Posts filed under ‘pr0n’

Five things, featuring teeth, thigh highs, and my favorite MiP shoots

  1. Teeth.
  2. Met Bran for lunch outside my office today. Pulled up my knee-length skirt to show him the tops of my thigh-highs. I love thigh highs.
  3. I love them so much I’m seriously shopping for a garter belt so that they stop trying to turn into knee-highs.
  4. Teeth. I’m thinking of teeth. Gwen Diamond’s teeth in particular, and what she’s doing with them here. Nothing on this site is SFW, really, but that link, especially.
  5. I unearthed an old cache of pr0n from Men in Pain. Penny Flame has the craziest intensity about her and I love to watch her flog florentine-style. Sandra Romaine has the prettiest, softest, roundest breasts (and ass, come to think of it) I have ever seen popping out of a latex waist cincher. Whenever she says “talk with me” and forces her bottom to crane his or her neck to look her in the eye, I just about cream my panties right then.

    People like to complain about how Men in Pain is all catering-to-men. Which is true. But it caters to me, too. Hot women in latex, hot men in… um, pain. What’s not to like? I just wish they’d show the riggers at work. And the unrolling of the condom. When the camera jumps to a suddenly-sheathed cock and a fully-bound… bondee, it’s weird. l like my pr0n unadr0ned. Although I suppose the fluffers and the riggers would cost more if they appeared on film.

October 20, 2008 at 9:14 pm 1 comment

Absence makes the mind grow dirty

Stupid Bran has some stupid work stupidity that is keeping him from his primary purpose in life, which is to please me.

You would have been so proud of me on Saturday. After dinner I marched myself right off to my car instead of trying to distract him from his work. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way that he couldn’t bring himself to say “you have to leave now.” Instead, he said the other thing that will send anyone with an ounce of social skills out the door: “you can stay as long as you like.”

I’ve been enjoying some solitude. And some quality time with friends, the sunshine, the October colors, and a farmstand or two. My old roommate from Cambridge and I get together once every few weeks and I entertain her with outrageous stories. We both had a big long belly laugh at the offhand comment I made about Ace having an amazingly high tolerance for pain — sometimes I forget there is a whole world of people out there for whom pain is not part of courtship.

Silly people.

Recent coochie conditions have also contributed to a drop in the GOP (Gross Orgasm Product). But the antibiotics have begun to work and I woke this morning thinking about Bran. Specifically, Bran’s body. I began to treat it as a mindfulness exercise; a quiz to gauge the effectiveness of all my hours of study. The surprisingly soft feel of his short-cropped hair, indeterminate color between brown and grey. The crinkle of his eyes. The ski-jump of his nose. The scratch of his cheeks. Slightly irritated gasp he makes when I lick the smooth side of his neck. Moans that happen sometimes when I penetrate his ear with my tongue. Freckles on the shoulders.

The lovely shoulders I could spend hours looking at, touching. Perfect curves of the muscles, the way they bunch and relax. I could sink my teeth into them. Sometimes I do.

Particular scent of his underarms, light dusting of hair. Bran scent, better than anything to be had within a bottle. Simian arms, slightly longer than mine, perfect for climbing trees, walls, ladders. Perfect for twisting my right wrist behind my back and pressing my body to his own. Perfect for binding to the top of the bed.

This is where the fantasy kicks in. What I want to do to him.

I want to do to him.

Not to get even for that time I lay with my knees bent up onto the couch, because getting even implies revenge — and revenge is not something to seek for an enjoyable experience. But reciprocity is important. Keeping the balance of power is important. Equitable distribution and contribution of resources is important. I love laying back and being a pillow queen. And I also love the other thing. I want both/and the vanilla and the chocolate. And strawberry and pralines n’ cream as well.

So this is what I think about at 6:00 am, with both cats crying their early-morning duet of hunger:

He is naked. I am wearing my long black skirt, a turtleneck, brown tights and my brown high boots. I take the belt from my bathrobe and loop it over the hook on the back of my bedroom door, dangle it down the other side of the door. Close the door and make him hold the belt. I don’t tie him in. This is an exercise not in bondage but in discipline. In training. And following orders.

“Don’t let go of the tie,” I say.

With the door shut and his back to it, with his hands grasping the strip of terry cloth, his arms fold above his head. He is naked. Half-erect. It’s a bit chilly for him, but not for me because I am fully clothed. His nipples are two hard points. Because of the cold or because of something else.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t like to see my face when I hurt him. Why does he think I am going to hurt him?

Maybe because my riding crop, my little red whip with the feathers on the end, and a length of sailing line are lined up on the bookcase behind me.

