Posts tagged ‘sex’

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

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

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

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

Shy

I think I may have mentioned that I’m addicted to the WordPress blog stats. It’s totally an ego-surfing thing. But I’d pretty much resigned myself to the fact that this blog was going to be just one of many, many sex blogs out there (see the links in the sidebar for more). Probably never as well-read as Always Aroused Girl, Bitchy Jones, or any of the other really top-notch sexxxay blogs. And I was mostly okay with that. I’ve been writing since I was a wee thing, and I’ve come to realize that writing is about the act of self-expression, and about touching other people. Touching a lot of people with one’s writing doesn’t necessarily make for a more intimate connection. It can just make for a more overwhelming experience. I knew that if I submitted to sugasm I’d probably have a decent chance of being featured; laziness has prevented me.

And fear, to a certain extent. The spectacular outing of Abby Lee is certainly a cautionary tale. And Always Aroused Girl has written about her parents’ discovery of her metier. Since I have neither a book deal nor any income from this blog, it’s unlikely that anyone would care enough to discover the identity of the Omnivore (ew, she’s referring to herself in the third person again, isn’t that creepy?).

Overshare on the web is only really fun if you don’t know the identity of the person — or better yet, if you’re the person who is anonymous. Bitchy said it well in her TV interview (and I’m paraphrasing here ’cause it’s a long-ass video): anonymity allows a woman in a sense to speak for all women in terms of female desire, and to speak without fear of retribution. Of course, you need to qualify that “speaking for all women” nonsense with the fact that we all have our own kinks. I hear tell that dominant women are hard to come by or something. I think it’s the PVC corsets that scare most of us off.

Because acknowledging female desire and sexuality for the powerful thing that it is, and owning it, is still a dangerous and revolutionary act. Add kink to the equation, and fuggedaboudit.

All this comes, of course, from my 15 minutes of fame in Fleshbot, (thanks, AAG! I’ve been following you via RSS for months!) which shot my usually pokey number of visits through the roof. I find it amusing that a good number of people seem to have found my blog by searching for the keywords “enormous cocks,” and “femdom whore.” Given that my opinion of men with enormous cocks as a class is pretty low, and that I’m adamantly NOT a prodom (apologies to my sisters who make a living at that so-time-honored profession — I was making a point at the time), I doubt that the searchers found what they were looking for.

There is smut on this blog, though — plenty of it, even if it’s not really tagged properly. That’s really the point. Hot, sexy stories that are 100% true. As Urban Rogue said, “I think sex blogs are awesome because people can be themselves.” It’s often tempting to move into some idealized notion of what sex should be like, but ultimately, the honest experience of sexuality, warts and all, is much more compelling for me. And it also makes me feel like much less of a dork when I do things you don’t see in mainstream porn. Like, say, mark up a man’s bottom when I didn’t mean to, or let him accidentally slip out when we’re changing position. Or ::gasp:: fart during coitus. I mean, that NEVER happens, right?

I’d actually like to know what you all would like to hear about next. I mean, would you rather that I go on and on about what Bran and I did last night? It’s hot and all and we’ll do our best to keep it fresh for you, but I’ve got tons of stories from the past that are equally exciting. Like the first time I drank from the furry cup. Or my real first group experience (I lied when I said it was this one). Or one of my many, many heartbreaks. Or something else. I know I’m forgetting something. There’s been so very much sex. And learning about sex. I’d like to know what you want to hear.

May 28, 2008 at 1:03 pm 5 comments

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

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