Posts filed under ‘power exchange’

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

Is it still dirty if it just makes me feel all mushy?

So Bran came on my face last night. I opened my mouth and caught some of it on my tongue and everything, just like those scenes in porn movies I always fast-forward through. He was straddling me, and it got all over my mouth and my face. Instead of swallowing it, I pushed it out and felt it dribbling down my chin. But even though he was gasping and caught up, I didn’t want it to end yet. A woman’s orgasm can go on for a long time, and I think men are probably more like women in their ability to have multiple, full-body orgasms than we think. So I grabbed his cock, slick with his come, and worked it even as he was coming.

“No,” he gasped, racked with pain/pleasure of climax.

“Yes,” I insisted, and worked it, worked it, with my hands or my mouth or both I can’t remember. He was still on his knees above me, and unable to move. Even though I was supine, pinned below him, I was the one in control. He began to shudder and jerk. Too much. I began to worry that maybe he was going to have a heart attack, remembered those times when I myself felt like I was going to short circuit — but my body can take so much more, it seems, before I reach that point.

I put my hand against his heart, worried. Pushed him back to make him lay down. He collapsed to the side, but with his knees still bent. I still had his come all over my face and chest, but I didn’t want to get up for a washcloth. He was still convulsing, jerking, trembling, his knees half-pulled up, effectively keeping me at a distance. The convulsions — I couldn’t tell if it was just the aftermath of pleasure, or something more sinister.

I lay next to him, still covered in come, and tried to soothe him. Shushed him, gentled him with my hands. Too soon for cuddling. I was worried.

It reminded me of the time he burst into tears as he came inside me, and from the back, when I couldn’t hold him, couldn’t really see what was happening with him. He’d been fucking me up the ass, and I had to run off to the bathroom. When I came back, he was sitting on the side of the bed, still… not dazed, but not right.

“Are you all right? You were crying.”

“It just… it just reminds me how easy it is to lose control with you.”

Losing control can be a good thing. But safety… I can’t stand the thought of something going haywire with his body. I want him near me, and in good health, for a good long time. The thing about being in my 30s is realizing that it’s not going to be forever, or even as forever-ish as everything seemed when I was younger.

Eventually the jerking stopped. It was probably just the aftermath of orgasm — it’s certainly happened to me plenty of times. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and got up to clean myself up. Came back with a warm washcloth for him. And lay there beside him, head on chest.

“I like you,” he said, and the words were even more heart-warming than those other ones, the ones that go with all the hearts and flowers and Harlequin romances.

“I like you too.”

“I like having sex with you.”

“And I like this part here, too,” I said, snuggling my head in the spot between his armpit and his chest.

“It’s all part of it…” and the two of us settled into the light sleep, the afterglow, of an orgasm that comes not just from wild monkey lust, but from love-making.

Love doesn’t just sit there like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, made new.

September 30, 2008 at 10:06 pm 2 comments

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.

September 19, 2008 at 1:38 pm Leave a comment

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

Second date

So here’s the thing: Bran and I didn’t have sex on the first date.

Um.

Right.

That depends on your definition of “sex.”

Was there penetration?

Does my mouth count? What about his fingers inside my cunt?

Was there orgasm?

Um. Yes.

Did you have to change the sheets afterward?

Um. Yes.

All right. If Bran were a girl, no one could say we didn’t have sex on the first date. Unless, of course, you don’t think girls can have sex with each other without a trip to Good Vibrations.

Does wrestling count? My god, that boy can wrestle! I knew I’d met my match then, when he picked up my legs and I stiffened my torso and suddenly found myself upside down, with only my neck and shoulders and head on the floor. Submission is hot, but when you match me for strength, and for spirit, when I know that you can win sometimes — now that’s really hot.

There was also a good deal of cruelty on my part, with tongue and fingers and sharp nails and teeth. I slapped him around. I looped his own belt around his neck and dragged him to the bedroom with it.

But wait! See, ’cause, when we were still tussling on the couch, right, I was all like… I don’t remember how it came out exactly, but I must have mentioned something about fucking a man up the ass, because then he was all like, “would you fuck me up the ass?”

“Not tonight,” I replied.

And then later, still on the couch, I was all like, “would you fuck me in the cunt?”

“Not tonight,” he replied.

So right from the beginning there was this thing about holding back and saving something for later. Something about discipline.

Of course I did come plenty that night, and he was impressed. “Look at you,” he said, after I’d pulled his mouth away and rubbed out a huge gusher all over the chux I’d had the foresight to put down first.