“Open your eyes,” I say. I am standing right in front of him, my face inches from his. With the lift of my boots, I’m about half an inch taller than he is.

“No,” he says, but in that gasping way, the way he’s been saying it more and more often, which I don’t take seriously.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat. I take his face between my hands. His eyes are bright blue, worried. I kiss him on the lips.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to tell me. Bran is so much better at communicating without words than me. I know what he wants — or part of it, anyway. I am just tormenting him. Pushing him to the edge of his comfort zone. When he opens his mouth I push my tongue inside it, fuck him with my tongue for a moment. He begins to undulate — this is one of the things I love about Bran, his intense physical response to me. When we are sexual, he moves like a woman, if a woman had a man’s body.

“Hold still,” I say, and place my hands on his hips, which have begun to buck.

I slip a blindfold over his eyes. He doesn’t like it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.” Much.

I run my fingernails down the outside of his arms and the sides of his torso — gently, to create sensation, not to scratch. His reaction is instantaneous. He’s terribly ticklish.

“Ah-” I say. “Hold still.” In the same voice he uses on me. Daddy voice.

The fantasy dissolves right around here, into some biting, some teasing, as I try to drive him past his discipline. Ultimately I wouldn’t mind him throwing me to the bed and fucking my brains out. But it’s all just sex in the head. It doesn’t even really touch my body. I get up and feed the cats.

October 13, 2008 at 2:53 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

Take it for me

“What’s your safe word?” I asked him. I’d wrestled one of his hands in the cuffs but not the other.

“I think you know when I don’t like it,” he replied. It’s true. I do. It’s just more work. It requires me to pay extra attention, to check in more often, to hold back… hmm, all the things I need to do with him anyway.

“Yes, I think I know,” I replied, and raked my fingernails down his side. He gave that “agh” that means pain and something else — something good. I kissed his face, his cheek, his nose, his eyes. I was straddling him. And I leaned over, pulled his other arm to the side of the bed where the other cuff is anchored to the leg of the bed frame. He resisted, his muscles bulging.

“Come on, be a good boy,” I said. “You know how much I like this.”

He struggled, and struggled, and I pulled on his arm, bore down on it with my whole weight, still he slipped and struggled out of my grasp. And then there was still the awkward business of fishing out the cuff on its tether from under the mattress, slipping his hand — fighting and clenched, still trying to break free — into the cuff. When I finally got the velcro closed I realized it was too tight, and I had to open it again, make sure I could slip a finger or two between the cuff and his wrist.

But oh, how it turns me on when he struggles. It’s hard to say which of us would really win in a fair fight. Probably him. But neither of us really wants to win, and that’s what makes it fun.

I had him strapped to my bed then, face-up. And I was kneeling over him and he was gasping and a bit afraid. He was doing this for me. Weeks before, he said he wasn’t sure that he’d ever let someone tie both of his hands. And here he was, for the second time, doing it for me. Not because he wanted it, but because I did.

I wanted him helpless on my bed. I wanted him to trust me enough to let me win the struggle as I forced his hands into the cuffs.

And I wanted to use the new toy I brought back from New York! I’d found it in a flea market, of all places. It’s a handmade flogger with short tails, made of very soft leather, with a puff of feathers on the other end. It’s lovely: red and white leather, braided around the handle, easy to hold, pretty to look at. A beginner’s toy. I’d slapped it against my forearm there at the vendor’s table, as hard as I could, and while it stung it was manageable. Unlike some of the subs I’ve played with, I don’t have a very high tolerance for pain. I’ve tried my favorite toy, the crop, on myself, and couldn’t believe how painful a single stroke of that thing can be. Hats off to the subs who can take ten or fifteen strokes from my crop, especially when I put my arm into it. Bran isn’t that kind of boy. I’d bought this whip with Bran in mind. An easy toy, fun for me, for the slap of the leather and the challenge of the aim, not too challenging for him.

I gave him a few strokes on his chest, not hard at all, and then one that slanted away further than I’d intended at the end. He gave out the bad kind of cry, and I crouched down, apologized, rubbed the spot with my hand, kissed his face, snuggled up against him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, and his eyes were shut and he was struggling against the cuffs. “Well, I do, but not like that. I only want to take you to the edge–” and here, I ran my fingernails along his side again, heard him gasp and snuggled against him. I licked his nipple, his extra-sensitive little nipple, softly, slowly, gently. Felt him moan in a different way. And then pinched the other one hard.

“See?” I said. “I only want to take you to the edge. Just to the edge, not over it.” And my hands were busy all over his body then, slapping gently with the whip, turning to stroke with the feathered end of the handle, stroking him gently, down his torso to his lovely thighs, then raking up the insides of his thighs, slapping his thighs with my hands one moment, stroking the next. Soft, then hard, and hard and hard and soft again, random and precise, paying attention to his breathing and his moans. I put my hand on his cock, stiff and exposed. I stroked it with my hand and stretched out next to him.

