Posts tagged ‘switching’

Rule one of assfucking

“Rule one of assfucking,” he said, “is that it has to come last.”

His belly was covered with his own come. I’d just come back from the bathroom, unhooked the harness, disposed of the condom from the newest addition to my pegging arsenal.* I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, even if he did have to request extra lube. I’d managed to get the damn apparatus on in a pretty reasonable time frame — the leather harness, even, which feels classier even if it is a bit more awkward to put on. And I’d been patient and…

…the feel of my finger in his ass. Hot. Warm. Close. Mine.

His ankles were on my shoulders, and I was leaning over him, trying to be gentle, to be sensitive, to be all the things men are supposed to be when they’re fucking a woman… and his ass, the feel of my being inside of him. Yes. Just as gorgeous as it ever was being inside a woman.

I wanted to fuck him face to face, even if it did feel awkward. I wanted to see his face, feel his skin against mine. I eased the head of my cock inside him, gentle, gentle, sway with the push, with the rhythm, with the in-and-out.

The leather straps around my thighs were loose.

I don’t think I asked him if I could go deeper — he’s always so considerate of that with me — I just pushed. Hoped for the best. His hands were on his cock, mine on either side of his head. Thrusting, regular, gentle now. Barely thrusting any amount of time before he said he was going to to come.

“Do you want to come? Go ahead and come,” I said, shoulders up high above him, hips down low between his legs.

“Oh, can I come?” he said, eyes closed. Face — beautiful agony.

“Yes, come,” I said. “Please come… COME!” And saw him spurt all over his belly, put my hand over his on his cock, wouldn’t let him go, licked his nipple, pushed him through his no’s, pushed him past the initial rush and into the aftershocks. Pushed through no to yes.

Rule number two of assfuckery: If you can’t take a little poop, then you shouldn’t be pegging. This is why latex — gloves and condoms — are as essential a part of assfuckery as lubrication. As is ready access to running water.

He was in no condition to fuck me after that. I do love him fucking me, but it was okay, really. Because I’d been feeling like a bad switch, been feeling like too much of a girly girl. Been going down easy and letting him do all the work. All the fucking.

I think all women should be expected to peg. I think it would give all those I’m-not-a-feminist-but-I-like-to-make-derisive-remarks-about-my-husband bitches some good food for thought. Fucking is hard work. Fucking well, paying attention to the needs and the pleasure of your partner, is even harder work. And men, frankly, even when you’re fucking them, aren’t nearly as demanding as women are. Women’s bodies — mine included — are like high-performance sports cars. They require constant tinkering and more than a touch of intuition to get them working properly. When they do, though, whoa. Men’s bodies respond well to tinkering, too, don’t get me wrong. But the ignition is usually pretty easy to find.

Eventually I broke out the Hitachi, and he and all my stuffed animals watched me moan and wail and mess up the sheets. It was what I wanted at that moment, even more than the burning-flight feel of him inside me, thrusting me into yes. I wanted his head in the crook my shoulder, watching me, admiring and unafraid, as I pushed my body into high gear, pushed it up and out, past no and yes and into pure sound. Into pure… something.

Some distant part of me still shrinks from letting him see me do that. From letting him see the deep and endless capacity for pleasure in my own body. But all he says is “you’re awesome.” All he says, later, is “I liked watching you come.”

And all I can say is… yes.

* I’m not getting paid to say this (I’m not even getting free sex toys for saying it), but I feel the need to tell all you dear readers that the Mistress Silicon Dildo is an excellent step up after the Bend Over Beginner kit. Once you’ve trained your victim’s partner’s sphincter to relax and let you in nice and easily, you’ll quickly become frustrated with the shortcomings of the ol’ fingers and other implements. Now I finally understand why gay men are such size queens! The nice thing about the Mistress, in addition to being the awesome product of a female-owned, sex-positive small business, is that aside from a semi-realistic head, it’s got a nice, medium-width, smooth shaft. Perfect for ass-fucking.

November 3, 2008 at 6:28 pm Leave a comment

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.

