Posts tagged ‘sex’

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

More

“I’m curious about which part of this you’re going to write about on your blog,” said Bran the other night as he was putting on his clothes.

It’s true that writing always involves selective description. Any art form, really, involves selective description. The photograph never looks as glorious as the sunset. The drawing never quite captures the sparkle of the glass itself. The painting never captures the exact line of the leaf, or curve of the land. Or curve of the hip.

And there’s no way I could capture the lovely, juicy, reassuring quality of that night. Wednesday night, yes, Wednesday, because on Tuesday, our regular night, I was still hip-deep in work. Which I won’t talk about here because, frankly, once the suit comes off, who cares?

And if I tried to capture everything we did, I think I’d just end up boring you. Who wants a laundry list of places we went or positions we tried? And who wants more lists anyway? That little trick is getting old and just seems to encourage bad, lazy writing.

This is turning into a post about writing instead of a post about what Bran and I did on Wednesday. And who wants to read that?

I know you’d rather hear about him disappearing while I was busy shoving a pill down my cat’s unwilling little throat. “I don’t want to see this,” he said. And left the room. My flat isn’t THAT big, so there were only a few other places he could have been. Once kitty’s dignity had been shredded, I went in search of him.

And found him in my messy bedroom (I did mention the hip-deep-in-work thing, and if you’re not a new viewer you’ll know I’m currently houseboyless), taking off the last of his clothes. Bran likes to get naked quickly. I like him naked, of course, but I do enjoy taking his clothes off myself. I love that tattoo in the center of his back. You’d never think of him as a tattoo kind of person, but there are lots of things you’d never think he’d be into or do. And does.

Like letting me hurt him.

As we spend more time together, as this evolves from a playmate sort of thing into something else, I find myself getting caught in the old gender role/relationship trap. Of wanting to give away my power. It’s partly gender-based, but I’ve done the same thing with women. Wednesday night, I was selfish. I had to force myself to be selfish. He was there, on all fours, on the bed (which is about one rambunctious fuck away from complete structural failure), and I was… what was I doing? There were my sharp little nails involved. I used my belt. And my hands. And I was careful, careful not to go too hard, at first or even after, because I know for him it’s not about the pain itself, it’s about doing something that he knows turns me on.

It’s so difficult to admit it, but yes, it turns me on.

“Do you like it when I hurt you?” I asked, after the fact, long after.

“Not as much as you like it,” he replied.

And there it is right there. So I can’t take pleasure in it the same way as I did with Ace, or would with a true pain slut — slut in the sense of someone who derives sexual pleasure from the noun or verb preceding. Slut. A word I’ve been meaning to write about. A word that needs to be reclaimed, like “bitch” or “dyke” or “cunt.” A powerful word, a word describing women’s power in particular, women’s power that has come to be shamed and labeled dangerous. Just imagine what would happen if every woman in the world owned her sluttiness? Society as we know it would end!

The word “sadist,” that’s a word I can’t say needs reclaiming. God, how can you ever want to take pride in hurting someone else? How can I say that I enjoy hurting other people? It’s more complicated than that, and it’s not. Yes, consensuality, yes, yes. But oh, the pain. The lovely pain and his reaction to it.

And I know myself the power and the pleasure and the all-mixed-up of bottoming, of taking pain for someone else. There was that time I actually came when he spanked me. Not just titillation but full-on orgasm. The kind you can’t mistake because there’s a mess and the sheets are soaked and my bedroom has that close, animal smell to it for days afterward. I took smacks harder than I ever might have. Sure, I used the safewords at first, asked him to slow down in a way that still allowed him to be in control, but then I took the hard smacks, took them for him. Took them for myself. To prove I was strong.

And male suffering, yes, it’s strong. Sexy. Beautiful. Bran is tough, has endurance and strength. When we wrestle, I know he’s careful with me, could probably always beat me — has more formal training — but I’m strong too, very strong, and happy to have found someone as strong as me. Someone who can put up a fight, can win.

