Absence makes the mind grow dirty

Stupid Bran has some stupid work stupidity that is keeping him from his primary purpose in life, which is to please me.

You would have been so proud of me on Saturday. After dinner I marched myself right off to my car instead of trying to distract him from his work. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way that he couldn’t bring himself to say “you have to leave now.” Instead, he said the other thing that will send anyone with an ounce of social skills out the door: “you can stay as long as you like.”

I’ve been enjoying some solitude. And some quality time with friends, the sunshine, the October colors, and a farmstand or two. My old roommate from Cambridge and I get together once every few weeks and I entertain her with outrageous stories. We both had a big long belly laugh at the offhand comment I made about Ace having an amazingly high tolerance for pain — sometimes I forget there is a whole world of people out there for whom pain is not part of courtship.

Silly people.

Recent coochie conditions have also contributed to a drop in the GOP (Gross Orgasm Product). But the antibiotics have begun to work and I woke this morning thinking about Bran. Specifically, Bran’s body. I began to treat it as a mindfulness exercise; a quiz to gauge the effectiveness of all my hours of study. The surprisingly soft feel of his short-cropped hair, indeterminate color between brown and grey. The crinkle of his eyes. The ski-jump of his nose. The scratch of his cheeks. Slightly irritated gasp he makes when I lick the smooth side of his neck. Moans that happen sometimes when I penetrate his ear with my tongue. Freckles on the shoulders.

The lovely shoulders I could spend hours looking at, touching. Perfect curves of the muscles, the way they bunch and relax. I could sink my teeth into them. Sometimes I do.

Particular scent of his underarms, light dusting of hair. Bran scent, better than anything to be had within a bottle. Simian arms, slightly longer than mine, perfect for climbing trees, walls, ladders. Perfect for twisting my right wrist behind my back and pressing my body to his own. Perfect for binding to the top of the bed.

This is where the fantasy kicks in. What I want to do to him.

I want to do to him.

Not to get even for that time I lay with my knees bent up onto the couch, because getting even implies revenge — and revenge is not something to seek for an enjoyable experience. But reciprocity is important. Keeping the balance of power is important. Equitable distribution and contribution of resources is important. I love laying back and being a pillow queen. And I also love the other thing. I want both/and the vanilla and the chocolate. And strawberry and pralines n’ cream as well.

So this is what I think about at 6:00 am, with both cats crying their early-morning duet of hunger:

He is naked. I am wearing my long black skirt, a turtleneck, brown tights and my brown high boots. I take the belt from my bathrobe and loop it over the hook on the back of my bedroom door, dangle it down the other side of the door. Close the door and make him hold the belt. I don’t tie him in. This is an exercise not in bondage but in discipline. In training. And following orders.

“Don’t let go of the tie,” I say.

With the door shut and his back to it, with his hands grasping the strip of terry cloth, his arms fold above his head. He is naked. Half-erect. It’s a bit chilly for him, but not for me because I am fully clothed. His nipples are two hard points. Because of the cold or because of something else.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t like to see my face when I hurt him. Why does he think I am going to hurt him?

Maybe because my riding crop, my little red whip with the feathers on the end, and a length of sailing line are lined up on the bookcase behind me.

“Open your eyes,” I say. I am standing right in front of him, my face inches from his. With the lift of my boots, I’m about half an inch taller than he is.

“No,” he says, but in that gasping way, the way he’s been saying it more and more often, which I don’t take seriously.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat. I take his face between my hands. His eyes are bright blue, worried. I kiss him on the lips.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to tell me. Bran is so much better at communicating without words than me. I know what he wants — or part of it, anyway. I am just tormenting him. Pushing him to the edge of his comfort zone. When he opens his mouth I push my tongue inside it, fuck him with my tongue for a moment. He begins to undulate — this is one of the things I love about Bran, his intense physical response to me. When we are sexual, he moves like a woman, if a woman had a man’s body.