“Is it pain–” I pinched his nipple hard– “or is it pleasure–” I ran my hand down his stomach to his cock and stroked him lightly. “Which is it? Which is it?” I asked, alternating, again and again, whispering in his ear, licking it, biting it.

I slipped down to his lovely cock and slid my mouth around it. He was thrusting, uncontrollably, and I teased him with my mouth, taking only the tip, and then plunging it to the base. His moans, louder, turned to groans of pain when I let my teeth dig into the tender flesh of his shaft and head — just for a moment, just for a moment.

Back and forth I went, until he was incoherent, until he could barely speak.

“Take it,” I said. “You’re strong. Take it. Take it for me.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Tell me,” I said.

“I’m — taking — it — for you.”

“Why? Why are you?”

“Because…. unh… oh… because I want to be with you.”

I kissed him on the mouth then, full and strong, straddling him, rubbing myself against him.

“You’re so wet,” he said. “Oh, I can feel how wet you are.”

“Yes I am,” I said, sliding my slick outer lips around the shaft of his cock.

I made him beg me to put a condom on and fuck him, and he did, he begged so prettily. Bran, strong lovely Bran, in subspace, helpless, begging for me to take him inside me. And I did. Eventually. After I felt he’d begged sufficiently, after he’d pleased me with the abject begging — the same way I’ve begged for him.

I rolled the condom on slow, teased him with my mouth, and then eased on, slowly, slowly, ordered him to stay still, thrilling to his groans, his struggle to keep from thrusting his hips upward. I slipped onto his head and pulled myself off again, over and over, and he couldn’t even beg anymore, he was reduced to just guttural noises and moans. And then pushed down quick and hard, so he was all the way inside, so I could feel him against my sweet spot and he could feel me all around him.

“Is this what you wanted?” I said, knowing he couldn’t answer.

I rode him until I was tired of riding him, and then I leaned over and loosed one of his cuffs and he picked me up and threw me on my back and fucked me from above.

“Why did you let me go?” he said, as I fumbled with the other cuff. “Did you want me to get free? Did you want me to fuck you? And it was my turn to moan and writhe and not make sense, while he fucked me and smacked me around a bit and fucked me some more. “You’re like the earth,” he said.

And I was happy.

June 17, 2008 at 2:37 am 4 comments

Dirty, sweaty sex

It was even hotter at home than it had been in the city. My apartment was an oven, and the cat’s water bowl was empty.

“Would you fill it up?” I asked, and leaned over the couch to open the window.

“Just a sec,” he said, and pushed up my skirt. His hands were on my ass, and then he was grinding against it, and I heard him gasp and felt him harden. He loves my ass. I love that he loves my ass. I pushed against him, and he pulled me to the side, slapping my cheeks. We were all tangled up, and hot, and I was moaning and my legs spread of their own accord and I reached around to kiss him.

“I thought about you a lot this weekend,” I said.

“Yeah?” he said, and now he was spanking me between my legs, right between my legs, through my panties, which drives me wild.

“Yes,” I said. “All the way there, and–” I caught my breath as his hand came down, rotating my hips, squirming, moaning. “–and — last — night in bed. And — on the bus– ride– back–”

I was close to coming. So soon. He could tell. He stopped, got up, walked away. I sat on the couch, gasping, dizzy, excited. It was the same spot where I’d pushed him down for our first kiss five months ago.

He picked up the cat’s water bowl and went into the kitchen. “Go to your room,” he said.

I went. There were clothes on the bed, left over from packing. I threw them on the floor by the closet, closed the blinds, turned on the fan. Smoothed the cover. Turned on the lamp by the bed, turned off the overheard light. I heard him moving in the other room. I stood there, awkward. I wanted to take my clothes off, get on my knees. But more than anything, I wanted him to tell me what to do.

He emerged from the gloom into the light of the bedroom. He was naked, his body familiar to me, strong, mine.

“What do you want me to do?” I said, one foot behind the other, still in my clothes.

“What do you want to do?” he said.

I pinched his right nipple, hard, and he gasped. I raked my fingers down his back, and he moaned. We were kissing each other, rough, struggling, he was pulling my skirt up again, grabbing me to him, grinding his cock against me. I untied my halter, pulled down the black fabric very slowly, backing away from him. He held my breasts in his hands, bent to kiss them. I turned around, pulled off my top, and knelt before him. I wanted him to see my submission, see it as beautiful as I see it in others–in him.