And still gets on his back because I tell him to. Because I put the command in my voice. Still tells me when I ask him why I should suck his cock, knowing he’s straining for the feel of my mouth on him, “because it’s yours.”

Mine and not mine.

Another night, after I’d scratched him with my nails and bit him and maybe smacked him around a bit, I was on my back with him inside me, one of my favorite places to be, and he asked me (again), “You like hurting me?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh. You’re confused?” he said, and pinned my wrists to the bed and fucked me.

Yes. I’m often confused about that part of my sexuality. And about switching. Switching is confusing. But why should I be ashamed about being confused? Con-fused. Things that used to be separate, now put together.

I wasn’t confused on Wednesday night. Then, Bran was mine. Mine to order around. Mine to collar. Mine to send back down to my crotch for more cunnilingus, because I wasn’t done, because I wanted more. I’m often afraid to show him just how much more I want. But on Wednesday I let him see how powerful my orgasms can be — I know it’s not the first time he’s seen it, but the the old fear still comes back. I was afraid of Kristen’s orgasms sometimes, overwhelmed by them, and by Pura’s too. I still remember Kristen saying to me “I want more,” and wondering whether I’d ever be able to fill that hole of want. Why shouldn’t he be afraid of mine? The way I clamped around him and rode his hands and writhed and moaned and screamed. Who wouldn’t be afraid of that? Overwhelmed by it?

Who wouldn’t be afraid of anything as deep and powerful and neverending as sex?

There’s always more to want, more to try.

More.

May 16, 2008 at 5:02 pm Leave a comment

Backwards dialogue (and new means to orgasm)

-Thank you for being so kind to me.
-Thank you for letting me.

***

-You must know how sexy you look right now.
-No, I really don’t. But I feel sexy.

***

-I have a garter belt somewhere, too.
-I’m kind of digging this look right now.
-What, the knee socks? Look, they go up to my thighs.

***

-Oh, yes, rub your chin on my back. I love the way your stubble feels on my skin.

***

-Why are you getting me all excited just when you’re about to leave? This is an evil plot to get me to drive you to the T, isn’t it?
-I’m just enjoying myself.

***

-You’re fun to nap with, too.

***

-When I was spanking you and you started to squirt, that was so hot.
-I’ve never come that way before.

***

-Oh, god, please.
-Please what?
-Please…

***

-Have you been a good boy?
-I haven’t come for a week.
-I’ve been very naughty. I came in the shower the other day, so hard I had to press my face against the windowsill. I think the neighbors heard me.

***

-Do you like my new skirt?
-Yes. I like the way your thighs look when you bend over.
-Yeah?
-Yeah. And your ass. I like your ass in that skirt.
-What about it?
-It’s so round.

***

-But. I had all these plans! I was going to put the collar on you!
-I’ve had all the submission I can take for one night. You liked dinner, didn’t you?

April 29, 2008 at 4:28 pm 1 comment

When in doubt, lists are good (restoring my freaky cred)

Bran says he’s boring my readers, because no one has commented on the last two posts. “I think they’re only interested when you’re branding me or something.”

Which I haven’t actually done, of course. Although I do have to admit that the idea is appealing, in an entirely fantasy-never-gonna-happen-story-of-O kind of way.

But just in case my last few posts have been too mushy and tame, I present to you the following pieces of evidence that I am still a huge freak.

  1. I came on Bran’s face. I can’t entirely tell if he likes it, since there is usually some choking and coughing involved. I actually did this on our first date, and he told me via IM that he felt like we was drowning. The implication, however, was that it was not an unenjoyable experience.
  2. Ace will be gratified (he would be more so, perhaps, if he were still in receipt of my attentions) that I’ve come to appreciate the joys of fucking a man up the ass with a strap-on. It’s true. I really do get into this place where I’m going buck-wild, and excited, and energized, and very very in-the-moment. I love not only the power of it but the sensual joy. Sure, it’s an act of giving. That’s why I’m picky about who gets to feel my cock up their ass. But it’s hott. With an extra T. For hottness. Because I can spell.