“Hold still,” I say, and place my hands on his hips, which have begun to buck.

I slip a blindfold over his eyes. He doesn’t like it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.” Much.

I run my fingernails down the outside of his arms and the sides of his torso — gently, to create sensation, not to scratch. His reaction is instantaneous. He’s terribly ticklish.

“Ah-” I say. “Hold still.” In the same voice he uses on me. Daddy voice.

The fantasy dissolves right around here, into some biting, some teasing, as I try to drive him past his discipline. Ultimately I wouldn’t mind him throwing me to the bed and fucking my brains out. But it’s all just sex in the head. It doesn’t even really touch my body. I get up and feed the cats.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Switchy McSwitchster

I was on my back and he was above me. I like to be on my back. It’s the way I masturbate most of the time, and it’s comfortable and suits me when I want to be a pillow queen.

I reached up to lower the blinds, but he stopped me. “You don’t want your neighbors to see what a dirty slut you are?” he asked. And I thrilled.

He was wearing his boxers and his hard cock poked out of the hole. He shoved it into my hungry little mouth. I was wearing the panties he likes — the black hipsters with the little white ruffles around the edges. My hand slid inside, and I was slick, so slick down there.

“Can I come?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. God, No can be the sexiest word in the universe sometimes.

“Did you come?”

I had to tell the truth. “A little.”

And he looked at me all disappointed. Disappointed authoritarian. Can I use the word daddy without feeling weird about it?

I wanted him to spank me, punish me for coming without permission, but suggesting it would have ruined the dynamic. And when he’s on top, it’s about what he wants, the same way it’s about what I want when I’m on top — which is most of the time.

I like being under him, I like it when he pushes me down. Not all the time, but right then, yes, that was what I liked. I liked the way he fucked my mouth while I did my best to swirl my tongue around his cock, while I took him all the way in, to the back of my throat where he could make me choke and gag if he wanted, but he was so careful. I know he likes the feel of my lips around the base of his cock, the warmth and wetness of my mouth around him, the slight danger of my teeth.

I’m careful of him with my teeth and he’s careful of me with the gagging, so that when he fucks my mouth and I let him, get excited when he’s fucking my mouth, such a dirty thing, such a thing I’m not supposed to like but I do, partly out of a sort of sacrificial, suffer-for-him impulse, partly because it does feel good to fill my mouth with his cock, satisfies my hunger for him, when he’s fucking my mouth with that intense fast rhythm and I start to gag, he pulls back just a bit.

“Do you want to come?” he asked.

“I want to do whatever turns you on,” I said. “It’s all about what you want.”

I wanted so much. I wanted him to fuck me, to tie me to the bed, to spank me. But I was under. And I gave it to him, the power, the control. I could see he didn’t quite know what to do with it — no, he knew what to do, he’s a straight men, has fucked plenty of straight women, trained to be passive. He knows what to do, but for me to tell him like that, maybe it’s the same sort of fear-producing thing that happens when I know I have all the power and now what do I do with it? It’s all on me! It has to be perfect!

But the truth is, it doesn’t have to be perfect. The less-than-perfectness, the danger of them hurting you in way they don’t intend, that’s part of the rrrr.

And he did spank my thighs, tender and open. He spanked them well, building up, and I moaned and writhed beneath him and only once had to call Mercy, and he rubbed in the pain and kept going. And I liked it. I desired it and was so happy he gave it to me.

He told me he wanted me to come while he fucked my mouth. Which I was happy to do. On my back, him kneeling at my head next to the open window, the shades wide open, with the sun coming down and a light on somewhere in the house, so that if they wanted to, if they maybe had the binoculars or the telescope, some curious neighbor could look in and participate, partake and share of the hotness happening there in my bed.

