Posts filed under ‘switching’

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

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

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

No vacancy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 6, 2008 at 2:17 am Leave a comment

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

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