    All sorts of things I was sort of uncomfortable about before no longer seem to bother me with Bran. Probably because it’s completely reciprocal. And even though I do have a very strong streak of the femdom, there’s a reason why I go by the handle Omnivore. I like reciprocity. Reciprocity is hott, with two T’s. Another thing that happened on our first date is that he licked my little anus all around with that wicked tongue of his and made it feel AWESOME. He’s also mastered the art of fucking my various orifices with his tongue: mouth (which can be sort of creepy and yet turning-on-y at the same time), cunt (heaven), ass (gunh).

    I’ve learned a technique for assuaging my concerns about e-coli infection as relates to anal play. You sort of check out the region with your fingers and nose and eyes first. If it’s all clear, then you can use your tongue. If not, there’s always gloves, which I absolutely love for anal play because cleanup is a breeze (just pull off, and all incidental poop is contained nicely in an inverted latex package). And if you can’t deal with a little poop, as the Midwest Teen Sex Show points out so lucidly, you’re not ready for anal sex.

    Later, after all the sex and in an attempt to make our time together something other than just a booty call (he did arrive before the 9:00 pm this-is-definitely-just-a-booty-call cutoff time), we lay on the couch and watched some anime.

    “Heh,” I said. “You fucked me up the ass.”
    “I did,” he replied. “You begged me to do it.”

  3. While I was fucking Bran up the ass with the littlest dildo from the Bend Over Beginner Kit, he said something that made me come all over his leg. I wish I could remember what it was. But coming while fucking him was pretty awesome.
  4. Later, he made me come again by saying in that wonderful forceful way of his that he was fucking me while I was tied up. I know the latest magazine articles say that women don’t really make tons of noise when they come, that we’re all concentrating on the sensation of coming and that you can tell because of the tightening of our vaginal walls, but I am in fact a screamer. And I came. Noisily. Gushily. I’m glad one of the comforters was between me and the mattress because I’m out of upholstery cleaner.

    Bran is so shy about tying me up. I had to beg him to do it, and sort of helped him along. But it’s true what one of my subs from last year had to say about bondage. It does sort of intensify the feeling — of intercourse, of orgasm. An extra frisson, a tension between what you want and what you can have. And, I suppose, there’s some sort of Freudian thing about security and being held tightly. I always get excited in the middle of sex with bondage and scrabble to get the bonds off so I can touch the man (or woman) fucking me. This time, when I tried, he pushed my hand away. Which was even hotter. And when I finally did get one wrist free he just pushed me down with those wonderful strong arms of his.

  5. He gave me a lovely spanking as well. I’m glad that he responds to feedback and direction. Not all of my lovers have had the emotional security to do so.
  6. I’m still in need of a good houseboy. The one I’ve got actually canceled on me last-minute so he could go do something involving the earning of money. Really, now, where are the boy’s priorities? As we discussed over lunch last week, it’s clear that he’s not really kinky. And the important learning I’ve gotten from his service is that you can’t instill kink any more than you can iron it out. I think he’d make a great personal assistant, but it’ll only work if the payoff for him is sufficient. This is where sub men once again prove their worthiness: sexuality, especially of the unfulfilled variety, can be a powerful motivator for service. ViciousWishes asked me some questions about protocol related to the search for and screening of a good houseboy. I’ll share those in a separate post. Once I’ve got some applicants, I know what to do. But for the time being, I’m stymied as to how to find new applicants. Craigslist has been the best source so far for potentials, but someone on Craigslist has decided I’m either a spambot or a whore and flags my posts within minutes of publication. This really irks me because it is the sexual exchange I’m seeking. My posts don’t belong in erotic services, dammit! Men who clean my house really do make me hot. And I want a man who gets hot cleaning house for me. Who enjoys pain. Ah, well. In the meantime, I’ll soldier on as best I can. And perhaps consider reactivating my profiles on Collarme and Bondage.com. Yawn.
  7. Chiquitita and I are still orbiting around one another. In an email this morning, she wrote “Rarely have I met someone whose every message to me would make me want to say ‘awwwww.'” Girls require more effort than boys, but the payoff is almost always worth it.

