Note: I've never been to the sort of event I'm describing here, more's the pity. I'm extrapolating from science fiction conventions I've been to, and things I've read. Hopefully I got it right, or at least close. Enjoy!
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"I'll give you $50," he said. "And my eternal gratitude."
This is dumb. I know it - hell, HE knows it. It's the sort of idea you see in bad romantic comedies - the kind where Pretty But Shy Girl pretends to be something completely different so she can win Handsome Suave Guy who, it turns out, was actually Nerdy Shy Guy doing the same thing. Where someone's always climbing out a bathrom window or unable to eat gourmet food without Amusing Mishaps.
I hate those movies. But I do like money. It can be exchanged for goods (like the new Guitar Hero) or services (like the car repair I've been putting off way, way too long).
I'm going to be so sorry.
"A hundred," I tell him, and wave away the protest. "I wouldn't even daydream about it for fifty. And you pay for my ticket, and any clothes, and dinner."
He whines and bitches, tries to bargain or argue me down, but in the end I get my way. It isn't like he's poor. I wouldn't say he makes more money than God, but I hear they go to the same parties. And for the service he's requesting, you need a high-priced 'escort' - hard to pull off the necessary visible affection and comfort level - or a kinky girlfriend - scratch that too. Or an old, old friend. A partner in crime.
We've been that for each other since high school. In and out of principal's offices together, fired from multiple minmum wage jobs together, there was even a single night in jail. Though technically, that one wasn't our fault. Technically.
"Let's see what you've already got that we can use," he says, and heads towards my bedroom full of drive and purpose. "Do you have a dog collar? Didn't you used to have a dog?"
...I'm going to be SO sorry.
********
What impresses me, right off the bat, is the hotel staff. A few leer, or glare disapprovingly, but mostly the faces above the uniforms show bland, unflinching boredom. "Not only have I seen this before," their eyes tell me, "I've cleaned up after it." For their sakes I hope these people tip well.
My friend, among other things, is a blogger. An amateur journalist, using the funds from his paying job to travel around, see bizarre and unusual things, and write about them on the Internet. Thus we are in this hotel, attending a function for which he required a suitably clothed and willing companion of the female persuasion.
It's a BDSM/fetish convention.
Now, I'm not really kinky, but I don't exactly revile this sort of thing, either. Grownups can do whatever they want. And I read the news, I stay up to date on stuff. But apparently this 'con' is in its sixth year here in the city where I reside and I'd never even heard of it.
Not sure what I expected, but this isn't it. A large percentage of the crowd is...well, normal. Not old and troll-like, not young and model perfect; just people, lots of jeans & t-shirts, some suits and pretty dresses, people smiling and walking comfortably alongside those who did dress up for the occasion. Lots of piercings (the good, piercing studio, taken-care-of sort), lots of collars, corsets, incredible boots. Latex and rubber and, wow, a few gas masks, that's interesting stuff, it looks very uncomfortable.
Devon, my friend with the $100, doesn't look bad; white t-shirt crisp and clean, leather pants, motorcycle boots with a silver chain. I very nearly match - but instead of boots I have 3" spike heels with an ankle strap, making me almost as tall as him, and a super tiny leather skirt, belly baring white tank top, and his leather jacket draped over my shoulders.
And a collar. I'd hoped he was joking. Then I'd hoped he'd give up when I told him my dog ("Missus Prinzee") had been a papillon and her collar (pink) would hardly fit my wrist, let alone my neck. But no, he remembered. And took me out to buy one. At least they're sort of a fashion mainstream now and we didn't have to go into a sex shop to get it; we went to Hot Topic. And he picked it out and made me try it on right there in the store in front of bored jaded teenagers with dyed hair. Put it on me himself, actually...standing close with his arms around my shoulders, hands under my hair buckling the leather snug around my throat, it was kind of...
Embarrasing. Yeah, it was totally embarrasing, all right.
So here I am tottering through the crowd on too-high heels with a collar around my throat and a red wig on my head. I insisted on that last. I'll do this, but I don't want anyone to know I did it, you know? I've already recognized one or two people from work. Not people I would have expected, either.
The hotel seems consumed with this crowd, overrun. Every other room on the first floor has a party or an exhibition. Devon wants to see everything, go everywhere, and this is why I'm along; some of those rooms won't let single guys in. And we know each other well enough to put on a good couple act. Holding hands, or just his arm around me, lightly touching my hip or the part of my waist that's exposed between top and skirt. The jacket is warm and smells a little smoky, a little woodsy, like his cologne.
One room has a rope tying/bondage demo and we stay there for maybe half an hour, watching pretty girls get tied up. Some are fully clothed and the ropes just go over everything; some are in their underwear, one or two daring ladies strip down for the crowd and wow, the guys doing the tying don't go to any effort at preserving their modesty. The girls all seem to enjoy it. One pretty caramel-skinned Latina with perfect handful breasts, wearing a white thong and nothing else, undergoes shibari - Japanese rope bondage - and it's like they're doing macrame with her as the centerpiece, as the ropes get tighter and more elaborate she gets more flushed, breathing harder, goosebumped; heavy-lidded eyes, pert little nipples sticking out, a damp patch making the thong nearly translucent. I'm transfixed. Wondering what the rope feels like against her skin; if it is more or less difficult to bear than the gaze of a roomful of strangers.
The nagging pressure at my side suddenly catches my attention and resolves into Devon, tugging at his jacket sleeve. "Next room," he says, then leans in close. "Are you ok? Want to take a break? We can get you a soda.."
"Uh. No. S'ok, I'm good," I tell him. "It's just a little warm with all these people around. Let's go, I want to, ah, see what's next."
He looks at me closely for another second, then shrugs and we're off.
There are room parties sponsored by businesses, one or two that make fetish clothing - all the latex and leather and rubber stuff. Devon tells me they hire people to wear their clothes in the room and serve drinks to whoever passes by, it's good advertising. I sip various candy-colored libations with high alcohol content while Devon talks to people in fantastic costumes, 'idle chatter' that's probably providing lots of great material for his blog.
Once, a man in a suit comes over and talks quietly to Devon for a moment. I think we're being thrown out, but they both look at me and smile. Approving smiles. Then Devon shakes his head, apologizing for something; the other man nods, accepting with good grace. They shake hands, and he vanishes back into the crowd.
As we move on (to what will turn out to be a room full of sex toys, including this black and red teeter-totter-like contraption with a dildo poking out the center that costs more than I make in a month...and we got to watch someone ride it, too), I ask what the gentleman wanted, and Devon looks down at me for a second with an odd smile.
"He wanted to know if I would share you," he tells me, and we walk on while I try not to choke on my drink. That man...that well-dressed, normal looking, salt-and-pepper haired gentleman assumed that Devon was my...I don't know...boyfriend, husband...owner? And asked him if he could...