October 13, 2008 at 2:53 pm Leave a comment

The good, the hot, and the mushy

The good
Back when I was a wee recent college graduate (sans health insurance), I discovered one of the unsung consequences of sex with men: Urinary Tract Infections (UTIs). The standard medical treatment for a UTI is a short course of antibiotics. Which gets rid of the infection, but in the process also kills off all the helpful bacteria in your system which keep the yeasty beasties in check. Which means that the yeast colonies that live in, among other places, the hoo hoo, will run amuck. It can become an ugly, ugly cycle: UTI, yeast infection, UTI, yeast infection. Neither of which are good for the ol’ sex-with-men life.

Luckily for me, my post-college boyfriend was a total SNAG (Sensitive New-Age Guy), and he asked one of his exes, who worked as a midwife, if she knew of any herbal remedies that help with UTIs. Sure enough, she did. So the next time I got one, I took this little herb called Uva Ursi, and then I drank nettle tea for about a month. Eventually my body got back into whack.

SNAG-boyfriend and I also took the advice of the expensively-out-of-pocketedly-paid-for nurse practitioner I saw, and started making sure that (a) he was keeping this bits clean and (b) I was peeing right after penetrative sex. In fact, peeing after genital contact in genital general is a good idea. While stinky, urine is also antiseptic, and flushing the pipes right after messing around with the plumbing can get rid of any newly introduced bacteria and whatnot.

The hot
Bran laughed at me on Wednesday night. “You’re so predictable,” he said. But apparently he was better at predicting my behavior than I was. After dinner, we came back to his pad to find his living room full of dykes from Wellesley — lovely friends of his lovely roommate. Neither of us was in the mood to socialize though, so I found myself in the interesting position of nodding hello to my fellow Seven Sisters… Sisters and then following the straight white man into his room. I love my straight white man. Part of the reason I love him is because he’s friends with more dykes than I am. I’d like to think that I’ve come to terms with the whole identity-politics-angst bullshit that haunted me for most of my 20s. And I know I had a better time after I followed him into his bedroom than if I’d stayed out there to talk to a bunch of strangers.

This is not why he called me predictable, though. It was because, as we lay there very carefully not making any heavy-breathing-bouncy-bouncy-type noises in his bed (the only thing that separates Bran’s bedroom from the living room is a curtain and a pair of French doors), and as he turned off the light, and we both rolled over in unison and began to spoon, it occurred to me that the probability of my actually getting out of the bed had suddenly dropped to .00001. I’d had every intention of shrugging on my jacket, hoisting my bag, and heading out to my car for the long ride across town to the silence of my lonely room my own bed and my snuggly kitty cat. But then he turned off the light. And suddenly all my body wanted to do was sleep.

I did sleep over. I even used his toothbrush. And in the morning, I slipped out of bed around 5:00 am, just as the very first hint of light blue was beginning to rise through the night-blue sky. In the half-light and the silence, I slipped on my skirt, and my blouse, and was fumbling around for my socks. And then he reached over out of his dreams and pulled me back into the bed. I went willingly, kissed his scratchy face, his soft eyelids, rubbed my cheek against the smooth fur of his hair. Then I rose up on my knees, above him.

I began to stroke him, first his strong arms and shoulders — arms that reached up to me and touched me about the waist. He had a t-shirt on, but no boxers. I slipped my hand down past the hem of his T-shirt, to the soft spot where his belly joins his hips, and then traced the curve of his little boy-ass, down the backs of his thighs and his knees. His legs opened under my touch, his eyes closed. I held him in the palm of my hand. A precious bird, a rare mushroom, an egg.

He bloomed under my touch, moving gently from side to side, his cock swelling, his thighs luminous in the early dawn light, his face open and innocent and utterly mine in his sleep.

I slipped a hand up under his shirt to pinch one nipple, gently, gently–rrr. Difficult to do it gently.

And slipped off my blouse and straddled him, cupping his face (eyes still closed) between my breasts. Face to heart.

And stepped back, undid the zipper of my skirt, let it fall from my waist, and carefully placed it and my blouse atop my bag on the other side of the room, where they wouldn’t get wrinkled.

“What are you doing?” he said.

I didn’t answer. I straddled him, slid his hard cock into the slick fault line of my labia, enjoying the wet/hard/push/pull.

“Can you feel how wet I am?” I asked, knowing how he’d answer.

His cock, skin to skin with my cunt, slick and inviting. Leaning over him, I bumped my hips up and then back, and he was sliding into me.

“No,” he gasped, suddenly awake.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” and now his eyes were opening, worried.