April 22, 2008 at 4:34 pm 7 comments

Bye bye pants

I am inordinately pleased with myself–and with Bran. A few weeks ago I was at his house when my jeans began to tear, just under my not-unsizable rump. He was being all grown-up and responsible and stuff, but when he saw the way the fabric revealed the backs of my thighs, he made that little half-gasp he does when something really turns him on.

“Oh, no,” he said. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to rip those off you, and you don’t have a replacement pair here.”

So the pants stayed on. Yesterday, though, I wore them out and about and felt them rip just a little bit more every time I bent over. When he came over last night and after the first round of hello-fucking, I slipped them back on, sans-panties. He’s a strong boy. And look what he did.




Later, he tied me up with the legs, while I was still technically wearing them.

April 21, 2008 at 6:47 pm 2 comments

Saturday night sex (plus: panties! on men!)

I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am with Bran. We’re settling into a bit of a regular pattern. No, let’s make that a definite regular pattern. It was Tuesdays for a while and then he slipped into Saturday evenings as well. Which may, in the long run, prove problematic as things progress with Chiquitita, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The hardest thing about polyamory? Fitting infinite sexual and relational possibilities into finite resources of time, space, and energy.

Regardless. In the present, he’s my Saturday date. Last Saturday evening he rang the bell right around 6pm, all of half an hour after I got home from a lovely salon of women artists. The day was pretty exhausting. But of course I was eager to see Bran. And after our initial exertions, I felt rejuvenated.

Okay. It’s a sex blog. You want details, I know. So the details, well, I’ll do my best, but to tell you the truth, after weeks and weeks of amazing sex, the sequence of events sort of blurs together. And I’m not sure that a catalog of sexual acts really makes for the most compelling reading. The fact that we were both exhausted — him from the last stretch of grad school exertions, me from pursuing my multiple non-sexxay interests — probably doesn’t help. But we do like to talk about it later on the phone. We live on opposite sides of town from each other. And while I live in a smallish city, schlepping across town can be a major pain in the tuckus. Especially during certain times of day. I’d never really gotten into phone sex before Bran, but it’s a fairly regular part of our interactions now.

So Saturday. The moment I kissed him as I let him in downstairs, I knew we weren’t going to get out of the house without taking our clothes off. His face was smooth — I’d made a point of telling him I wanted him to lick me on the phone, since it had been a while — and his breath was sweet. After a whole week of not seeing him, it felt good to hold him in my arms again. Later, I came all over that smooth face, and licked it off. But first, he did that thing with his tongue — must have been taking notes as I described how to find my shy little clit, and how I liked to be licked (with a hard, pointy tongue, and fast). Because I was screaming fairly soon, in the bedroom. He came hard and long and fast inside me, filled half the condom. Later, I came copious amounts, a veritable fountain. Before and after dinner. He was there above me, touching himself and saying in that wondering, admiring, encouraging voice, “look at you!”

This is all jumbled I know, but it’s how I remember it. Him taking his belt off, folding it in half, and smacking me once, hard, on the ass. I think my panties were gone by then. The ones with the frills around the edge. He’d finally brought back the pair he’d taken from me weeks ago, the purple ones with the black lace around the legs and “spoiled” written across the back. He came back wearing them under his cargo pants. They look very different on him than they do on me — if I may be so egotistical, I fill them out much more nicely.

Bitchy Jones has a lot to say about how annoying the whole sissification phenomenon is, and in general I have to agree with her. But I’ve come to realize that so much of whether I kink for something has to do with the intention behind the activity. See, Bran is undoubtedly a guy. Not super-macho in an annoying way, but most definitely a guy. In the same way, I’m very much a woman (although from the inside I’m aware of my two-spirit nature). When Bran wears my panties, it’s not because he wants to be humiliated into being a woman. It’s because… well, in his own words:

-It reminds me of how wet and open you get.