"Wow," I manage to say after a few seconds.
Then there's the dildo room and I almost forget the guy. Toys! In colors! Everything from realistic, normal-sized, penis shaped, non-vibrate-y cocks to things that I don't think were actually seriously meant to fit inside any human body. And the teeter-totter. Shiny steel, something in a locked display case that I understand is *actually made of gold*, and some genuinely beautiful glass toys that I can't imagine lubing up to slide into myself. Except I can. Wow. Devon comes up behind me while I'm looking at those, and lets me know that, since they're made of Pyrex stuff, they can be warmed, or chilled, before use.
"They're a lot of fun, actually," he says, and smiles. And wanders off again while I'm getting dizzy thinking about slippery and hard and warm and cold...
I get my revenge a minute later, though, when I bring him over to look at the slender steel rods I've found. They're urethral sounds, and some of them can be electrified. I tell him this, gleefully, and watch his eyes cross a little at the thought.
"We're going to shop for a little while - about an hour from now there's an exhibition I really want to see," he says as we leave that room. "If you want to get a drink, or visit the facilities, now's the time."
The ladies' room is...interesting. While I'm washing up I notice the lady next to me is dressed in a conservative business suit and looking very nervous. "First time?" I ask her, and she blinks at me, very deer in the headlights.
"I'm on a business trip!" she tells me, sounding a little panicked. "I'm from Kansas! Nobody warned me! I would have stayed at the Motel Six if they'd just told me!"
Poor thing.
The merchant hall is huge, and packed. We wander around for the hour exploring everything; Devon asking hundreds of questions, chatting with the vendors and the customers, being personable and charming; I follow along, try to look decorative, remind myself that the $100 is for my car and not for shopping.
Not that I'd want any of this stuff. Though some of the t-shirts are awesome. There's a bumpersticker that says "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair."
Fifteen minutes to the exhibit, we leave the merchant hall; I'm carrying a big bag of Devon's stuff. He sits me down at a little table in the hotel bar, gets me a soda, and takes the bag. "I got a room upstairs," he tells me, "And I put the stuff from the car in it, in case you want to change before you go home. I'm gonna dump this up there too, and then I'll come back. Don't wander off."
"I won't," I promise. "I'm doing what you tell me tonight, yes?"
He stares at me for a moment, kind of odd. Distracted. Then he smiles, a confusing smile, so that I have to look away, have to try not to blush. I'm sure it's from the booze. Those candy things packed a punch.
Then he's gone. I try to look aloof, uninterested in the people who might be looking at me, might be thinking about coming over. I get some appreciative glances, but I'm left alone until Devon gets back.
"Ok, that's done," he says. "Whipping demo time!"
"What?" I say, sharply, but then we're moving and it's crowded and loud. And he wouldn't answer me anyway. Bastard.
The exhibition is in a small auditorium type room with a little stage at one end. There's some kind of metal stand up there, sturdy, almost 9' tall, all black and sinister. And we must be a few minutes late, because there's a guy onstage in just cargo pants, barefoot, long blonde ponytail, and he's chaining a petite girl to this thing by her wrists, pulling them up over her head. I try not to listen to the chain rattling while Devon and I find seats. He has a notepad, taking notes, watching avidly. I feel inclined to panic.
The blonde man gives a little introductory speech, tells us his helper's names, verifies that they're all eager volunteers. The chained girl's name is Julie and she smarts off a little to the guy, getting a big laugh. I guess she can get away with it considering what she's up there for.
Then blonde man has an implement, it's a long piece of stiff leather with a tag on the end, he says what it's called - I'll never be able to remember - and starts tapping the girl with it, very lightly. She's turned away so all we can see is her back, her round little ass, curvy thighs and her calves standing out a little because he's chained her up so high, she's on tip-toe. The leather taps against her calves, strokes up and down her inner thighs - and by the way she moves, it tickles a little. Blonde guy backs up a step, says something to her that I can't hear from where we are. Then his arm comes back, goes forward fast.
The noise makes me jump in my seat. Then *she* makes a noise, a long low moan...not a sound of displeasure, and I feel something electric go down my spine and into my belly. My toes curl in the shoes, my breath catches, and Devon looks over at me. He doesn't say anything.
Blonde guy beats the girl for maybe...five minutes? The whole hour? I can't remember. Varying strokes, across her ass, making it shake and leaving bright pink stripes. Up across her creamy pale back, down to torment the soft curvy thighs. Julie moans, whimpers, cries out, but doesn't try to avoid the stripes. Sometimes it seems like she's leaning into them.
Like she wants more.
I'm transfixed through the whole thing. Can't look away. Shivering a little each time the leather hits her skin. Devon's notepad lies forgotten on his thigh; he looks at the girl for a while, looks at me for a while, watching both of us.
After the first minute he leans in close to me, brushing wig strands away from my jaw with a finger so he can murmur right in my ear. "Listen to how the sound changes on different parts of her body," he tells me. "Listen to how her sounds change."
After the five minutes Julie is drooping in her bonds, and blonde man releases her, kisses her and helps her off the stage. Someone wraps her in a white terry robe and she waves at the audience before disappearing offstage, to much applause and whistling. "Painslut," someone says approvingly, and I have to close my eyes for a minute. Why is this happening?
The next one is another girl, tall and athletic, and she yelps loud and sharp every time she's hit, writhing. With her height they have to secure her differently, she looks almost crucified against the dark metal stand, and blonde man (and another guy, this one swarthy, bearded) take turns displaying how different striking implements work, how they sound, how to hit with them. Three or four different people - another woman, a couple men - are tied to the stand in turn, each treated differently, each waving from their white robe afterward.
Then the blonde man asks for volunteers.
I'm lost in my own head at this point, my whole body one big throbbing pulse. Even my fingertips and my feet feel hot. I need air. I'm about to ask Devon to take me outside when he leans close again, one hand on my upper thigh this time, and his skin is even hotter than mine.
"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" he asks me, in a very low direct voice. "Would you like to be up there? I could make that happen."
Yes! No. What?
And then, suddenly, I'm outside the hotel. It's dark, chilly - I think I dropped his jacket. It was too much, that's all. I pace a little, holding my elbows and breathing, and then Devon is walking up to me, slowly. Not coming too close.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."
That makes me laugh, because I don't know *what* I felt. "I don't..." I say, and stammer a little. "I'm confused."
"It's ok. It's been a long day." He holds out his jacket to me, still not coming close, giving me the option. "We can go get your clothes and take you back home. If you want we can save dinner for another day, too. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
"...it's ok." I try and smile, take the coat back and wrap it around myself. "But I am tired. Home sounds good."
