Posts tagged ‘bdsm’

Email FAIL

I was just about to throw up my hands in despair over the houseboy search when I discovered that the email account I was using to reply to applications wasn’t forwarding to my regular inbox.

How gratifying to log into my “slut” account today to find it filled with desperate responses from men eager to serve!

And how mortifying to discover I’d left them unanswered for weeks!

Time to roll up my sleeves and play catch-up.

February 15, 2010 at 3:34 pm Leave a comment

This was too train-wreck good not to share

Worst response so far to my ad. Names have been changed to protect the ignorant.

Listen! I’m on a mission to find some woman to fuck my ass. If you want housework done I can do it. I’ve seen your posting for a while now…you obviously haven’t found anyone yet. make a decision and let me know if i’m in or not.
— Fuck Me in the Ass Man

I was feeling generous, so instead of deleting the email outright, I tried to school the poor boy a little. It’s not his fault he grew up in a society that taught him women were there to serve his every need, right? Right? Anyone? Bueller?

Dear Fuck Me in the Ass Man:

With an attitude like that I’m not surprised you haven’t been able to
find a woman willing to bend you over. Try Strap-on Jo if that’s what
you’re after (http://straponjo.com/)

If you don’t want to pay, try suffering through the dating scene like
all the rest of the kinky men in the world. Here’s one I’m especially fond of: Unspeakable Axe

Your message suggests I’ve been having trouble finding myself a
houseboy. Far from it, actually. I’m weeding through responses and
interviewing now. I have posted twice in the past two weeks with very
good results. I can afford to be picky, and Craiglist always throws up
a lot of old boots with the fish. If I weren’t amused by your
cluelessness I wouldn’t have bothered responding at all.

I recommend you study the notion of service before you attempt
approaching another Domme. We’re not here to fulfill your fantasies.
That’s that whole point, you know. It’s about us and what we want. Why
not start with the dictionary definition of the word service? Then
research kink/BDSM etiquette. I’ve got news for you: dominant women
have the upper hand in this arena. You’ve got to learn to behave
yourself in a way most straight men never need to.

There’s probably some woman out there looking for a brat like you to
take in hand. Good luck in your search. Dating’s a rough sport. Be
sure to wear protective gear.

Omnivore

February 6, 2010 at 1:19 am 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

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

Top drop. Forgot about that

My head is still in a daze as I’m writing this. My houseboy came over and did some tidying for me. We really didn’t have enough time — ideally I like a good two to three hours of service and discipline at a time. The fault was all mine. I had a meeting downtown that ran longer than I thought it would and he could only stay until 3:30.

I had a huge long list of chores for him: vaccuuming, mopping, dishes, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning my closets. Of course he was only able to do a small amount of it. He does a very decent job in a very small amount of time, actually. I’m very pleased with the level of his service. And I’m even more pleased with how much pain he can take.

But I totally wasn’t prepared for how spaced out I would be right now. I’ve still got work to do, AND I’ve got evening plans I can’t cancel. This is why aftercare is so important. And I feel like an awful, awful top for sending him out into the world without giving him proper aftercare.

Or myself.

What does aftercare consist of exactly? And how does one do aftercare with someone one doesn’t want to touch? He was sweating like a pig, and the smell of him was extremely unpleasant. It reminded me, actually, of something that Kristen told me. She told me the worst part of being a professional dominatrix was the smell. The smell of men you’re not attracted to, their sweat. Their stink.

This houseboy is very nice. He’s a good boy. But he does stink. And when your houseboy is doing your housework, he is bound to schvitz. They can’t help it. So they smell.

Smell is such a subtle, important factor in attraction. I love the way Bran smells. Mostly he smells like clean laundry, but of course there’s his own scent which can’t really be described except to say that it smells like Bran. The other day, when we were having dirty, dirty sex during a heat wave, we both worked up such a sweat that it mingled between our bodies and lubricated our flesh as we slid against one another.