“We’ve both been tested,” I said. “And I’m still bleeding. It’s all right. There are no eggs left. We won’t make a baby. It’s just… sport fucking.”

And I began to move, up and down against him.

What I hadn’t said was that I also had a sea sponge tampon inside me, which decreased the chances of any sperm actually sticking around, even on the off-chance that Ovum hadn’t yet left the building. And that woo-woo intuition part of me said that it had.

He relaxed into it, and then more than relaxed.

“I love… I love fucking you,” he said, in rhythm to our movements.

“Oh yeah? Why do you love fucking me?” I asked.

“Because I love you.”

It wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. It made me want to fuck him harder.

Which I did, and we made all the noises we’d been careful not to make the night before. Unashamed, I pulled my lips wide and worked my clit — hard — as he fucked me, as I fucked him. I came, or something approximately like coming anyway.

“Stand up and bend over the bed,” he said — suddenly, in my mind.

“No,” I said.

“Do it,” he said.

“Make me.”

He grabbed my wrist in a half-hearted attempt to wrestle, but then he used another, stronger lever.

“Do you want more cock?”

“Yes.” I was surprised to hear myself say it. But yes, yes I did.

“Then do it.”

I did. I stood up and placed my hands on the edge of the bed, bent over just as he ordered me to. He slid his cock, still hard, between my legs, then reached over and held a towel under my nose.

“What does it smell like?” he asked. It was damp.

“You,” I responded.

He dropped it to the floor, between my legs, and before I knew it — I didn’t think it would happen at all that morning, and certainly not so soon, I was coming, with his cock inside me and my finger on my clit, coming all down my legs and onto the towel. A pavlovian response.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes.”

“Did I tell you you could come?”

“No… I couldn’t help it.”

He continued to fuck me, told me to get my ass lower, he didn’t care how I did it, and I did, obeying him and loving every minute of it.

“Are you going to punish me for coming without permission?” I asked, working my pussy against his cock.

“You sound awfully confident for someone who’s getting fucked,” he replied.

And I thought of Bitchy Jones taking Jack’s voice and to my horror delight horror I found that I wanted Bran to take mine. I wanted to be… not the professional, competent, self-possessed, well-educated, eloquent, cerebral woman I am most of the time, but something else. Not self-possessed but possessed by another. Voiceless. To speak without voice. To not speak, to speak with the body. And I was silent. I bit the side of the mattress, I found myself growling.

He pulled out, sat on the side of the bed, leaned back. Winded, maybe — not physically, but winded.

I kneeled on the floor in front of him. I reached for his cock, still hard, with my lips. He pulled it out of reach.

“Not unless you want to,” he said.

I didn’t want to use my words. I wanted to show him. I whimpered.

Once again he prevented me from wrapping my lips around his cock.

“Not unless you want to,” he repeated.

And I knew then that I really wanted to. It wasn’t about him, his pleasure, it was about mine. Oh shame, shame! What will the Seven Sisters grads say! But it’s true, I loved to take him between my lips, and to taste myself on him, and to take him all the way down to the back of my throat. To have him fill that most hungry and forceful and overused of orifices.

“Watch what you do,” he said. And I knew he was close to coming. And I pulled up next to him on the bed, and pulled his hand to his cock, and stroked it along with him, our hands together, our bodies together.

“Please come,” I pleaded. “You’re so beautiful when you come.” And he did. And he was.

The mushy
So I came down with a UTI a couple days later. The fact that I was in a hurry and didn’t pee after sex probably had something to do with it. But I knew what to do, even though it hurt like the dickens, and now I’ve got enough uva ursi and nettle tea, plus a few other kinds of herbs (because you really can’t visit the bulk herb section of your favorite natural foods store and buy just one) and will probably float away any day now.

On Saturday we went for a long hike in the woods, which are still yellow but not yet orange-red, and had dinner at the Whole Foods hot- and cold-bar (it makes me homesick for New York). And watched a romantic comedy which I found annoyingly formulaic, although he pointed out the idiosyncracies of some of the characters.

“Given the fact that my parents will probably be divorcing in the next year, romantic comedies give me a hope for my own future,” he said as I pulled out of the parking lot of the theater.