He leads me back to the elevator, standing close, but not touching me; I miss the pressure of his arm across my back. Past the bar, and I see Julie sitting inside, sharing a drink with the blonde man. They look at each other like old lovers, comfortable, happy.
The elevator music is familiar. It nags at my head as we go up five floors. It's Aerosmith's "Pink." This surreal night is now complete.
Devon's room is small - well, he never intended to sleep here. Strictly a stuff-storing, clothes-changing room. My little duffel bag is on the bed, reassuringly normal, with TENNIS SHOES inside, oh thank you god. I crawl onto the coverlet after it. He can probably see my panties but I no longer care.
There's a single leather chair against the opposite wall and Devon sits there, watching as I struggle out of the heels. "I'm sorry again," he tells me. "I didn't mean for things to get that...intense."
I shrug. Trying not to think about it.
"If it's any consolation, you look particularly beautiful when you're all turned on like that."
...damn it. No. I do not want to feel that electricity now, I want it to be gone like the whipping post is gone, in my past. "Devon...don't..." I hear myself protest, and curse myself for it. It sounded weak.
"But it's true." He has that strange smile again, making me feel hunted. "The way you shivered when he was beating that girl...the look on your face when I told you someone asked to have you. You liked it."
I can't answer that, can't even look at him, and it isn't fair. This whole thing was his idea. I only came as a favor. It wasn't supposed to be about me at all, and now it is. I feel like crying. Or fucking. Or something.
"Come here," he says,
"No," I answer, but by the time I get the word out, I'm already off the bed. Barefoot and bare-shouldered with the collar a line of warmth around my neck. "This isn't supposed to be about me," I try to explain as my body moves itself across the room to him.
"I know. I didn't actually mean for it to go like this," he tells me gently, while he's reaching out to touch me, to slide his hands up and down my thighs, to the hem of the skirt and back. "But you got caught up in it and watching you get caught up in it like that, well. I'm going to do something, and then I'm going to take you home and leave you there all safe, and if you want to kick my ass tomorrow, I will present it for kicking."
"What..." I start to say, and he cuts me off.
"Kneel down for me, hon."
Another shudder through my body, this feeling that takes my brain away for a second, how does that work? It's never been like that before. And here I am on my knees in front of him. I'm lost. He could do anything he wanted with me right now. Part of me wants that.
He's leaning forward, looking right in my eyes. Cradling my face in one hand. "You've been drinking," he says, a little disappointed. "I'd never take real advantage of that. But we both need this right now. Close your eyes, pretty."
Everything is dark. His mouth brushes against mine, feather light.
"I've always wanted you," he whispers, and then we're kissing.
Part 2 forthcoming
28 November 2007
Meta: Style
So, now that I've been doing this for more than a month, and I've got more-than-ten stories...I think... I'm noticing a couple things.
I'm better at writing about things-I've-never-done than I thought I'd be. Comes from all the blog reading, I suppose. :P
I haven't written about anything that *doesn't* turn me on. Though, admittedly, that's not a big category. Anything other than extremely mild femdom, like in Bonbon (if that even counts), does nothing for me. Nothing wrong with it, just...wow, really not me. Exhibitionism and being publicly displayed is arousing, but only if I'm thinking of it in terms of someone else; I would *hate* being so displayed myself. In a real, screaming, hiding in a closet, hard-limit sort of hate.
I tend to not want to name my characters, or at least it doesn't seem to happen right away. Usually, if there's a name, it shows up somewhere in the middle and it's something very normal.
Titles usually come after the story is done. I have trouble with them. Except for 'Dichotomy'. That made me cackle as hard as the original idea did.
I start out writing by hand in a spiral notebook, but my hand gets tired (shush, perverts) and I usually finish them in Wordpad.
Sometimes they come as images (The girl in the leather chair in 'Bonbon'), sometimes as words (First sentence of the story I'm almost finished with and will be posting later this evening). Sometimes it's just a plot and the story gets written around it.
And finally...a month or more later...I'm still having fun. I've been reading blogs (and before that, fanfiction...) long enough to not obsess over whether or not I get comments, but I *do* check Statcounter.com every day to see what exotic locales I'm getting readers from. I have a regular in Kuala Lumpur, Kampuchea! Hello there! I don't know you, but you're awesome. Singapore, the Middle East, South America, and once somebody ran me through altavista.babelfish.com so they could read the site in Italian. \o/
And now, I'm off. I have a story to finish.
I'm better at writing about things-I've-never-done than I thought I'd be. Comes from all the blog reading, I suppose. :P
I haven't written about anything that *doesn't* turn me on. Though, admittedly, that's not a big category. Anything other than extremely mild femdom, like in Bonbon (if that even counts), does nothing for me. Nothing wrong with it, just...wow, really not me. Exhibitionism and being publicly displayed is arousing, but only if I'm thinking of it in terms of someone else; I would *hate* being so displayed myself. In a real, screaming, hiding in a closet, hard-limit sort of hate.
I tend to not want to name my characters, or at least it doesn't seem to happen right away. Usually, if there's a name, it shows up somewhere in the middle and it's something very normal.
Titles usually come after the story is done. I have trouble with them. Except for 'Dichotomy'. That made me cackle as hard as the original idea did.
I start out writing by hand in a spiral notebook, but my hand gets tired (shush, perverts) and I usually finish them in Wordpad.
Sometimes they come as images (The girl in the leather chair in 'Bonbon'), sometimes as words (First sentence of the story I'm almost finished with and will be posting later this evening). Sometimes it's just a plot and the story gets written around it.
And finally...a month or more later...I'm still having fun. I've been reading blogs (and before that, fanfiction...) long enough to not obsess over whether or not I get comments, but I *do* check Statcounter.com every day to see what exotic locales I'm getting readers from. I have a regular in Kuala Lumpur, Kampuchea! Hello there! I don't know you, but you're awesome. Singapore, the Middle East, South America, and once somebody ran me through altavista.babelfish.com so they could read the site in Italian. \o/
And now, I'm off. I have a story to finish.
27 November 2007
Sugasm #107
Sugasm #107
The best of this week's blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #108? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you're all set.
This Week's Picks
Half-Nekkid Blow Job
"We could hear people walking past and talking so they'd be able to hear us as well."
Masturbation on a Memory
"I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind."
Reality Check: Handling Long Calls
"While I get my share of quick cummer calls I have several clients that like to talk for hours."
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Christian Friis
Editor's Choice
A Non-Monogamy Lexicon
See also: Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Bad Girl
The Driving Lesson
The First Date part one
Flirt
Late Meeting
Night Call
Over the tub
Saturday night special
Sweet Dreams
Sex Advice
Bringing It Up Gracefully
I Don’t Need Porn, I Get Real Sex!