Bran’s sweat, his smell, I love. This houseboy’s sweat, his smell, not so much.

And I can’t help but wonder whether it’s selfish of me to keep a houseboy while my relationship with Bran deepens. Not because I’m being greedy now, but because… well, for two reasons. First, because I think there is a part of Bran who doesn’t want to share me, not even my dirty dishes and my cruelty. And second, because keeping a houseboy means maintaining a relationship. I was relieved when Chiquitita and I decided not to pursue a serious relationship because I felt stretched between her and Bran. A houseboy doesn’t require nearly the same kind of care and feeding as a lover, but Bran knows that there is a sexual element to it. He says he’s fine with it, but I wonder if that’s really how he feels. I wonder if that will change. I think, if he asked me to give him up, I would. But that’s what happens when I fall in love. I do things, give up things, that I never would have when I’m not in love. When I’m not in a mild state of insanity.

It’s pleasant state of insanity.

A relationship with a houseboy is not the same as any other kind of relationship. A houseboy is not a friend. He’s definitely not a lover. He is a servant. And servants require an entirely different kind of interaction. It’s important to stay in control, to underline the power exchange part of the agreement. Houseboy is very good at doing this. Mostly I’m good at giving orders and maintaining an aura of cool authority. Oftentimes I feel silly inside but sometimes I get drunk off the power, get into the role, inhabit it. I think that I would have been an excellent Duchess in a former life. Preferably a widowed Duchess. But I digress.

It’s a nice feeling to be served. I really like receiving good service, in all areas of my life. There’s nothing like being able to order someone around, someone who has agreed to give me his power for a short period of time. But I’ll settle for good table service at a restaurant.

What I got drunk off today, though, was not power. It was pain. Giving pain, and the enjoyment of giving pain. Submission and pain, and both in combination, can be incredibly intoxicating.

It’s a very scary feeling, actually. And what I am feeling now is the blowback from a really intense, heavy session of hitting a man. It didn’t feel like hard work, but I certainly did put my arm into it. There was an exchange not only of power, but of energy. Kinetic energy, and psychic energy.

Afterward, he mentioned that he had never really taken that much pain before, that it wasn’t the sort of play he’d done. See, this is hard for me to hear. I feel like… I can’t help but feel ashamed at how much pleasure I take in the groans when I come down really hard with the belt. But it’s what I like. It’s visceral, almost sexual. It’s…. drunk on power, drunk on pain.

“If it’s too much we don’t have to go that hard,” I said. And given my current state of mind, that’s probably not a bad idea — for myself, if not for him. He didn’t want to stop, though. He told me that he’d come to the edge of this kind of play before, but that the person topping him had backed off. “It wasn’t my choice,” he said.

And then he said something that made me very happy. He said, “I appreciate that you do it in such a safe way.”

It’s something I worry about constantly, actually. It’s what makes topping difficult: the responsibility that comes with power. Paying attention to how your bottom is doing. And I do pay attention.

Sigh. I think I’d better pay attention to myself for a little while, and rest before I go out this evening. Right after I do this one last thing for work…

June 13, 2008 at 9:01 pm Leave a comment

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

Switchy McSwitchster

I was on my back and he was above me. I like to be on my back. It’s the way I masturbate most of the time, and it’s comfortable and suits me when I want to be a pillow queen.

I reached up to lower the blinds, but he stopped me. “You don’t want your neighbors to see what a dirty slut you are?” he asked. And I thrilled.

He was wearing his boxers and his hard cock poked out of the hole. He shoved it into my hungry little mouth. I was wearing the panties he likes — the black hipsters with the little white ruffles around the edges. My hand slid inside, and I was slick, so slick down there.

“Can I come?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. God, No can be the sexiest word in the universe sometimes.

“Did you come?”

I had to tell the truth. “A little.”

And he looked at me all disappointed. Disappointed authoritarian. Can I use the word daddy without feeling weird about it?

