Posts tagged ‘puppy play’

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

Bind the beast and watch him snarl

He was on my bed, face-down. There’d been some tussling on the couch, and halfway to the bedroom I had to stop at a conveniently placed chair and put him over my knee. He was halfway in puppy headspace, halfway somewhere else, I’m not sure exactly. Not subspace, not really, or maybe subspace with Bran just looks different than it does with other folks I’ve played with.

I’d gotten new cuffs and tethers (links NSFW) from JT’s Stockroom about a week before. I didn’t recognize the return address (they’re all so discreet that way), but when I got through the packing materials (eco-friendly crumpled butcher paper and a lollipop on top!), I really did squeal to see it. Sort of the way I squeal sometimes when one of the women on Men in Pain does or says something really hot, really powerful, really… rrrr. So they’d been sitting there hooked to the top posts of my bed, discreetly tucked away under the mattress. Less butch than the 1″ criss-crossed sailboat rope I’ve also got under the mattress (the first time I pulled those out, he looked at his wrist and said, “you tied a clove hitch!” in surprise), but infinitely more secure and convenient.

I strapped him in. He struggled a bit but behaved, grabbed me and caressed me while he could. And then there he was, face-down, arms tied down and open wide, delicious.

“Try to get out,” I said, thinking he’d do some gentle testing of the ropes the way the boys in Men in Pain do (ah, the tropes of porn). Some men like the bonds and don’t really want to throw them off — that’s been my experience with sub boys (Bran isn’t really a sub boy — he matches me for power and strength, and we pass it back and forth between us). With submissive men, I usually have to really egg them on to watch how they get out of my ties. And my rope-tying just isn’t that good that they won’t get free eventually. But those velcro cuffs! Neoprene on the inside, wide enough that they won’t cut off circulation, struggling doesn’t make them contract, and the velcro is virtually impossible to get out of, since he can’t reach over with his teeth to grab the edge.

And Bran struggled! Struggled like a wild thing! He snarled as he struggled, which turned me on even more.

I was on top of him, and with his legs free he kept trying to throw me off — he’s got some good wrestling moves. I’m strong though if not as well trained, and I stayed on top of him, using my superior weight to advantage.

I spanked him a bit more, and he — well, do I say he liked it or he hated it? I think he liked it. He certainly brought his knees forward to make his ass more accessible. And he made the noises that said he liked it. And that wasn’t a banana in his pocket, seeing as how he was wearing no clothes.

I wasn’t prepared for how gorgeous his arms and shoulders and back would look as he struggled with the ties. I love the muscular definition of his arms and shoulders; it’s really one of his best features. And from that angle, and in that context, bound up and strong, pulling up the sides of my mattress and still unable to get free, snarling and struggling. Gunh.

I pulled out my bag of toys, but when I came at him with a clothespin (his nipples are extra-sensitive), he pulled back, said “No!” in that small voice that tells me he’s serious. I had to stop pushing. I lay down next to him, inserted my body half under him so I could put my face close to him, kiss him, caress him.

“What is it?” I said. “Do we need to establish consensus? You don’t want me to use clothespins?”

“I’m afraid you’ll lose control,” he said — small voice again.

“Have I lost control before?” I said. I didn’t think I ever had with him.

“Once, you almost did. You just get so excited.”

It’s true, I do, but I’d like to think I’m careful with him. Not careful enough, apparently. Sadism is scary for everyone, I guess. Something to work on — but not that night, not with Mercury in retrograde.

I kissed him, slipped my legs under him, and he went back to snarling and struggling, and now he was on top of me, hard, I was pushing him, pinching him, scratching him, and he was a wild beast. A beast I’d bound. The bonds let him be a wild beast, sweating and straining to get free. Unbound, he had to keep himself in check. But restrained, he was free.

I’d made the mistake (was it a mistake) of putting myself in a compromising position. He was still bound, but he was on top of me, and he was hard, he was forcing his leg between mine and I was gamely trying to keep him from completely covering me, I was trying to get loose, but I was inside the arc of his arms, tied to the bed as they were, and he was using his legs as leverage and frankly, how motivated was I to get away from this snarling, sweating beast? A beast that thrilled me but didn’t scare me? How motivated was I to prevent him from pushing his hard-on against the lace barrier of my panties and all the trembly bits underneath?

Not very. I even pulled the lace aside a bit to feel his cock rubbing against my lips, and he was humping me and snarling and I was encouraging both. Even wild and struggling, he was still in control of himself enough to keep from slipping entirely inside of me — at one point he came awfully close and I felt him catch himself, pause. Neither of us wants to make a baby yet (one of the inconveniences of sex with men is all that tedious contraception). I struggled out from under him far enough to grab a condom and slap it on him (“Can you see it? Is it okay?” he asked, suddenly gentle). It was, and I double-checked, made sure it was down the length of him, and then I was pushing my panties aside and he was sliding into me — no need for extra lube. He was fucking me with arms open wide, the worst sort of push-ups, and my bed is extra-soft (memory foam), and bouncy, and it felt fucking fantastic.

Ah, fucking. The journey. How do you describe it without sounding boring? Because it wasn’t boring in that moment, it was intense and powerful and being fucked by a beast I’d bound and slipped under and I was egging him on and the sheen of sweat he’d already worked up was getting more intense, and I called his name without thinking about it, and then I was coming, coming, all over the middle of the mattress without putting anything down first.

“If I let you go will you promise to be good?” I asked. Because I knew having his arms spread wide like that was probably not good for his back, and because–well, because. He snarled.

When I did let him go, he grabbed me by the hips and picked me up and fucked me like no tomorrow, and then later put his tongue on me and I came again, all over the bed and his face. And later he lay on his back and I fucked him from the top and went wild myself, went red in the face no doubt, and he was egging me on to come, come, in that insistent voice, and I was. And later I found his little p-spot with my finger while he told me a particularly raunchy fantasy and I stroked it and murmured while he came all over his belly like a fountain, and had aftershocks for a long time afterward and I climbed back up to lay my head beside his and stayed with him there, which is a beautiful place to be.

But this is where I’d like to leave us: Asking him what would happen if I let him go, and him struggling, a bound beast, wild, inside me.

May 29, 2008 at 3:11 pm Leave a comment

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

Quickie

I should be bathing right about now. Instead I’m sitting in the bathroom with the laptop on my lap. Shut up, I can stop any time I want!

I’m still sticky from things Bran and I did last night. I don’t have the time to give it a proper description, in part because of that 8:50 AM dentist’s appointment. Yes, my friends, I would rather be describing my kinky sexcapades than getting ready to go to the dentist. But clean teeth make for better kissing.

I got Bran a little tag to go with his collar. We talked a bit more about why he likes being a puppy — and I get it. You don’t have to think when you’re in puppy headspace. You can put all those complicated words away. Cats and dogs are just there to love you and make you happy. It’s nice work if you can get it.

He didn’t get here until 8:30 or so. I had a pot of chicken soup cooking when he arrived. About three or four hours after he walked in the door, I brought him a bowl of it in bed. He was naked, on his stomach, eating soup. I dipped a piece of bread in the broth and fed it to him.

“The next time we see each other we should go out,” he said. “We should do something date like.”

As if I needed another reason to like him.

March 25, 2008 at 12:27 pm Leave a comment

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


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