Prince Albert for thanksgiving
NSFW Pics & Videos
Aria Giovanni sexy video
Catalina loves her New Black Silk Corset and Boots
Pornsaint Popwhore
WebMistress Feature Gallery: Flirting with the Camera
BDSM & Fetish
Big Fun in a Small Space
Double Dip Part 2
I don't chase
Ideas of my own.
My Reformatory Birching
The Perfect Implement of Pain
Rope as a tool for Intimacy
She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile
YouPorn, MePorn
Sex News & Reviews
Fetish Film - Julie Simone's Diary Of A Submissive (Bondage, Spanking, Femdom)
Five Sips of Darkness
Special Discount for Our Naughty Friends!
Sex Poetry
Tulips… His lips… Her lips…
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Me and My Vagina
Oh..oh...oh! My orgasm- A User's Guide.
On Self Image and Confidence
An orgasm faker wannabe
Relationship Rules
Retail Therapy
Old Friends
It's almost three on a drizzly Tuesday afternoon; I'm early, but early is better than late. When I left work about an hour ago, my boss told me to have a good time. She thinks I've got a standing once-a-month dinner with my great-aunt. It's the only real scheduling concession I've ever asked for, so she's happy to let me go.
"Thanks! I always do," I told her. And it's the truth. Just...not the way she means it.
My 'appointment' is on the third floor of a nice apartment building uptown, where I am now standing, waiting for John to open his door. John is older, but not elderly, and certainly not a relative. Married, but not to me.
Sometimes I feel bad about that, though I take none of his money and hardly any of his time. That's probably not enough for absolution... but I've come to accept what I am. What I need.
Two, maybe three dozen times I've come here and I still get nervous, it's still a surprise when the door opens and there he is. Smiling blue eyes, shirtsleeves rolled up, a glass of wine for me. "You're a little early," he says. "Good girl."
I have occasionally contemplated having my name legally changed to "Good Girl", if it meant I could hear him saying the words more often. His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.
He takes my jacket and leads me into the apartment, into the dining room. Food is first, always light and delicious, something to keep our strength up. John and I really have known each other forever, he's been a friend of my family since before I came along to join it 20 years ago; my father's business partner. Every holiday he's at the table, every birthday party he's there with a tasteful gift. So there's plenty for us to talk about while we dine. Innocent conversation. As if neither of us had any idea, any intention of more wicked pursuits.
That's part of the foreplay, of course.
(Once, I grew frustrated with the pretense. I stopped eating in the middle of dessert, stood up, stripped down to stockings and panties right there, while he watched. Laid myself supine across the table, knees bent, shamelessly exposed, and slid two fingers between my legs. Writhing and shuddering and getting myself off right in front of him. He sat and watched without a sound, finished his wine, then pulled me off the table and onto my knees. Hands in my hair, pulling me down, making me suck his cock until he exploded...at least I knew he'd enjoyed the show. And after he came, wiped my mouth gently and sent me home frustrated and nearly in tears. The next time, I'd behaved myself impeccably, showing proper contrition, and we had a wonderful evening.)
Tonight we have salad - mesclun, baby spinach, red anjou pears, seared steak perfectly rare - and appropriate wine, followed by strawberries with black pepper and balsamic vinegar. Brandy, after. We clear the table together in companionable silence.
He guides me into the bedroom, one hand at my lower back, like a gentleman.
Strange, how everything here is light and clean. Ivory linen, blonde wood, brass, porcelain. Simple straightforward lines. On the wall over the bed, an O'Keefe, as tall as I am and blazing black and scarlet, catching the eye with shocking, sensual colors.
The poppy is his favorite, he told me once.
We have a routine for this too, a ritual - distancing ourselves from the world outside, from who we are to each other there. Though sometimes I think the ritual only exists so he can violate it - lulling me into complacency until the door closes and we are in his territory. A few times he's caught me out that way and those sessions leave me shaking, speechless, ripped out of myself, rugburned and sore for days.
I couldn't bear it every time. But every once in a while...I need it that way; and he always seems to know, even when I don't.
Today there is no interruption - no sudden pulling at my hair, no rough words. He sits at the edge of the bed and watches me undress. Any lingerie (he's partial to stockings, and old-fashioned lace) is my own, clothes and shoes bought myself; I won't let him buy me those things. He always compliments me on my choices. This time it's all black silk, and I can tell he approves.
"I had that color in mind," he says. "But take everything off for now. Shoes as well. We'll put you in something else."
Naked, I cross the room to stand between his legs, and lean down for our kiss. This is the promise, the seal of our covenant; that I will give myself to him, that he will take good care of me.
It's the last thing we do as equals.
As soon as our mouths part he touches me, cupping my breasts, taking both rosy nipples between his fingers and squeezing hard. Pressure that makes my knees weaken, sets me on fire, a slow molten burn straight down into my groin. Imagine taking a swallow of hot cocoa, just barely below the scalding point; the way it feels, first stinging the mouth, then sinking into you, deep behind your breastbone and descending. It's like that. Right away I'm in that other place, the endorphin junkie submissive place, getting wet and dizzy. When he lets go I have to stop myself pleading for more.
He leaves me by the side of the bed, my hands clasped behind me, demure. Heels together, breathing hard. I hear his keys rattle, hear the cedar chest open behind me. I'm not supposed to look; just trust, and anticipate, and fear. He always shows pity, though, and blindfolds me first, soft leather pads over the eyes, buckled behind my head. So I won't be tempted to peek, to commit Psyche's sin.
First blind, then mute; the ball gag stretching my mouth open wide, filling me perfectly, tightened securely but not to the point of discomfort. Plugs in my ears to muffle all sound, and that's something he's only taken from me once or twice before. Tenderly he gathers up my hair into a ponytail, neat and out of the way.
I stand untouched, waiting, and the seconds stretch out interminably. There's very little rational thought left to me; everything's off balance, out of phase. I remember the first time he had me like this, how I cried behind the blindfold and came when his fingers delicately stroked once over my clit; so lost...so found.
Sensation, his hands on me again, at last; wrapping something around my waist, my chest. I smell leather and feel its soft smoothness against my skin, inhale deeply and hold while he laces me into the corset. It cradles me, confines me, but leaves my breasts exposed. Then the long gloves, lacing tightly all the way up my arms. Boots the same, his careful hands steadying me as I step into them, smoothing the kidskin up my thighs and fastening them as tight as the other garments. Each part of this process takes me a little further away, ritualistically dehumanizing me, turning me from a self-assured professional woman to a pretty, helpless doll. My body feels compressed, blood pounding through arms and legs, even my breathing controlled, made shallow at his whim. By contrast my breasts, belly, sex feel exposed, superbly tender and sensitive; he brushes his fingertips across my left hip and I almost moan behind the gag.
