from me lazing on the bed half-dressed to him pushing his cock up against the fold of my ass cheeks? The usual way, I suppose. I’m sure there were kisses, lovely Bran kisses, and I probably nipped his earlobes, maybe ran my nails down his back to hear him gasp. But what I remember is my hands on the floor by the side of the bed, pushing up to keep my torso steady as he pulled my panties down and began to tongue my ass.

I know he made me beg him to fuck me up the ass, and I did, and I asked him, “am I a dirty anal slut?” He pushed himself up on one knee for a better angle, and he said, “Yes, you are a very good little anal slut,” and then he asked me if he could go deeper and I said yes, yes, please, and he was fucking me and it wasn’t long before he was coming inside of me, and I felt him jerk, and tremble, and shudder against my back.

And then we drove to Race Point beach to watch the sunset and then had dinner in P-town, and came back and sat on the front deck and looked at the stars. And in the morning I woke him… which is another story.