This all happened on Sunday night and I’ve had days to forget. The heat of the encounter no longer rises with the memories. But I still remember how slick we were with mingled sweat. I remember that I came, and came again, from his mouth and his tongue and his fingers and his cock. “Do you like it when I pay attention to your pussy?” he asked. And what could I do but gasp and moan and come again. He stayed hard for what seemed like hours. At one point, he told me to hold my legs open and made me scream the way I usually only scream when I’m alone in bed with a vibrator (I scream in a different way when we’re fucking). Once, as I was writhing underneath him, he said, “I love to watch your face while I fuck you,” and I became aware of what I must look like, blushing, in beautiful agony.

Once, he told me to come all over his cock, to make it wet with my come, and I did, right then, on command. I’d pushed my pelvis off the bed to meet his cock as he kneeled, and he must have cupped his hand underneath me to catch the gushing, because the next thing I knew he was dripping it on my stomach. My orgasms so different than his, and yet not.

Later, with my finger wriggling up his ass and his cock in my mouth, he penetrated me with his fingers in both places at once. I remember how hungry I was for him.

I hadn’t bothered with a glove and I ran to the bathroom to wash off my finger. “Wait here,” I said, but he didn’t wait. He followed me in, put his hands on my hips as I bent over the sink and rubbed his hard-on against my cheeks. I turned around, knelt down, and took him into my mouth, as far as I could, lips at the base of his cock. I slipped my finger back inside him, wriggling, feeling for the little pea-shape.

“This is so dirty,” he said. And I agreed. Dirty sex is a good thing, on that we both agree. Not all the time, but sometimes. A lot of the time.

I pulled his cock out of my mouth long enough to say “You’re fucking my mouth and I’m fucking your ass. Who’s in charge here?”

Later, he bent me over the sink again and licked my little rosebud, forced his tongue inside. “You’re so open,” he said. And I was. It’s hard to predict whether I’m actually going to enjoy buttsex before it happens, no matter how much warming up is involved, but I seemed plenty ready for it that night. He lubed up the condom and my ass and he was sliding in, and it was wonderful. But we’re just close enough in height that sex standing up doesn’t quite work, even with me bending over all the way. So he pulled out. And the poor boy was tired by then, needed to rest.

Funny thing about sex, and orgasm: it never feels like “successful” sex until both of us come. Or, in my case, until I’ve come plenty of times. But if you fixate on the orgasm, you don’t have time to enjoy all the fun of sex: the skin on skin contact, the heat, the … the everything. The journey. Why hurry toward the destination? I always tell him I don’t care if he comes or not, just that he enjoy himself. And when it takes him a while, really, who am I to complain? But I do like it to happen. I like to see him lose control. And I wanted him to come on my face. That’s the sort of dirty-sex mood I was in.

We lay there, side by side, in the heat, with sweat coating our bodies, and said exhausted things to each other. I rested my head at the junction of his shoulder and his arm, then pulled back to look up at the ceiling. He reached over toward my coochie, groping idly.

“She’s sleeping,” I said. But didn’t stop him. And he moved his fingers over the folds, and in spite of myself I began to move with his fingers. Opened my legs, felt my lips growing slick, and we were back to it.

Later, he was standing next to the bed, working his cock while I said nasty things to him and ran my tongue around his balls. And then he was coming, a lot, and I bent my head right into the line of fire. He pulled back, half crouched, muscles tensed. I pulled him back to the bed, and he resisted at first. “I’m covered with it,” he said.

“The sheets are already stained with mine. I’m going to have to change them anyway,” I reminded him, and pulled him down beside me, pulled him close to me. Most times, I want that afterward, the holding. His jism was still all around my mouth, and he looked at me and laughed, and I laughed too. It’s such a silly thing to do, really, letting a man come on your face. It’s meant to be degrading, I suppose. I usually see it that way, in all the porn videos. But it’s intimate too, and something I’ll do because… because I want to, because I’ll do it for someone I know cares about me. Because it makes us closer. Because I can.

June 12, 2008 at 8:22 pm 2 comments

Fun with chains

He was wearing the collar I bought him at the pet store, the one with the chain lead. I’d decided on chain at the last minute instead of leather. I hadn’t realized at the time how good the slick metal links would feel against the lips of my cunt, against my swollen clit as we played.

This time, I put the collar on him and I yanked on the lead as he fucked me from above. We were on the opposite side of the bed because the frame is beginning to give way, and I could feel it moving below me even as he moved above me. The lovely frisson of him inside me, the friction, the steady rhythm, not clenching but feeling very good, feeling on my way to somewhere, and him on his way to somewhere too, the both of us traveling there together.