The liberation in this perversity is astounding.
He binds my hands behind me, tight, wrist to elbow, the position pressing my chest outward; then I am guided foward, lifted onto the bed...on my knees...shoulders pushed down, a soft pillow beneath me, a position of helpless subservience. I can see myself in my mind and the depravity of the image is breathtaking, black leather and pale flesh, my legs spread obscenely wide, dripping cunt glistening, open.
Behind me, he raises my ankles - one, then the other - and fastens them somehow to my thighs. A rigid bar between my knees, keeping me open and immobile. There is no Kirsten anymore; she's been subsumed into this living toy, John's doll, a whimpering shuddering thing displayed for his pleasure.
He may be taking photographs. It would not be the first time, and the knowledge that I have no choice, no chance to object, only adds to the fire. My pulse pounds in my head like a bass drum, overwhelming.
Hands slide over my skin. I must assume they are his. Delicate, long-fingered, caressing my ass, tickling along the backs of my thighs until I buck and squirm.
Then - cold, oh god...something hard, slick, cold against my labia, sliding back and forth ever so lightly, pressed over my aching clit for a shocking moment - then back - teasing over my pussy, back and forth, so cold against my heat, until he moves it back even further and I feel the object pressing into my ass. Slow, implacable, stretching and pushing and sliding into me - no pause for my whimpers and cries, just cold and thick, a long undulating shape pushed in and in until the widest point slips past and the oblong base netles snug between my cheeks. He caresses me, letting me settle, almost relaxing - comparatively - then the base is in his fingers again and he slowly fucks my ass with whatever toy this is, its shape stretching me again and again, oh god it feels so dirty, so cold, and I'm crying for him and pushing back, trying to take more, wanting only more fullness, more sensation.
And he takes it away. For a moment I'm empty, and it's almost unbearable. I would accept anything now, punishment, pain; just not empiness, not to be left here with no contact, trapped in my flesh.
He never makes me wait long. After the chill of that first penetration the throbbing heat of his cock sliding into my ass is an intense shock. I'm already stretched, slick with lube, and he fills me easily - though, oh, he's thicker than the toy was, he feels enormous and hot, and it's so good when he starts to fuck me - one or two slow strokes to make sure I'm ready - and then he takes his pleasure with me, his rough dirty pleasure, one hand wrapped around my bound forearms for leverage, pulling me back onto him. The slap of our bodies must be filling the room, the sound of my gutteral cries muffled through the gag, and I can feel myself dripping wet, stuffed full over and over, until his hand tightens on my arm and he throbs inside me, pushing in hard, filling me with hot, sticky come.
Using me. Like I should be used.
***
Eventually, after more play...after punishment and pleasure, he lets me climax. Forces it on me, really, with the damned Hitachi that I love and hate so much, dragging come after hard, bucking come out of me until I can't even moan anymore. Then the soft damp cloth against my flushed exhausted skin, wiping me clean, and all the laces undone, the swooning head-rush of my altered bloodflow finding its equilibrium again. John strokes my hair and tells me what a good girl I am, good girl, his very best girl.
I always knew, always, that I needed something, that I wasn't complete. I never realized it would be this, or that John would be my saviour, my protector. Everything I struggle with is easier, every burden lightened. Every destructive impulse burned out in the intensity of our sex.
Would it work for everyone? Oh, most likely not. I doubt any psychiatrist would approve. Certainly most people would find this sluttish depravity damning.
But for me...it's salvation.
"Thanks! I always do," I told her. And it's the truth. Just...not the way she means it.
My 'appointment' is on the third floor of a nice apartment building uptown, where I am now standing, waiting for John to open his door. John is older, but not elderly, and certainly not a relative. Married, but not to me.
Sometimes I feel bad about that, though I take none of his money and hardly any of his time. That's probably not enough for absolution... but I've come to accept what I am. What I need.
Two, maybe three dozen times I've come here and I still get nervous, it's still a surprise when the door opens and there he is. Smiling blue eyes, shirtsleeves rolled up, a glass of wine for me. "You're a little early," he says. "Good girl."
I have occasionally contemplated having my name legally changed to "Good Girl", if it meant I could hear him saying the words more often. His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.
He takes my jacket and leads me into the apartment, into the dining room. Food is first, always light and delicious, something to keep our strength up. John and I really have known each other forever, he's been a friend of my family since before I came along to join it 20 years ago; my father's business partner. Every holiday he's at the table, every birthday party he's there with a tasteful gift. So there's plenty for us to talk about while we dine. Innocent conversation. As if neither of us had any idea, any intention of more wicked pursuits.
That's part of the foreplay, of course.
(Once, I grew frustrated with the pretense. I stopped eating in the middle of dessert, stood up, stripped down to stockings and panties right there, while he watched. Laid myself supine across the table, knees bent, shamelessly exposed, and slid two fingers between my legs. Writhing and shuddering and getting myself off right in front of him. He sat and watched without a sound, finished his wine, then pulled me off the table and onto my knees. Hands in my hair, pulling me down, making me suck his cock until he exploded...at least I knew he'd enjoyed the show. And after he came, wiped my mouth gently and sent me home frustrated and nearly in tears. The next time, I'd behaved myself impeccably, showing proper contrition, and we had a wonderful evening.)
Tonight we have salad - mesclun, baby spinach, red anjou pears, seared steak perfectly rare - and appropriate wine, followed by strawberries with black pepper and balsamic vinegar. Brandy, after. We clear the table together in companionable silence.
He guides me into the bedroom, one hand at my lower back, like a gentleman.
Strange, how everything here is light and clean. Ivory linen, blonde wood, brass, porcelain. Simple straightforward lines. On the wall over the bed, an O'Keefe, as tall as I am and blazing black and scarlet, catching the eye with shocking, sensual colors.
The poppy is his favorite, he told me once.
We have a routine for this too, a ritual - distancing ourselves from the world outside, from who we are to each other there. Though sometimes I think the ritual only exists so he can violate it - lulling me into complacency until the door closes and we are in his territory. A few times he's caught me out that way and those sessions leave me shaking, speechless, ripped out of myself, rugburned and sore for days.
I couldn't bear it every time. But every once in a while...I need it that way; and he always seems to know, even when I don't.
Today there is no interruption - no sudden pulling at my hair, no rough words. He sits at the edge of the bed and watches me undress. Any lingerie (he's partial to stockings, and old-fashioned lace) is my own, clothes and shoes bought myself; I won't let him buy me those things. He always compliments me on my choices. This time it's all black silk, and I can tell he approves.
"I had that color in mind," he says. "But take everything off for now. Shoes as well. We'll put you in something else."