I remember going to his house one day and, as per usual, he sported a hard-on pretty much from the first kiss hello. Of course, bending over a bit on his bed probably helped encourage it — he does love my ass so. But we were both very hungry. In fact, you’ll notice a pattern of competing drives when we spend time together, often between food and sex. So I told him to put it away. I took the pair of black cotton panties he’d had under his pillow for a week and slipped them up over his legs, binding his hard cock nicely to his belly. Then, his boxers went over that and a pair of pants over that. Then we walked in the rain to Doyle’s and had lunch.

Later, I lay next to him on his bed, touching him and encouraging him to touch himself, telling him dirty stories, his cock and balls emerging from that black cotton binding, and flicked my tongue across his nipple while he came, long and hard, across his belly. He stayed there, up there, in that place where we stay after we’ve come.

“You don’t have to come down,” I said, holding him, rocking him, stroking him. “You can just stay up there.” And we floated there together, coming down to earth as delicate as a soap bubble.

April 15, 2008 at 4:42 pm 1 comment

Sex doesn’t kill, but sex addiction does

For the past three days I’ve woken from really violent dreams. This morning’s was the worst. You know how dreams are (at least if you’re a human being and not a spider or a spambot, you know how dreams are): they meander. They digress. They make sense in a completely nonsensical way and even the irrelevant bits are relevant. But for you, dear reader, I will place the camera around the dream’s most intense and stays-with-me moment:

I was in a whorehouse and became separated from my companion (he had echoes of Bran about him). The Madame mistook me for a new whore, and hustled me off to a room. There was a man there, a drug lord or gang leader, dark-skinned, lean, with a scar across his left eye. He had a whole posse of folks with him: lean, scary-looking men who began to shoot up on the floor of the room where I’d been placed. The bruises of their track marks stood out against their pale skin.

I kept trying to explain to the drug lord that I didn’t belong here, that I wasn’t one of the house’s whores, but he threatened me with a silver, double-pointed device that looked like a set of brass knuckles on steroids. When I still didn’t shut up he punched me in the eye. I fell to the floor, and one of his posse climbed on top of me. This was not fucking, this was not sex, it was rape — but for some reason, the initial moments of contact seemed erotic. When he spent quickly, though, and I saw from a distance the black eye I’d been given, it was as though a bubble burst. The horror of the situation descended on me then:that I, a woman, liberated, educated, intelligent, had been mistaken for a whore who could be used and beaten.

And it got worse. Laying in the wet spot of that last man’s jism, I saw an impossibly long line of men lined up to fuck me. Not to fuck me, but to rape me. Because there was no pleasure in it for me, I wasn’t really there for them. I was just a thing to be used, like the spoon and the needle and the match they’d all shared moments ago. And no matter how much I tried to convince them otherwise, they wouldn’t ever see me as a human being. In fact, the more I spoke the better the chances that they would hurt me more, give me another black eye, perhaps kill me and fuck my corpse.

The words “beaten and gang raped by junkies” can’t really begin to capture the complete and utter horror of the situation. I was in it. I wasn’t dreaming about it or reading about it on the news or hearing a woman in Iraq describe what happened to her. I was the woman.

In spite of the visceral quality of the dream, I saw most of it from a third-person sort of camera perspective. Just before waking, the camera moved to the door of the room, and down the hallway I saw Bran, oblivious. I was trying to call for him, but he couldn’t hear me. He couldn’t save me.

When I woke, I lay there in the bed still in the horror of the dream, still processing it. Realizing that, in addition to the burden of the experience, those men would probably have given me HIV, or possibly a pregnancy. Understanding for the first time, from the inside, how someone can go right out of their own heads instead of having to experience something like that. I also had a pounding headache; I’d been grinding my teeth hard. Now, 18 hours later, my jaw still hurts.