“I’d say your future is looking pretty good,” I said. The fact that Bran’s parents are still together after forty years of marriage completely blows my mind. I wonder what my view of the world would be like if mine had stayed married. Well, if we’re talking about my parents, I’d probably be a serial killer right about now.

We didn’t have sex that night. Or in the morning. We had something far more intimate.

October 6, 2008 at 10:18 pm 3 comments

Good girl/bad girl

“Am I a good girl or a bad girl?”

“I don’t know. Which one do you want to be?” He’s like a tai ch’i master — he moves with the motion of the other, but always, ultimately, firm, in control. I want him to tell me. But I know which one I want to be.

“I want to be a good girl,” I say. And maybe this is why he doesn’t tie me down. Because good girls can keep still. I’m eager to please.

Being a good girl is hard, though. Bad girls get punished, but they also get restrained. They don’t have to restrain themselves.

Later, I’m talking to him on the phone about military service. “One of the reasons I didn’t join up is because I didn’t think I could cut it.”

“I think you could have.”

“Well, I don’t like taking orders.”

“Yes you do.”

He’s got me there.

September 19, 2008 at 1:38 pm Leave a comment

Just lay there

“Just lay there,” he says.

I am on my back, naked except for dark blue satin panties. I am laying on a blanket on the floor, knees bent and lower legs on the couch. He stands above me in his birthday suit, his cock erect.

It’s against my every instinct to just lay there. I pride myself on being an active participant. I look on women who just lay there with scorn. They’re a discredit to their sex. My desire (female desire) is strong and powerful, like the ocean — eternal, slow-moving. Bran’s desire is like an oak tree: strong, straight up and down, sustained. The ocean ebbs and flows with the moon. Oak trees grow, burst forth into bloom, die, and are reborn.

I lay there. Open. Exposed. Not helpless, but accepting. To accept a gift is to open yourself. To be vulnerable. I have issues with vulnerability.

But I know this man. This is a man I know. To be vulnerable with him is not the same as exposing myself to a stranger (like, say, hypothetically, some asshole multimedia designer I meet on Craigslist who orders me to strip and suck his cock while he’s fully clothed, zips up after half an hour, and asks me to drive him back downtown). I am safe with Bran. He’s been vetted and approved.

He leans over to kiss my lips, gentle kisses, mouth half-open, no tongue, butterfly kisses, again and again. I do my best to just lay there, to keep my hands above my head, my hips and torso still, my ankles and my knees together, bent above me.

And his kisses make me rise, like wind over water. Small sounds escape me, my body undulates of its own free will. Again and again I force my hands to lay still above my head, until I can’t stand it any more and I reach up to him. He takes my hands, gently, gently, and places them back above my head, holds them down. With love. I need him to hold me down. I want to be free within the circle of his arms.

September 16, 2008 at 11:21 am Leave a comment

Take it for me

“What’s your safe word?” I asked him. I’d wrestled one of his hands in the cuffs but not the other.

“I think you know when I don’t like it,” he replied. It’s true. I do. It’s just more work. It requires me to pay extra attention, to check in more often, to hold back… hmm, all the things I need to do with him anyway.

“Yes, I think I know,” I replied, and raked my fingernails down his side. He gave that “agh” that means pain and something else — something good. I kissed his face, his cheek, his nose, his eyes. I was straddling him. And I leaned over, pulled his other arm to the side of the bed where the other cuff is anchored to the leg of the bed frame. He resisted, his muscles bulging.

“Come on, be a good boy,” I said. “You know how much I like this.”

He struggled, and struggled, and I pulled on his arm, bore down on it with my whole weight, still he slipped and struggled out of my grasp. And then there was still the awkward business of fishing out the cuff on its tether from under the mattress, slipping his hand — fighting and clenched, still trying to break free — into the cuff. When I finally got the velcro closed I realized it was too tight, and I had to open it again, make sure I could slip a finger or two between the cuff and his wrist.

But oh, how it turns me on when he struggles. It’s hard to say which of us would really win in a fair fight. Probably him. But neither of us really wants to win, and that’s what makes it fun.

I had him strapped to my bed then, face-up. And I was kneeling over him and he was gasping and a bit afraid. He was doing this for me. Weeks before, he said he wasn’t sure that he’d ever let someone tie both of his hands. And here he was, for the second time, doing it for me. Not because he wanted it, but because I did.