Naked, I cross the room to stand between his legs, and lean down for our kiss. This is the promise, the seal of our covenant; that I will give myself to him, that he will take good care of me.
It's the last thing we do as equals.
As soon as our mouths part he touches me, cupping my breasts, taking both rosy nipples between his fingers and squeezing hard. Pressure that makes my knees weaken, sets me on fire, a slow molten burn straight down into my groin. Imagine taking a swallow of hot cocoa, just barely below the scalding point; the way it feels, first stinging the mouth, then sinking into you, deep behind your breastbone and descending. It's like that. Right away I'm in that other place, the endorphin junkie submissive place, getting wet and dizzy. When he lets go I have to stop myself pleading for more.
He leaves me by the side of the bed, my hands clasped behind me, demure. Heels together, breathing hard. I hear his keys rattle, hear the cedar chest open behind me. I'm not supposed to look; just trust, and anticipate, and fear. He always shows pity, though, and blindfolds me first, soft leather pads over the eyes, buckled behind my head. So I won't be tempted to peek, to commit Psyche's sin.
First blind, then mute; the ball gag stretching my mouth open wide, filling me perfectly, tightened securely but not to the point of discomfort. Plugs in my ears to muffle all sound, and that's something he's only taken from me once or twice before. Tenderly he gathers up my hair into a ponytail, neat and out of the way.
I stand untouched, waiting, and the seconds stretch out interminably. There's very little rational thought left to me; everything's off balance, out of phase. I remember the first time he had me like this, how I cried behind the blindfold and came when his fingers delicately stroked once over my clit; so lost...so found.
Sensation, his hands on me again, at last; wrapping something around my waist, my chest. I smell leather and feel its soft smoothness against my skin, inhale deeply and hold while he laces me into the corset. It cradles me, confines me, but leaves my breasts exposed. Then the long gloves, lacing tightly all the way up my arms. Boots the same, his careful hands steadying me as I step into them, smoothing the kidskin up my thighs and fastening them as tight as the other garments. Each part of this process takes me a little further away, ritualistically dehumanizing me, turning me from a self-assured professional woman to a pretty, helpless doll. My body feels compressed, blood pounding through arms and legs, even my breathing controlled, made shallow at his whim. By contrast my breasts, belly, sex feel exposed, superbly tender and sensitive; he brushes his fingertips across my left hip and I almost moan behind the gag.
The liberation in this perversity is astounding.
He binds my hands behind me, tight, wrist to elbow, the position pressing my chest outward; then I am guided foward, lifted onto the bed...on my knees...shoulders pushed down, a soft pillow beneath me, a position of helpless subservience. I can see myself in my mind and the depravity of the image is breathtaking, black leather and pale flesh, my legs spread obscenely wide, dripping cunt glistening, open.
Behind me, he raises my ankles - one, then the other - and fastens them somehow to my thighs. A rigid bar between my knees, keeping me open and immobile. There is no Kirsten anymore; she's been subsumed into this living toy, John's doll, a whimpering shuddering thing displayed for his pleasure.
He may be taking photographs. It would not be the first time, and the knowledge that I have no choice, no chance to object, only adds to the fire. My pulse pounds in my head like a bass drum, overwhelming.
Hands slide over my skin. I must assume they are his. Delicate, long-fingered, caressing my ass, tickling along the backs of my thighs until I buck and squirm.
Then - cold, oh god...something hard, slick, cold against my labia, sliding back and forth ever so lightly, pressed over my aching clit for a shocking moment - then back - teasing over my pussy, back and forth, so cold against my heat, until he moves it back even further and I feel the object pressing into my ass. Slow, implacable, stretching and pushing and sliding into me - no pause for my whimpers and cries, just cold and thick, a long undulating shape pushed in and in until the widest point slips past and the oblong base netles snug between my cheeks. He caresses me, letting me settle, almost relaxing - comparatively - then the base is in his fingers again and he slowly fucks my ass with whatever toy this is, its shape stretching me again and again, oh god it feels so dirty, so cold, and I'm crying for him and pushing back, trying to take more, wanting only more fullness, more sensation.
And he takes it away. For a moment I'm empty, and it's almost unbearable. I would accept anything now, punishment, pain; just not empiness, not to be left here with no contact, trapped in my flesh.
He never makes me wait long. After the chill of that first penetration the throbbing heat of his cock sliding into my ass is an intense shock. I'm already stretched, slick with lube, and he fills me easily - though, oh, he's thicker than the toy was, he feels enormous and hot, and it's so good when he starts to fuck me - one or two slow strokes to make sure I'm ready - and then he takes his pleasure with me, his rough dirty pleasure, one hand wrapped around my bound forearms for leverage, pulling me back onto him. The slap of our bodies must be filling the room, the sound of my gutteral cries muffled through the gag, and I can feel myself dripping wet, stuffed full over and over, until his hand tightens on my arm and he throbs inside me, pushing in hard, filling me with hot, sticky come.
Using me. Like I should be used.
***
Eventually, after more play...after punishment and pleasure, he lets me climax. Forces it on me, really, with the damned Hitachi that I love and hate so much, dragging come after hard, bucking come out of me until I can't even moan anymore. Then the soft damp cloth against my flushed exhausted skin, wiping me clean, and all the laces undone, the swooning head-rush of my altered bloodflow finding its equilibrium again. John strokes my hair and tells me what a good girl I am, good girl, his very best girl.
I always knew, always, that I needed something, that I wasn't complete. I never realized it would be this, or that John would be my saviour, my protector. Everything I struggle with is easier, every burden lightened. Every destructive impulse burned out in the intensity of our sex.
Would it work for everyone? Oh, most likely not. I doubt any psychiatrist would approve. Certainly most people would find this sluttish depravity damning.
But for me...it's salvation.
23 November 2007
21 November 2007
j'adore SUGASM #106
The best of this week's blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #107? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you're all set.
This Week's Picks
5 Advanced Deep Throat Techniques
"Suck your man's penis into your throat, and, while it is deep in, start to hum."
MILF = Men I'd Like to Fuck
"He knows my body p e r f e c t l y and knows exactly how to make me squirm with pleasure and always knows the right thing to say."
Reconciling Desire & Reality (part 2)
"The excitement of sharing her, the excitement of my arousal THEORETICALLY should mean a heightening of our own sex life."
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Our fearless leader tells me he's crazy busy so I'm presenting one from the vaults.
The Six Types of Porn Movie (and How To Get Into Them)
Editor’s Choice
Primed
See also: Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Sex News & Reviews
The End of the Mile-High Club
Fetish Film - Squealer (BSDM, Master, Shibari)
My controversial, nipple-baring Dirty Girls book cover
NEW Culture Shocking Designs!
