Posts tagged ‘intimacy’

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

Orange juice, chicken soup, hot kinky sex

There’s been some hot, kinky sex happening, I swear there has. There was that weekend when we drove up the Cape on a whim and we ended up making such a mess I stripped the bed and left a huge tip for the poor maid. (I wish I could have left a note saying “it’s not pee!” but I don’t think that would have really helped.) There was the time I rode him and rode him while I was “ritually unclean,” as Leviticus would put it, and when we got up it looked like I’d sacrificed a goat in his lap.

There were some other times. Less bondage since my bedframe became irreparably bent and had to be tossed. But still plenty of pushing down and ordering around. Well, maybe a bit less. Maybe the ol’ Omnivore has gone soft and squishy and just the slightest bit femme — or lazy at the very least.

But today, the third day I’ve been laid up with a summer cold, he brought me chicken soup and orange juice, and ate a sandwich and drove me to where I’d left my car parked two days ago, and right before I swung my legs out of the front seat, he stroked the underside of my chin with the tip of his finger.

That was hot.

August 5, 2008 at 9:07 pm Leave a comment

Undisciplined

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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