I slid my finger inside my panties and sucked on his cock as he fucked my mouth, and I came, I did, I came all over the new duvet cover, through my panties, and I’m sure I screamed or yelled right around his cock, I’m sure he knew when I was coming but just in case I rolled to the side to show him the mess. He chided me gently for the mess. Maybe he said, “look at you,” in that admiring way. He loves to watch me come.

“Please come on my face,” I begged, as he worked his cock right next to my hungry mouth and my face, but I was still hungry for him.

“I want it in my mouth,” I said.

“Then you’d better hurry,” he said, on the edge of orgasm.

So I pushed his hand aside with my mouth and I was working his cock with my mouth when he began to come. I felt it building in the back of my throat, and always there the initial revulsion and then the decision to swallow, swallow it down. And I did, milking it all with the muscles of my throat as I felt him swooning above me, his own noises and his own face and I’d reached up my hand under his shirt and placed it flat against his chest, the right nipple, the one I like to pinch, hard, sometimes, to hear the gasp that follows.

But I don’t think I pinched him then. I think I was trying to be gentle and present to his coming, down my throat, accepting what he had to give me.

Neat and clean, swallowing the boy juice.

And pulling him down beside me afterward, to lay his head on my chest.

Afterward was when I pulled off the rest of my clothes, and gave myself a whore’s bath, and changed my panties. Afterward, we walked up and down the strip looking for a place to eat, enjoying the moonlight and the feel of the trees on the walking path in the dark, giving off their tree essence.

I didn’t tell him at the time (he’ll read it here, now), but his come on an empty stomach gave me a bit of a funny tummy. The salad later settled it, though, and the ginger ale.

And it was worth it.

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.

Finally, some smut for the femdoms by the femdoms

If you’ve spent more than five minutes reading the blog of any dominant woman, you’ve probably come across the complaint that femdom porn is almost exclusively directed toward submissive men. Cause, you know, dominant women only do it for the money. ::gag::

Hot Female Dominant Utopia aims to change that. Elizabeth is my new hero. Although Bitchy Jones will always have a special place in my heart.

From the latest chapter:

You must think of the night when you will hold your legs open for me and I mark your thighs with my crop. Think of the sting. Think of how hard it will be for you, untied, to hold your legs open as I hit your thighs time, after time, after time.

Do not stop. You must continue to stroke yourself. Imagine then that I make you ask for each mark of the crop. Understand that I now own your thighs, they are bought and paid for. They belong to me, as do you, wholly and completely. I will delight in making you open your legs for me so I may do what I will. Think how how wet this will make me. I will mark your thighs in red welts and then draw myself across the stripes, marking them again with my wetness.

I’ll be in my bunk.

I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 2 of 2)

I don’t remember exactly how we get from you across my lap to you on top of me on the sofa — you still naked, and me still clothed. I’m sure that it involves my bodily pulling you up and pushing you around, and I remember that at one point my head and shoulders are off the couch, and you wrap your arms around me to pull them up so you can keep kissing me. Your arms were one of the first things I noticed about you when I met you — I touched the tattoo on your right shoulder, and when I did, I felt the definition of the muscle. Even men who don’t pump iron have that definition, and it makes me jealous that, with all my time at the gym with the free weights, my arms will never look quite like that.

That’s why I like you above me, because it makes your muscles pop. And then you’re biting me, and pulling my hair, and I’m the one making the noises.

-You like it too, you say, delighted.
-Yes, I do. I like it.
-Do you want to be a slut for me?
-Yes, yes I do.
-What do you want to do for me?
-I want to suck your cock.
I can tell by your reaction (or lack) that this isn’t the right answer, but it’s the truth. And you tell me you’re too tired to top, which I’m fine with. It’s Friday night, far past the hour that would make this anything but a booty call, and we’ve both had long weeks. And now, with the spell broken, we stand up, and I tell you to put your underwear back on.