And then I wanted to fuck him from above. “Get on your back,” I said, with him still above me, inside me. He shook his head, bad boy (bad dog — oh to say it out loud). Head tilted to the side, not obeying. So I put on my big girl voice, my commanding voice, and I pushed him, and eventually he was on his back and I had one leg on the floor and one knee beside him and then I was riding the pony.

I love to ride the pony.

So we did that for a while, and I probably came again. I probably came when we were in missionary too. He often asks me after the fact how many times I’ve come but I don’t really keep track anymore. I just know that if it’s not more than three times I feel cheated. And so I fucked him from above for a while. And he enjoyed it too, you can tell because he makes those noises, and plus I could reach his nipples better from that angle, and he does have such sensitive nipples. Sometimes I’m cruel with them, but I think in this instance I was nice.

And then I told him to fuck my ass.

I was in a hurry for some reason that afternoon — the whole thing was hurried. And you really can’t hurry when it comes to assfucking. You can get away with it with other kinds of sex, although it’s really a shame, like bolting sushi instead of savoring it. But with assfucking you really have to go slow, ease into it. He’s such a good lover, he was doing all the right things: dropping a gob of spit on my little hole (I know, I know, the first time I saw this in a video I was grossed out, but the dirtiness and the immediately of using one’s own lubricant does have a certain appeal), circling it with his tongue, loving my cheeks with his hands, forcing the tip of his tongue inside.

And then he did something completely unexpected, something incredibly hot. He took the chain lead dangling from his collar and inserted it, link by link, into my hot, wet cunt. Pushed it in, pulled it out a bit, pushed it in a bit more. I groaned and pushed against his fingers. He must have gotten almost the whole length of it in there before he forced the head of his cock against my ass and pushed…

Because I was rushing, I hadn’t relaxed properly, and it hurt. “Ow, ow,” I said, and had him pull out, and scrambled off the bed — only to find that my cunt was still filled with the chain of his lead. I pulled it out unceremoniously and wobbled to the bathroom, where I sat with my offended sphincter (blessedly unproductive).

Later, back in the bed, he told me he was thinking about me dragging him around by the chain buried in my cunt. So together we slipped it back inside of me and for one of the few times in my life I experienced the advantage of my thick, generous thighs. I was able to jerk him around by the collar with my legs closed, the chain buried inside me.

The scenario is rife with symbolism. It was also fucking hot.

May 21, 2008 at 8:50 pm 3 comments

Finally, some smut for the femdoms by the femdoms

If you’ve spent more than five minutes reading the blog of any dominant woman, you’ve probably come across the complaint that femdom porn is almost exclusively directed toward submissive men. Cause, you know, dominant women only do it for the money. ::gag::

Hot Female Dominant Utopia aims to change that. Elizabeth is my new hero. Although Bitchy Jones will always have a special place in my heart.

From the latest chapter:

You must think of the night when you will hold your legs open for me and I mark your thighs with my crop. Think of the sting. Think of how hard it will be for you, untied, to hold your legs open as I hit your thighs time, after time, after time.

Do not stop. You must continue to stroke yourself. Imagine then that I make you ask for each mark of the crop. Understand that I now own your thighs, they are bought and paid for. They belong to me, as do you, wholly and completely. I will delight in making you open your legs for me so I may do what I will. Think how how wet this will make me. I will mark your thighs in red welts and then draw myself across the stripes, marking them again with my wetness.

I’ll be in my bunk.

May 19, 2008 at 9:49 pm 4 comments

Greet me at the door

I was working on papers. The papers on my desk. The paper tiger. I’d been working from home all day, and after a while it becomes like swimming in an aquarium. More and more ungrounded, sure, getting work done, but never feeling like it’s enough. Missing the touchstone of coworkers and cubicles and printers whose cartridges you don’t need to replace yourself.

He rang at 6ish. I greeted him at the door. With a kiss. And then the kiss became another kiss, and then the heat was there, always there, distracting, maddening, delicious.

“I’m drowning in papers,” I said, and he put his arms around me. Maybe he was wearing that Scally cap I think makes him look kind of old and silly, I don’t know, but his face was kind.

“Why?” he said. And I tried to explain but it didn’t matter, and then I was running up the stairs, knowing he was looking at my ass. The door was open, the radio was blaring something about our civil rights being eroded, or how Hillary is a bitch and by implication shouldn’t be POTUS, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention really, because then the door was closed and I was kissing him there in the front hallway, and my arms were around his neck and he was biting me, biting my shoulder and giving me that sweet pain. Or maybe I was biting him, I don’t know.