I wanted him helpless on my bed. I wanted him to trust me enough to let me win the struggle as I forced his hands into the cuffs.

And I wanted to use the new toy I brought back from New York! I’d found it in a flea market, of all places. It’s a handmade flogger with short tails, made of very soft leather, with a puff of feathers on the other end. It’s lovely: red and white leather, braided around the handle, easy to hold, pretty to look at. A beginner’s toy. I’d slapped it against my forearm there at the vendor’s table, as hard as I could, and while it stung it was manageable. Unlike some of the subs I’ve played with, I don’t have a very high tolerance for pain. I’ve tried my favorite toy, the crop, on myself, and couldn’t believe how painful a single stroke of that thing can be. Hats off to the subs who can take ten or fifteen strokes from my crop, especially when I put my arm into it. Bran isn’t that kind of boy. I’d bought this whip with Bran in mind. An easy toy, fun for me, for the slap of the leather and the challenge of the aim, not too challenging for him.

I gave him a few strokes on his chest, not hard at all, and then one that slanted away further than I’d intended at the end. He gave out the bad kind of cry, and I crouched down, apologized, rubbed the spot with my hand, kissed his face, snuggled up against him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, and his eyes were shut and he was struggling against the cuffs. “Well, I do, but not like that. I only want to take you to the edge–” and here, I ran my fingernails along his side again, heard him gasp and snuggled against him. I licked his nipple, his extra-sensitive little nipple, softly, slowly, gently. Felt him moan in a different way. And then pinched the other one hard.

“See?” I said. “I only want to take you to the edge. Just to the edge, not over it.” And my hands were busy all over his body then, slapping gently with the whip, turning to stroke with the feathered end of the handle, stroking him gently, down his torso to his lovely thighs, then raking up the insides of his thighs, slapping his thighs with my hands one moment, stroking the next. Soft, then hard, and hard and hard and soft again, random and precise, paying attention to his breathing and his moans. I put my hand on his cock, stiff and exposed. I stroked it with my hand and stretched out next to him.

“Is it pain–” I pinched his nipple hard– “or is it pleasure–” I ran my hand down his stomach to his cock and stroked him lightly. “Which is it? Which is it?” I asked, alternating, again and again, whispering in his ear, licking it, biting it.

I slipped down to his lovely cock and slid my mouth around it. He was thrusting, uncontrollably, and I teased him with my mouth, taking only the tip, and then plunging it to the base. His moans, louder, turned to groans of pain when I let my teeth dig into the tender flesh of his shaft and head — just for a moment, just for a moment.

Back and forth I went, until he was incoherent, until he could barely speak.

“Take it,” I said. “You’re strong. Take it. Take it for me.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Tell me,” I said.

“I’m — taking — it — for you.”

“Why? Why are you?”

“Because…. unh… oh… because I want to be with you.”

I kissed him on the mouth then, full and strong, straddling him, rubbing myself against him.

“You’re so wet,” he said. “Oh, I can feel how wet you are.”

“Yes I am,” I said, sliding my slick outer lips around the shaft of his cock.

I made him beg me to put a condom on and fuck him, and he did, he begged so prettily. Bran, strong lovely Bran, in subspace, helpless, begging for me to take him inside me. And I did. Eventually. After I felt he’d begged sufficiently, after he’d pleased me with the abject begging — the same way I’ve begged for him.

I rolled the condom on slow, teased him with my mouth, and then eased on, slowly, slowly, ordered him to stay still, thrilling to his groans, his struggle to keep from thrusting his hips upward. I slipped onto his head and pulled myself off again, over and over, and he couldn’t even beg anymore, he was reduced to just guttural noises and moans. And then pushed down quick and hard, so he was all the way inside, so I could feel him against my sweet spot and he could feel me all around him.

“Is this what you wanted?” I said, knowing he couldn’t answer.

I rode him until I was tired of riding him, and then I leaned over and loosed one of his cuffs and he picked me up and threw me on my back and fucked me from above.

“Why did you let me go?” he said, as I fumbled with the other cuff. “Did you want me to get free? Did you want me to fuck you? And it was my turn to moan and writhe and not make sense, while he fucked me and smacked me around a bit and fucked me some more. “You’re like the earth,” he said.

And I was happy.

June 17, 2008 at 2:37 am 4 comments

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

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