I discussed the dream with my sponsor. He’s technically my AA sponsor, but both of us deal with issues around food and sex and spending as well. And he made a suggestion about the meaning of the dream that rang true for me. The drug lord and his posse were my addiction. And no relationship, no person, can save me from my addictions.

I’ve confronted a personification of my addiction before, but she was small and skinny and spiky and fit easily into my right buttock. This thing, this horror happening in that room, this was something completely uncontrollable, much more sinister. It wanted to use me up, deny me all my humanity, and kill me if I tried to get it to stop.

It’s a good reminder from my subconscious that no matter how many 24 hours of sobriety I string together, that disease is still there, waiting for me to slip up.

I was going to mention the fourth-step work I’ve been doing for the past nine months or so, but when I tried to find a good link that explains Step Four, I couldn’t find anything worth linking to. It’s interesting to discover some bits of information that you still can’t find on Google. Ayurvedic information, for instance, is hard to come by. And nothing I came across even begins to approximate my personal experience of the 12-step programs. I know there’s some controversy about AA and its sister fellowships. Some people say it’s a cult (although how you can have a cult without a charismatic leader I don’t know), some people say it doesn’t work (I don’t know of any other program with a better success rate for keeping addicts clean and sober).

But I didn’t start this essay to try to convince anyone that AA works. If you want convincing, try attending an open meeting. Or not. The reason I wanted to write about this dream, and on this blog in particular, is because of one of the ways in which my addiction manifests itself: in sex and love addiction.

I’m fully aware that it’s paradoxical for a woman writing a blog all about sex (and love and truth and beauty) to identify herself as a sex and love addict. What I’ve come to realize, though, is that while all addictions spring from the same root, they do require different approaches for recovery. Staying clean and sober is hard, no doubt: if you doubt that, just look at the statistics. But once you put down drugs and alcohol, that’s it and that’s all. You can’t do that with food, money, or sex, though. These addictions require moderation, not total abstinence. If you stop eating altogether, that’s called anorexia. And, as I learned during a five-year dry marriage, if you stop having sex altogether, that’s called sexual anorexia. During those five years, I attended SLAA meetings regularly, and they helped me a lot. I got to collect all the shiny little chips saying that I’d not broken my bottom line, which at the time I defined as sex outside my committed relationship. But what about all the crazy drama and the getting kicked out of her house and going back to her and trying and trying to bend myself into pretzel shapes so she’d love me just the way I wanted to be loved? Where’s my chip for that?

When I left her, I went on a spree. There’s no other word for it. It was a fucking spree. Literally: a fucking spree. Thank the gods for Craigslist, because Craigslist gave me my freedom: a succession of short-term lovers, a new apartment, and a CD rack. I’m telling you, that CD rack saved my life.

In the past–the summer I came to realize I liked girls, actually–I had a similar succession of lovers and ended up feeling used and disgusted with myself. But when I left Angie, I didn’t feel like that. I felt free! I felt alive again, like a tulip bulb that had been slumbering for five years and finally burst forth into bloom.

There have been times since then that I’ve tried to use sex to make myself feel better, or to avoid feeling anything except orgasm. And when I do that, I usually end up feeling the same way as when I use chocolate cake to make myself feel better. Well, similarly. Sex doesn’t usually give me fuzzy teeth.

So I’ve had to set myself a different sort of bottom line:

1. I treat myself and my partners with dignity and respect
2. I’m honest

This might sound a little bit more abstract than “no sex except with so-and-so” or “no masturbation.” But, rather like the Wiccan Rede, it’s actually quite comprehensive. It means I can’t cheat on my partners or allow other people to cheat on their partners with me. It means I can’t treat another human being like a dopamine fix or a pacifier. It means I can’t put myself in dangerous situations just so I can get laid.

It’s a hard set of principles to follow, and I do it imperfectly.

But it’s still a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

April 7, 2008 at 2:14 am 4 comments

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