He slid his hands into the front of my pants. That wasn’t part of the plan. We were supposed to get dinner and see that movie down in Kendall Square. But his hands, and the heat between us, and I was wet, and then I was unbuckling my belt and fumbling with my fly. Feeling him through the fabric of his corduroys.

I pulled him up against the wall, to feel the weight of him pushing me against it. I pulled his shirt out from his belt — the professional button-down shirt with the undershirt under it, so respectable and confidence-inspiring to his clients. And I was reaching under, to feel the curve of his stomach and his chest hair and to pinch his nipple, always erect. And he made that sound, that harsh intake of breath. Once, he said it was like a bolt of lightning when I pinched his nipples.

But he grabbed my arm and pulled it up over my head, down the other side in some kind of wrestler’s hold, I don’t know. I was kissing him and I didn’t care about anything anymore but the heat between us and the lust and the openness.

“I thought you were going to collar me,” he said, teasing. “What happened?”

As if he didn’t know. As if it’s not why I love to be with him, to wrestle with him, fight him, as if his strong, strong arms that have worked harder than mine or anyone else’s I know, as if they didn’t fill me with desire just as much as his mouth, and his eyes, and the stubble on his face, and his taught ass, and his lovely cock, that pleasing appendage that stands at attention for me even when I’m on the other side of town and we’re saying naughty things to each other via IM.

“I want you to fuck me against the wall,” I said. I wanted it rough and dirty, up against a tree, in the alleyway behind the pub. I wanted him inside me. I ran into the bedroom for a condom, and then back to where he stood, stroking himself through his pants, unzipping them. Kneeled down to unroll it, not even give it a proper suck, because he was pulling me up then and guiding himself between my legs (when did my pants come off?). I was wet and he was almost in, but the angles were wrong — he’s just that much taller than I, and while he’s strong he’s not so strong he can support the whole weight of my peasant-stock thighs and hips. So I pulled back into the kitchen, hiked myself up on the edge of the sink. And he was pulling off his shirt, now completely naked. His tattoo stood dark between his shoulder blades.

“No, leave your clothes on,” I said, but it was too late and I didn’t really care, and now the sink was just too high for it to work.

“I need a phone book,” he said, and I remembered the obsolete volumes downstairs — downstairs in the lobby, and there was no way I was putting my clothes back on to retrieve them. We tried the step-stool, but that didn’t work either.

“Get on the floor,” I said.
“You first.”‘
“Make me.”

Which he did, and I put up a fight, but not entirely too much of a fight, and he was on top of me, and I was scratching his back with my stealthy little nails and he was inside me, fucking me.

Fucking me.

I wasn’t warmed up enough to come properly. But it didn’t matter. I came anyway, not as forcefully perhaps, but because I wanted to, wanted to come with him inside of me, there, on the kitchen floor that needed mopping, in the doorway between the front hallway and the kitchen.

And he was coming inside me too, with his face–you know you can’t really describe the way someone’s face looks when they’re coming. You have to just experience it.

I didn’t want him to pull out. I wanted to feel him there inside me for a while. With my arms around him. The aftermath. Of fucking him hello.

Then we put our clothes back on and went to a movie.

March 20, 2008 at 4:17 pm 7 comments

Puppy play

I did a lot of shopping online but none of the collars seemed to be much better than what I could find in the local pet store. And it was really instant gratification I was after, anyhow. The newest man in my life (whose name is adamantly not Bran) was coming over that evening and I wanted to surprise him.

In the pet store, I compared all the various leather collars available. I tried to guestimate the size of Bran’s neck, which is not insubstantial, although not in that gross no-neck-linebacker kind of way. The leashes happened to be right next to the register, and I chatted with the owner while I fingered and stroked the wares. Shut up, it’s just shopping.

“The dog’s not in the car, is he?” asked the owner.
“No, he’s at home,” I said, suppressing a smirk. “If it doesn’t fit, can I bring it back and exchange it?”
“Sure. You just have to fill out a form.”
“I think I can do that.”

At the last minute, I put back the leather leash and got a chain one instead. Mmm, chains. So far, I’ve been more into rope restraints than chains, but I can see why Bitchy prefers the ease and quickness of handcuffs. One of these days I’ll spring for some leather cuffs, too. Bran is too strong to be properly restrained by my current under-the-bed system. I have one of those memory-foam mattresses (the cheaper ones made in Ireland, not the Tempurexpensive ones), and one of the drawbacks is that the sides of the mattress are not very firm. Plus, he’s a struggler. Some men lay still as soon as they feel the bonds, but the thing I love about Bran is that he fights me for control. And sometimes he wins.