I wanted him to spank me, punish me for coming without permission, but suggesting it would have ruined the dynamic. And when he’s on top, it’s about what he wants, the same way it’s about what I want when I’m on top — which is most of the time.

I like being under him, I like it when he pushes me down. Not all the time, but right then, yes, that was what I liked. I liked the way he fucked my mouth while I did my best to swirl my tongue around his cock, while I took him all the way in, to the back of my throat where he could make me choke and gag if he wanted, but he was so careful. I know he likes the feel of my lips around the base of his cock, the warmth and wetness of my mouth around him, the slight danger of my teeth.

I’m careful of him with my teeth and he’s careful of me with the gagging, so that when he fucks my mouth and I let him, get excited when he’s fucking my mouth, such a dirty thing, such a thing I’m not supposed to like but I do, partly out of a sort of sacrificial, suffer-for-him impulse, partly because it does feel good to fill my mouth with his cock, satisfies my hunger for him, when he’s fucking my mouth with that intense fast rhythm and I start to gag, he pulls back just a bit.

“Do you want to come?” he asked.

“I want to do whatever turns you on,” I said. “It’s all about what you want.”

I wanted so much. I wanted him to fuck me, to tie me to the bed, to spank me. But I was under. And I gave it to him, the power, the control. I could see he didn’t quite know what to do with it — no, he knew what to do, he’s a straight men, has fucked plenty of straight women, trained to be passive. He knows what to do, but for me to tell him like that, maybe it’s the same sort of fear-producing thing that happens when I know I have all the power and now what do I do with it? It’s all on me! It has to be perfect!

But the truth is, it doesn’t have to be perfect. The less-than-perfectness, the danger of them hurting you in way they don’t intend, that’s part of the rrrr.

And he did spank my thighs, tender and open. He spanked them well, building up, and I moaned and writhed beneath him and only once had to call Mercy, and he rubbed in the pain and kept going. And I liked it. I desired it and was so happy he gave it to me.

He told me he wanted me to come while he fucked my mouth. Which I was happy to do. On my back, him kneeling at my head next to the open window, the shades wide open, with the sun coming down and a light on somewhere in the house, so that if they wanted to, if they maybe had the binoculars or the telescope, some curious neighbor could look in and participate, partake and share of the hotness happening there in my bed.

I slid my finger inside my panties and sucked on his cock as he fucked my mouth, and I came, I did, I came all over the new duvet cover, through my panties, and I’m sure I screamed or yelled right around his cock, I’m sure he knew when I was coming but just in case I rolled to the side to show him the mess. He chided me gently for the mess. Maybe he said, “look at you,” in that admiring way. He loves to watch me come.

“Please come on my face,” I begged, as he worked his cock right next to my hungry mouth and my face, but I was still hungry for him.

“I want it in my mouth,” I said.

“Then you’d better hurry,” he said, on the edge of orgasm.

So I pushed his hand aside with my mouth and I was working his cock with my mouth when he began to come. I felt it building in the back of my throat, and always there the initial revulsion and then the decision to swallow, swallow it down. And I did, milking it all with the muscles of my throat as I felt him swooning above me, his own noises and his own face and I’d reached up my hand under his shirt and placed it flat against his chest, the right nipple, the one I like to pinch, hard, sometimes, to hear the gasp that follows.

But I don’t think I pinched him then. I think I was trying to be gentle and present to his coming, down my throat, accepting what he had to give me.

Neat and clean, swallowing the boy juice.

And pulling him down beside me afterward, to lay his head on my chest.

Afterward was when I pulled off the rest of my clothes, and gave myself a whore’s bath, and changed my panties. Afterward, we walked up and down the strip looking for a place to eat, enjoying the moonlight and the feel of the trees on the walking path in the dark, giving off their tree essence.

I didn’t tell him at the time (he’ll read it here, now), but his come on an empty stomach gave me a bit of a funny tummy. The salad later settled it, though, and the ginger ale.

And it was worth it.

May 24, 2008 at 2:48 pm 4 comments

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