We spoon for a while in your bed. You’ve lit candles all over the house, and when you greeted me at the door I smelled your aftershave. These little preparations make me happy, say that you looked forward to seeing me enough to make these small gestures. We tell our stories in the bed, heads on shoulders, skin on skin. I love touching your skin, the feel of your chest hair under my cheek. We talk about our tragedies and our triumphs, our escape from failed relationships. I run my fingers over the tattoo of Ferdinand the Bull on your shoulder.

You’re not the one. Something you say, I can’t remember what, or maybe it’s the way you say it, makes me realize this. I see you clearly. I understand. I’m here for the sexing, for the companionship, but not for love. It won’t be love, not that kind of love, between us.

And I still want the sexing. Which is easy to do with you. You’ve told me the two things that will always get you in the right frame of mind. I pull your nipple ring, hard, and it changes your face. I slap your face, more lightly than I did the first time you asked, and your face goes slack, ecstatic, ready.

-What do you feel when I slap you?

You pause. I can’t describe the way your voice stops while you’re looking for the right words, but it’s one of the things I like about you. It’s evidence that you are a thinking person who cares about words.

-Anticipation. Surprise.

I wait. I know there’s more.

-It makes me… go deeper.

And I understand.

Later, I’ve taken off my shirt and bra and skirt, and I’m naked and you’re telling me that my body is beautiful. It blooms under your words. What do you love about it, I want to know. I can ask you these things because you’re my boy and you have to do what I tell you. It’s strong, you say, and you’re caressing me from hip to shoulder and then I’m turning on my stomach and you’re saying that I have a beautiful ass and you’re kissing it. My poor, maligned, neglected, fetishized, worshiped ass. It becomes beautiful under your praise and your hands and your kisses. I clench you between my cheeks, and I can tell by the sounds you make that you really like that. So do I.

Later, you’re kneeling at the end of the bed with the toes of my right foot in your mouth–that lovely, soft eager mouth of yours–and you’re rubbing yourself against my left foot. I can count on one hand the number of times my feet have been loved like this, and every time it’s turned me on. The last time we saw each other, you made me come just by licking my feet. You say that you want to come on my feet, but I won’t let you. I don’t want to let you come yet.

Later, you’re on your back with your legs open and I’m kneeling above you, teasing your ass through the fabric of your boxer briefs, rubbing the tip of your cock with my other hand.

-Would you like me to fuck you in the ass? I ask
-Yes, you say, in that way, that begging way, that open way.
-Why should I? Why should I waste my time?
-Because it would make me yours.

I thrill to hear that, even though I know I can’t own you, not really, can’t even keep you from sexing someone else.

Later, I’m saying nasty things to you and making you say them back to me, but differently, and the words get tangled up in your mouth and we both collapse in a fit of laughter.

Later, I ask if you want to kiss me on my mouth, and you say yes. I make you beg for it, and you do, so very prettily, as I sit with my back against the wall and you leaning toward me.
-Please, please, please let me kiss your mouth.
-No.
-Oh please, I want to kiss you.
-No.
-Please let me kiss you.
-No.
-Oh please I love your mouth you have such a beautiful mouth.
-No.
-Oh please, your mouth feels so good, I want to kiss it.
-No.
-Please please please I want to make you feel good too.

With each No, you push closer and my hands holding you away give a little more, and my No’s get weaker, until finally No turns to Yes. When I decide, when you’ve pleased me with your groveling, made me hot with it.

That kiss is amazing.

Later, I have you get three towels to cover the bed because it’s clear I’m on my way to coming, and it’s clear it’s going to be a gusher.

Later, you’re kissing my breasts and I’m rubbing my clit and we’re saying all kinds of nasty perverted things to each other I can’t even remember, because whatever it is that’s said is what makes me come finally, once with clenching, once with the burning in my ankles, and then I’m really coming, all over your bed, so hard that I can hear it. And when I do, I hear your own moans and I know I’ve found someone very special. You like it when I hurt you, and you love it when I come. You’re not afraid of me, of my hunger, of my push.