Later that evening, after a very civilized dinner in which we talked about stuff that did not relate to sex (I found myself getting up at one point to rub his shoulders, and the heat rose up between us again, my hand on his tight, tight upper trapezius, wandering down his chest, clad in his professional Oxford shirt with the undershirt underneath. And had to stop myself and sit down again. But I digress.), I told him I had a surprise for him.

“I went to the pet store today,” I said.

And he was very happy. He knew what that meant right away.

I got up to get my new purchases from my briefcase. I bought them on my way home from work and try to avoid using disposable shopping bags whenever possible. Plus, I get a thrill out of having an object in my professional drag that’s simultaneously innocent and naughty. As I was bending over I felt an insistent butting against the backs of my thighs. He was on all fours, butting me just like a dog eager to play.

“Oh, good boy,” I said. “Do you like your new collar?”

Dogs don’t talk, of course. He panted for me, shook his little head up and down. And I buckled it on him. I’d guestimated the size right — the shortest hole fit him perfectly. I’ve never collared anyone before, and I worried a bit about circulation, but I figured he would let me know if it was too tight, and I slipped a finger in between the leather and his neck just to check. Personally, I hate the feel of a choker necklace around my neck. I am sort of curious about the idea of being collared, though.

Oh, he was so happy to be my puppy. I’m pretty sure he was already naked at this point (don’t ask me how that happened because I don’t remember). I petted him and petted him, and wrestled with him a little bit. He growled. I pulled the chain lead out of the bag as well — we were too far into the play for me to even bother removing the tag. And I walked into the other room, sprawled on the couch, and told him to carry it to me.

GOD, there is nothing sexier than a man naked, on his knees, carrying something to me in his mouth. Something that shows my dominance over him. When he crawls across the room, naked, with it in his mouth, looking up at me all eager and soft, I know that he’s submitting willingly. And it’s his submission I crave, just as much I crave the sounds he makes when I’m causing him pain, the sounds that say yes god oh please yes more, not holy fuck ow bad.

My new puppy (I haven’t decided whether to call him Bruiser, or Buddy, or something else entirely), when he ducked his head down and took the chain lead in his mouth, it was a little bit different. It wasn’t about the anticipation of pain. It was about playfulness. And Bran knows how do the playfulness. He mentioned once that his family owned a kennel, so I think he knows dogs pretty well. Halfway across the room, he balked just a bit. I recognized the gesture from the times I’ve played with the dogs of friends and neighbors. It was hot. And authentic. And precious.

“C’mon, puppy! Don’t you want to go for walkies?” I injected that bit of enthusiasm into my voice, the one that dogs respond to so well with tail-wagging and frisking. And it worked. He came toward me. I took the lead from his mouth and hooked it to the ring on his collar. I walked him to the bedroom.

And then there was some sexing.

Later, I told him that within the BDSM community, putting a collar on a playmate can have a special significance.

“Oh yeah?” he said.

“Yes. It means that you’re my property.”

The idea of him as my property gives me a thrill. The idea that I belong to him gives me a thrill, too. It’s a paradox, since I’ve been very up-front about being polyamorous. I’m not sure how I feel about going exclusive again. It’s never worked out well in the past. But I find myself caring more and more about his feelings. I want to proceed very, very carefully with him. I could love him. My body already thinks it loves him, in the afterglow of orgasm. I can be patient, though. Age does that. It teaches patience. And experience.

I’m practicing the principle of nonattachment with him. Every lover has something to teach me. I wonder what this lesson will be?

March 13, 2008 at 2:31 pm 10 comments

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

I don’t remember exactly how we get from you across my lap to you on top of me on the sofa — you still naked, and me still clothed. I’m sure that it involves my bodily pulling you up and pushing you around, and I remember that at one point my head and shoulders are off the couch, and you wrap your arms around me to pull them up so you can keep kissing me. Your arms were one of the first things I noticed about you when I met you — I touched the tattoo on your right shoulder, and when I did, I felt the definition of the muscle. Even men who don’t pump iron have that definition, and it makes me jealous that, with all my time at the gym with the free weights, my arms will never look quite like that.

That’s why I like you above me, because it makes your muscles pop. And then you’re biting me, and pulling my hair, and I’m the one making the noises.

-You like it too, you say, delighted.
-Yes, I do. I like it.
-Do you want to be a slut for me?
-Yes, yes I do.
-What do you want to do for me?
-I want to suck your cock.
I can tell by your reaction (or lack) that this isn’t the right answer, but it’s the truth. And you tell me you’re too tired to top, which I’m fine with. It’s Friday night, far past the hour that would make this anything but a booty call, and we’ve both had long weeks. And now, with the spell broken, we stand up, and I tell you to put your underwear back on.