And he came too, although that was sort of unexpected. I lay on my back and offered up my tits, and he dropped a huge gob of spit there and then slid his cock in between them. It was hot. Dirty and hot. I remember the feel his thrusts and how they increased in intensity until — powerful, sharp, short — he came, across my chest, so that it dribbled down my left shoulder and into my hair. And he was thoughtful enough to bring me a washcloth, one that he’d warmed under the hot water tap.

Later that week, the memory of those thrusts, and what they might feel like in another configuration, made me squirm in my seat as I drove to the office.

We spoke on the phone a few times that week. I told him as he left that he didn’t get to come until he saw me again. And he was game. On IM, on the phone, we teased each other, and I let him hear me come, but I wouldn’t let him… ordered him to stop. I went away for a weekend retreat with some friends, and on the way back, while my friends were shopping in an outlet mall, I sat in the car and talked to him on my cell phone, made him say the words, “I don’t get to come because my cock belongs to you,” — and he said my name. My cock.

It was sweet torture for both of us. The next Monday was a holiday, and I called him up at 7am and ordered him to come over to my house as fast as he could. “But I haven’t shaved!” he said.

“Bring your shaving kit with you,” I said.

And he did.

August 6, 2008 at 2:41 am Leave a comment

Spit on my face and tell me that you love me

He was on his back, and we’d both been playing the we’re-not-really-having-sex game. You know, with the kissing and the touching and the getting wound up and pausing and calming down and starting up again.

At one point I brought up the fact that he still hasn’t been for a new HIV test, which probably dampened the mood again. Nothing like discussing risk factors regarding transmission of sexually transmitted diseases to kill the mood.

But it was nice to be next to him in the bed last night, and even talking about why he hasn’t gone to the doctor yet was nice. Sure, it killed the mood for about 10 minutes, but the mood came back. We needed the emotional connection more than the sex. But then there was sex anyway. Sort of. If orgasm counts as sex. Okay, there was sex. Actually, I think I will lose all my femdom cred when I tell you that he came and I didn’t. I didn’t really want to.

What I wanted was to touch him and talk to him and wrestle with him a bit, and pull him by his legs down the bed and push him down and take him in my mouth to hear him gasp, and lick his stomach and the tender joining of his legs to his torso, lick him everywhere, taste the salt of his sweat.

“What am I, a steak?” he said.

He was tasty. I like to taste him.

I also like to push him down and play with him. I like to watch him when he’s excited, when he’s in that other space, when his eyes close and they crinkle at the corners.

I was supposed to leave around 10pm, but time in the snug is relative.

Sometime in that relative time, he was on his back, stroking himself. I was egging him on, and he begged me to spit on his cock. I did.

I used to hate seeing that in porn — people dropping big gobs of spit on each other before doing all sorts of friction-inducing, lubrication-ameliorating things. The phrase “big gobs of spit” is about as mood-killing as “HIV-testing.” When I first saw a man drop a big gob of spit on a woman’s ass right before sinking his cock into it, I was disgusted. It seemed so disrespectful to spit on someone.

But the first time Bran and I messed around, I scooted onto my back and held my breasts up so he could slide his cock in the valley between. And before he placed his cock between my breasts, he leaned down and dropped a big gob of spit on my chest. The feel of his cock, wet and hard, sliding between my breasts, the sound and the feel of him pushing, excited… It felt dirty and intimate and… sweet.

So I spit on his cock and watched him stroke himself harder, faster. I held him down and kissed his face and did things to his chest that made him gasp.

Then he asked me to spit on his chest. Which I did. And then I spit on his face. In his mouth. Repeatedly. Until he came.

It was dirty. And intense. And intimate. And dirty. And loving. And very, very dirty.

July 23, 2008 at 6:12 pm Leave a comment

Undisciplined

I am the most undisciplined discipliner ever. I let Bran come all the time, even when I tell him he can’t.

I told him he couldn’t come until Saturday, but then we went and drove down to the shore to meet his parents on Friday. <begin long digression>I was totally on my best behaviour — I even brought a hostess gift! But at one point at the dinner table, I know I was thinking about having his cock in my mouth.

On the way back, we got into an argument about violence and gender. I don’t feel like getting into it. We made up, though. And later that evening, I got to do what I’d been thinking about during dinner with his parents. It’s strange — the more into a guy I am, the more I actually love him, the more I love sucking his cock. I love cunnilungus because it feels good, and as the mattress on my sheets will attest, I love to come myself, but it’s pretty much impossible to keep my lips from off his cock once it’s hard and ready.

I like to pinch the air out of the little reservoir tip while he’s rolling the condom on, and then to take the latex-covered result in my mouth. To hear him gasp and feel him tremble. And then to pull him down on top of me, to feel him hard against me, poised between my legs.