Later, you walk me to my car and kiss me in the empty street. I told you I wouldn’t call you, would wait to hear from you, because after almost a year of dating men I’ve remembered that they’re not like women. They have different rules. I know that you’ll call me, but I don’t know when, and when I drive away I know that the hell has begun:

the desire.
the waiting.
the remembering.
the letting go.
the moving on.

I write this all down so that I can let it go and get on with the rest of my life.

I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 1 of 2)

I slap your face and it changes. You go to that other place, the place where I can tell you to take your clothes off and you will, without hesitation. You grab the collar of your T-shirt and pull it over your head, unbuckle your belt, step out of your jeans and place them next to me on the couch.

-All of them, I tell you, and you look at me a question. We haven’t been naked together before. You haven’t been inside of me. You’ve never seen me with my pants off. Right now, I am fully clothed. But that’s the point. I want you naked in front of me, naked and on your knees. I know you’re eager to get there yourself, and that, in part, is what makes me hot. Hot, and scared. What do I do next? I wonder, as you look up at me, good boy, so naked and low and ready for me to do whatever I want to you.

Am I doing it right? I wonder, as I pull your belt from your pants, throw it across the room.

Earlier today, I told you I was going to beat you with your own belt, make you crawl naked across the room to pick it up and bring it back to me in your mouth. That is so sexy, you said, and even through the keyboard and the screen I felt the heat rising through my own body, a slow boil, my body burning and aroused and all alone on a chair before a computer. Yes. Yes it is, I said.

And now I’ve got your hair in my hands and I’m pulling your mouth toward my own, your mouth so eager and ready, so open and ready to please.

I pull you forward between my opened knees, your bare shoulders touching my thighs beneath my skirt, and I’ve got my hands on your back, and I’m raking my nails across your shoulders, up from your waist to your neck, and you make that noise, a hiss of inhaled breath and a moan together.

– Go get your belt, I say, and I don’t have to tell you to do it on your hands and knees. You crawl across the room to where I’ve thrown it and you pick it up with your teeth, carry it back to me, still with that look in your eyes that tells me you’re in that other place.

I take the belt from you.

-Good boy.
-Thank you. You say it with relief, the release of desire.

I should push you backward now, turn you to the side and stand above you so that I have the proper angle for the belt. But I like the feel of your bare skin against my thighs, your naked back stretched out before me like a promise and your head in my lap, where it belongs.

I slap the belt across your back, not particularly hard, but you cry out, and again that moment of fear — you’re not doing it right, he’s had better, it’s not good enough, you’re inept, you’re a terrible top, it’s no good — but I put that aside, push it down because there’s a wave that will carry me if I just keep going. You’re not a blank slate, you’re alive and so am I and what we are doing is perverted and wrong, but it brings us so much joy, so maybe it isn’t really.

So I beat you with your own belt, just like I promised you I would. I do it badly, ineptly, and you still like it. I put you over my knee, and with you over my knee I can’t resist spanking you with my open palm. I’m so wound up I smack you hard, very hard, and your reaction makes me realize it’s causing you pain, not the good kind of pain.

-Whoa, you say. You really go right to it.
-I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to warm you up first (and here I slap your bum lightly, repeatedly, delicious, remembering the delicious feel myself, how it softens you up, makes the nerve endings ready for the big, hard slaps to follow).

-But may it’s not about your pleasure, I say. Maybe it’s about what I want.

You moan as I say all this, and I’m spanking you at the same time, building up from soft to hard and then running my fingers over your warmed skin. That light touch on my own skin, red and warm and sentitized, always drives me wild.

-It was very selfish of you to think that this is about you, to expect me to be serving you, I say, and I’ve got your belt, and I’m using it on your back and you begin to undulate across my knee.

-I’m sorry.
-Why are you sorry?
-For being selfish, ma’am.

I love it when you call me ma’am.

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