Sex Toy Review: Mini Bullet One Touch Vibrator
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Am I born as a Whore?
Floral HNT
He's Horny and She's Easy
The Humble Handjob
I'll assume i'm on the naughty list
Minus One
Obsessive Compulsive Slut
Re-discovering myself
So, doc, when can we...
Virgin Extraordinaire
Sex Poetry
Now and Zen
BDSM & Fetish
The **** machine
Erotica: Mind Games
Generic Pussy?
Get the contract signed- part two: vital lessons
Just a Few Naked Pics of Amy's Perfect Body
Naked Service
What a Saturday
What is a Daddy Dom? Pt. 2
Sex Advice
Six ways from Sunday - Cowgirl (reversed or otherwise)
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Bad Girl
Betrayal
Dark Cold Moons
Dichotomy
Halloween
Icing on the Cake
Like Me
The Main Course
Multi-tasking
Second Time Around
Sex Party in the Hood
Stressed Wanking
Sex Humor
Fuck'n Fun
Untitled No. 1
Sex Work
Reality Check: Eating Food
NSFW Pics & Videos
Day trip to porno town
Hannah Hilton Sexy Bikini pics
Lisa wants a spanking
Sanctum
Self-portrait in Boots
A Hot Femdom / Slave Boy Strap-On Scene
14 November 2007
Dichotomy
Writing this made me think of the Pizza Girl character in J. Jaqcues' fantastic webcomic, Questionable Content. None of these characters are based on those and the situation is not one that would likely ever occur in that universe. I just thought I'd give 'em a plug since, you know, QC rocks.
Enjoy!
*************************
Start with hot water.
One of the best parts of growing up is being able to buy things on a whim. No need to ask or explain. So, a clawfoot tub deep enough to really soak myself - and a friend, if necessary - wasn't something I strictly needed. No matter. I wanted it and I got it.
It's the first day of my vacation and everything's arranged, bags packed for the airport tomorrow, reservations confirmed. Sunset played its last few notes and sank behind the skyline almost half an hour ago. All my phones - house, work cell, personal cell - have been turned off. No television chatter, no email chime from the laptop, no PDA, no more anything requiring thought. Just hot, jasmine-scented water; the tub three-quarters full and steaming aromatically in the candlelit master bath, mirrors fogging, something quiet and instrumental on the CD player.
And a knock at the door.
One does not, after all, engineer such an intricately simple evening only to ruin it by cooking.
***
It is fucking cold. I am fucking tired. Mother fucking, cocksmoking Jimmy Vae is making me cover his shift while he goes to a gig with his, get this, Vietnamese punk band.
(It's worse than it sounds. I know it sounds bad, but trust me. WORSE.)
My feet hurt, my ass hurts from the damned broken scooter seat, my last 3 stops didn't tip for shit and my last stop of all is in a fucking skyscraper. Floor 23. I hate heights, I hate winter, I hate this lousy job, I really (really really) hate Vietnamese punk music, and most of all I hate that fucking airwaste Jimmy Vae.
The elevator sways. I pretend just as hard as I can that it isn't.
Long, long hallway with expensive paintings on the walls, real plants in pots by each door. Plush. I'm leaving melty slushy bootprints behind me and I take stubborn pleasure in that. Rich people don't tip. Rich people especially don't tip skinny twentysomething girls with no tits, short hair, too many piercings. At least the night's almost over.
I knock on the door and hope his pizza is cold.
But when the door opens, it isn't a guy. It's a girl. No, it's a woman.
No. A woman.
I rattle off her order & total, running on autopilot, trying not to be too obvious about scoping her out. No tip is one thing, getting jumped by security in the lobby for ogling the rich & famous is another. And she's almost enough to make the rest of the night worthwhile.
Late 30's...maybe early 40's. In shape but not with that scary plastic surgery/gym addict look some older women get. Curvy. Black, black, black hair piled on her head, pinned out of the way but not really done - kind of artless, a few curls hanging down. It looks long. Like it would come down to her waist in back.
Short silk robe, lemon chiffon colored, long long stretch of leg underneath, full breasts, I can smell her jasmine perfume from here, and when she hands me the money I drop it like an idiot. Fucking christ.
I babble out an apology and drop to one knee in the doorway, combing dimes out of the thick carpet, trying not to look up. She laughs, really quiet, and kneels down to help me chase my money.
**********
I had honestly been planning a serene, solitary evening at home. It would have been a time to recharge, to renew my energy, to let go of work and the real world. The adventure was supposed to begin tomorrow, at the airport.
But sometimes you can find adventure at your front door, if you want to.
The girl is adorable. Honestly pretty under the clothes and the attitude, but those things do more to highlight her delicacy than to hide them. Young, tall, slender, almost angular; her mouth full and innocent of lipstick, her eyes lined a sticky liquorice black. Close-cropped blonde hair that I'm already considering running my fingers through.
I think I'm making her nervous. Good.
We kneel together on the soft carpet, gathering the fallen money, and when I hand it back to her I cradle her hands in mine for a moment, holding her still. "No wonder - your hands are freezing, poor thing," I tell her, and stroke them a little, letting my fingertips travel up to her wrist and back. Horribly unfair of me. She won't look up - so young, trying so hard to look brave.
I want to put another look in her eyes.
***********
Her hands are so warm, a soft heat that just sets me on fire everywhere. I've been turned on before - fucked plenty of pretty girls my own age, being bi is like the big thing now, every little freshman chick wants to get down. But this is different, this is new. When she stands up the robe shifts, flashing a creamy pale stretch of inner thigh; I want to force her back, pin her down, bite and kiss and lick and devour.
I'm still kneeling, looking up; she's standing, looking down and smiling. She knows.
"Are you in, or out?" she asks, kind of playfully impatient, like you'd talk to a cat that wouldn't make up its mind. A recalcitrant pussy. Turning, walking away from me into the apartment, leaving me on my knees in the open doorway, and as she walks - a barefoot, hip-rolling sway - the robe slides slowly down her back until only her hips are covered. There's a tattoo. Crimson flowers, hibiscus maybe, from the nape of her neck twining down all the way to the small of her back.
I have never stood up so fast in my entire life.
***********
She closes the door carefully...doesn't let it slam. Good girl. I hear her boots in the hallway, following, hunting me.
Seconds later I can feel her right behind me. I saw the lust in her eyes, before - so raw, powerful, masculine hunger tempered only a little with her insecurity, her youth. Soon she'll be reassured.