We spoon for a while in your bed. You’ve lit candles all over the house, and when you greeted me at the door I smelled your aftershave. These little preparations make me happy, say that you looked forward to seeing me enough to make these small gestures. We tell our stories in the bed, heads on shoulders, skin on skin. I love touching your skin, the feel of your chest hair under my cheek. We talk about our tragedies and our triumphs, our escape from failed relationships. I run my fingers over the tattoo of Ferdinand the Bull on your shoulder.

You’re not the one. Something you say, I can’t remember what, or maybe it’s the way you say it, makes me realize this. I see you clearly. I understand. I’m here for the sexing, for the companionship, but not for love. It won’t be love, not that kind of love, between us.

And I still want the sexing. Which is easy to do with you. You’ve told me the two things that will always get you in the right frame of mind. I pull your nipple ring, hard, and it changes your face. I slap your face, more lightly than I did the first time you asked, and your face goes slack, ecstatic, ready.

-What do you feel when I slap you?

You pause. I can’t describe the way your voice stops while you’re looking for the right words, but it’s one of the things I like about you. It’s evidence that you are a thinking person who cares about words.

-Anticipation. Surprise.

I wait. I know there’s more.

-It makes me… go deeper.

And I understand.

Later, I’ve taken off my shirt and bra and skirt, and I’m naked and you’re telling me that my body is beautiful. It blooms under your words. What do you love about it, I want to know. I can ask you these things because you’re my boy and you have to do what I tell you. It’s strong, you say, and you’re caressing me from hip to shoulder and then I’m turning on my stomach and you’re saying that I have a beautiful ass and you’re kissing it. My poor, maligned, neglected, fetishized, worshiped ass. It becomes beautiful under your praise and your hands and your kisses. I clench you between my cheeks, and I can tell by the sounds you make that you really like that. So do I.

Later, you’re kneeling at the end of the bed with the toes of my right foot in your mouth–that lovely, soft eager mouth of yours–and you’re rubbing yourself against my left foot. I can count on one hand the number of times my feet have been loved like this, and every time it’s turned me on. The last time we saw each other, you made me come just by licking my feet. You say that you want to come on my feet, but I won’t let you. I don’t want to let you come yet.

Later, you’re on your back with your legs open and I’m kneeling above you, teasing your ass through the fabric of your boxer briefs, rubbing the tip of your cock with my other hand.

-Would you like me to fuck you in the ass? I ask
-Yes, you say, in that way, that begging way, that open way.
-Why should I? Why should I waste my time?
-Because it would make me yours.

I thrill to hear that, even though I know I can’t own you, not really, can’t even keep you from sexing someone else.

Later, I’m saying nasty things to you and making you say them back to me, but differently, and the words get tangled up in your mouth and we both collapse in a fit of laughter.

Later, I ask if you want to kiss me on my mouth, and you say yes. I make you beg for it, and you do, so very prettily, as I sit with my back against the wall and you leaning toward me.
-Please, please, please let me kiss your mouth.
-No.
-Oh please, I want to kiss you.
-No.
-Please let me kiss you.
-No.
-Oh please I love your mouth you have such a beautiful mouth.
-No.
-Oh please, your mouth feels so good, I want to kiss it.
-No.
-Please please please I want to make you feel good too.

With each No, you push closer and my hands holding you away give a little more, and my No’s get weaker, until finally No turns to Yes. When I decide, when you’ve pleased me with your groveling, made me hot with it.

That kiss is amazing.

Later, I have you get three towels to cover the bed because it’s clear I’m on my way to coming, and it’s clear it’s going to be a gusher.

Later, you’re kissing my breasts and I’m rubbing my clit and we’re saying all kinds of nasty perverted things to each other I can’t even remember, because whatever it is that’s said is what makes me come finally, once with clenching, once with the burning in my ankles, and then I’m really coming, all over your bed, so hard that I can hear it. And when I do, I hear your own moans and I know I’ve found someone very special. You like it when I hurt you, and you love it when I come. You’re not afraid of me, of my hunger, of my push.

Later, you walk me to my car and kiss me in the empty street. I told you I wouldn’t call you, would wait to hear from you, because after almost a year of dating men I’ve remembered that they’re not like women. They have different rules. I know that you’ll call me, but I don’t know when, and when I drive away I know that the hell has begun:

the desire.
the waiting.
the remembering.
the letting go.
the moving on.

I write this all down so that I can let it go and get on with the rest of my life.

January 28, 2008 at 1:42 pm 2 comments

Older Posts


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.

Sign up for email notification of new posts (you don't have to have a WordPress account).

Join 5 other followers


Click here to explore Good Releasing's various lines of adult titles and educational films representing independent artists who create authentic and diverse content.

Feeds