On Friday night, I took his cock and instead of guiding it inside lay it between my lips so that the head was pushed against my clit. It felt amazing as his hips moved back and forth, and then he tipped his pelvis just so…. and slid into me, smooth, delicious, sweet. Home.

“It’s like diving into the ocean,” he said.

When he fucks me, it’s like flying. I become incredibly light. I want it to go on forever. If I were more cruel, I’d insist that he keep fucking me, that he hold back until he passes the point of being able to orgasm. Once he pushes past it, he’ll stay hard for hours. That’s fun for a while, but </end long digression>I like to see him come. And I just can’t stand that look on his face when he’s inside me, so close, so earnest, holding back, on the brink, so… in pain.

So I hurry up my own orgasms instead of letting him suffer and taking my time. It’s a terrible tendency of mine to stampede toward the climax. Perhaps it’s instinct or something. Perhaps it’s greed. Perhaps it’s just a sign I need to slow down.

I’ve been so restless, irritated, and discontent of late. It’s not fair to Bran, who is so incredibly eager to please.

July 9, 2008 at 7:48 pm Leave a comment

Orgasm control makes the heart grow fonder

We lay in the heat, the fan whirring cooler air from the evening into the room. I turned off the light and we talked, in the dark, about our families. It was too hot to touch much. It was also late, much later than we’d planned.

Eventually I leaned over and draped my arm across his side, my hand resting right under his belly. I stroked him idly through his boxer shorts, felt him harden in response. He began to undulate his hips and to moan. I slipped my hands under the waistband of his shorts to feel the smooth skin of him, hard now, completely hard. My hand was a bit too dry to properly run it up and down the length of him. I ran my tongue down my palm and returned it to its little nest of fabric and flesh and hair and hotness.

In unison I pulled away and he rolled onto his back, began to work himself, pulling up and down from the top, cupping his head in his palm. His breathing quickened.

“You can’t come,” I said.

“But…” he was plaintive. “But I want to come!”

“You can’t,” I said.

“Please,” he said. “Please let me come.”

“No. You can’t come until Saturday.”

And I pulled his hand away and began to stroke him again.

“Please, I want to come,” he said, begging me, and each time I said, No. No. No. Chanting it while I touched him, while I pulled down his shorts and just kissed the shaft of his cock with my lips, rubbing my cheek and my lips against him — soft skin, hard cock.

“Please.”

“No.”

And I flicked my tongue just beneath his frenulum, kissed him again with closed lips.

Please. No. Please. No. Please. No. Kissing him and teasing him and taunting him, now with him sprawled beneath me and beginning to not be able to speak.

I licked the place where his thigh met his belly, on either side of his cock, and his moans reached a new timbre. Holding his hands to either side, I licked and licked, tasting the salt on his skin, tracing the curve of the underside of his belly, dipping down again to that nexus of him, top and bottom, side and side, nexus genesis paradise. And ran my tongue up his side, to his right nipple, the first place I touched him and made him gasp. He shied away when he felt my tongue flick across it.

“No,” he gasped. “No, I don’t want you to hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you,” I said. “I’ll be gentle with you tonight.”

“You get so excited,” he said, but I held him down and worked my tongue back and forth over his nipple until he was writhing and moaning, and I was gentle, I didn’t bite once.

“See?” I said.

And did it with his other nipple, stroking his belly and his cock, avoiding his ticklish sides, then licked my way up his chest and his neck and to his ear, where he gasped and moaned in a whole new way when I flicked the tip of my tongue against the little hairs that grow just outside his ear canal.

And I kissed him. Reared up over him in the dark, gently pinned his questing hands up above his head and worked my way down again.

He was bucking his hips. “Hold still,” I said. “Hold still or I’ll stop.” And I opened my mouth then to take all of him in — down to the very back of the throat. The angle was wrong. I couldn’t fit him in as far as I wanted, or maybe he was just extra hard. I swallowed him as far as I could, backed off again, licked him up and down, closed my mouth over the tip and sucked… He kept wanting to buck his hips, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him down with my hands and told him, again and again, to keep still. He trembled with the effort not to move.

He was still begging to come, and I was still denying him. “You can do it,” I said. “C’mon. Be a good boy. You’ve done it before.”

“I want to fuck!” he said. “I want to come.”

But I wouldn’t let him.

“Say it. Promise me,” I said, hovering over his face. He pursed his lips shut and screwed up his eyes. “Say it. Say ‘I promise not to come until Saturday.'”

“But…” he started.

“Say it!” I slapped his cheek lightly then, in time to my voice. “Say ‘I promise not to come.'”

“I promise…” he said, and stopped.

I had to drag it out of him, but he promised. And I sent him home still frustrated.

July 1, 2008 at 7:42 pm 4 comments

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