Posts tagged ‘dirty sex’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you all right? You were crying.”

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

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

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

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

“I like you too.”

“I like having sex with you.”

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

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

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

September 30, 2008 at 10:06 pm 2 comments

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


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