We're in the sitting room now, soft light and soft furniture. I reach the center of the room and turn, naked to the waist, feeling how the aroused flush has travelled over my skin, making my nipples hard, beginning that wonderful slick feeling between my thighs. I love being exposed.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Dora," she says. So quiet. She's standing very still, with a hunter's focused intent; staring at me. One or two steps and I'm right there in her personal space, right in front of her, smiling up into her pretty grey eyes, gone dark with arousal right now.
"Dora, would you like to have me?" I ask her, just as quietly. Holding her gaze. "I know that you would."
"You want me to?" she says, low-voiced. Eager. "Have you. Any way I want."
Closing my eyes, slowly, deliberately, on a long inhale, that deep tension growing, the last few moments at the very top of the rollercoaster. "Oh yes," I tell her, and take that last step forward, pressing the length of my body against hers. Feeling her slender, firm, trembling with lust for me. "I do want you to...please?"
Gently I press my mouth against the sharp line of her collarbone, and taste her skin.
********
We're on the floor. I don't remember pulling us down to the floor, but here we are. I'm still clothed, still in my fucking boots of all things, but it doesn't matter, because she's underneath me, lush and hot and bare with the robe fallen open; we are kissing, have been kissing for who knows how long, these incredible deep, wet, mindbending kisses. I pull her tongue into my mouth, bite down - not too hard, just teasing - and she moans helplessly, her body twisting under me, I made her do that.
So many things I'm going to make her do.
I've got my legs spread wide, knees jammed into the carpet, holding her thighs open around mine. It's good to be tall. One hand to support myself, the other free to slide across her body. Cupping her breasts, gently kneading - no silicone, so soft and perfect in my hand, the nipples large and firm and perfect for playing with, and when I do that, she whines. Right into my mouth. Incredible. We're both panting.
I let my hand slide lower, across her gently rounded belly, fingertips dipping into her navel just for a second before passing by. Curving down, short soft fur against my palm, and slick, hot, soft...gliding fingertips just between her lips, all the way down and then back up to hover over her clit. Then again.
She breaks the kiss, letting her head fall back onto the thick carpet. "Please..." she moans, begging. This beautiful woman is begging me to play with her. To take, to have. No need to ask or explain.
I'm absolutely on fire.
"Say that again," I growl against the side of her neck, in between little nibbling kisses that are slowly ramping up to be hard, biting, sucking kisses. "Beg me again."
"Oh please - please Dora..."
She sounds so lost, breathy...when I look, her eyes are wide and dark, her pretty face all flushed, all that long hair falling out of its pins around her on the carpet. Oh, she wants it so bad...
Gently, so gently, I spread her open, getting my fingertips nice and wet. Slippery. Then moving up, slowly up, until I feel her round swollen little clit under my fingers, till I feel the pulsing of her heart through her sex.
Now, she can have what she wants.
I feel elevated, indulgent, strong...watching her bite her full lower lip, writhe and buck under my touch. There's something about taking this beautiful, elegant woman and turning her into, well...
"Look at this," I whisper to her in counterpoint to my fingers sliding back and forth over her clit, finding her rythm, pushing her higher. "Such a pretty lady in such a pretty, fancy place, and here you are on the carpet getting screwed by a stranger."
She closes her eyes, turns her face away, but her body is still rocking with mine. Her heels digging into the carpet, helping her move. Breath getting faster and faster, and the little noises she's making, kitten mewls.. so fucking hot.
"Gonna come for me?" I ask her, and turn my wrist a little. Sliding two long fingers deep inside, where she is velvet soft and furnace hot, trying to keep my thumb against her clit while I...yeah...fuck her. It takes coordination, but I've had practice.
Anyway, it doesn't take long.
**********
For a while, everything is dark and hazy. The world has been wrapped in cotton and packed away, waiting for my body to stop throbbing, for my breath to slow. It's wonderful.
Eventually, though, I come back to myself. Dora is beside me, sitting crosslegged on the carpet, watching me and nibbling on her fingertip. That was just inside me, I think, and shiver. She's absolutely delightful.
Catlike, deliberate, I stretch out, arching my back against the carpet. Her silence changes, becoming watchful and predatory. That's a good game, one I can play.
I roll onto my belly, then to hands and knees, and crawl to my lover, moving sinuously...letting her watch. Leaving the robe behind on the floor. Slowly I come to her and move into her body, nuzzling, curling naked into her lap. Looking up at her with big innocent eyes.
"Thank you," I say, and she grins. It's unexpectedly infectious, and suddenly we're laughing together.
I reach up and trail a finger along her row of silver earrings, the metal cold and slick under my skin. "I've had mine..." I tell her, in a Very Serious Voice. "Now, young lady, I believe it's time for you to have yours."
First, the boots. I kneel in front of her, sitting back on my heels, and take one of her legs in my hands. Playing the good little geisha. I can tell that she's enjoying it. While I'm carefully unlacing, she slips out of her t-shirt - wasn't there a jacket? I don't remember when that came off - and sits barechested, her breasts small and white, perfect pink nipples with a little silver bar through each one.
Boots set aside, I push her legs apart, lean over and unbuckle the wide leather belt. Jeans underneath, that's easy, and plain white panties under that. Her skin, the angular grace of her body, are making me warm again, and I take every opportunity to touch, with fingertips or palms or the backs of my hands. She's silent as I work, breathing slow and deep. Watching.
Finally, the clothes are gone and we are exposed to each other. She's lovely. Sitting with knees bent, apart so I can see every inch of her, arms resting on her knees with false casualness. Her fingertips are twitching a little.
I let my hand rest against her ankle, sliding up slowly to her knee. "Smooth," I murmur, and smile. She's a little ticklish behind the knee, but I leave it alone...maybe later. "You're smooth all over."
Leaning forward, silent, she presses her mouth to mine. A slow deep kiss, not as rapacious as before, but still I feel her need, her tension. The soft, almost subsonic moan, the nip at my lower lip as I pull away. The hand at the back of my neck, long fingers curling gently into my hair.
We look at each other for a long moment; then she presses against the back of my head, pulling me in close, and low. "Do it," she hisses, and oh, I have no objection at all.
Her cunt is neat, shaven, another tiny piercing through the hood of her clit, and soaking wet everywhere. Gentle at first, I lick at her, tasting and exploring, letting my body slide down to lie curled on the floor between her thighs. Sliding my arms around her hips, feeling her tugging urgently at my hair.
She doesn't want gentle. Doesn't want slow. If she was a man she would be deep in my throat right now, holding my head and fucking into me, making me take it...the thought makes me whine, and I bury my face into her, just as eager for it as she is.
She curses and rocks and I rock with her, riding every hip thrust and every wracking shudder, until she comes. Her body goes tense and hard, like marble, she stutters and goes silent, and I open my eyes, watching over the flat plane of her stomach, watching until she cries out like a child and goes limp. Hands sliding away from me to fall beside her.
Perfect.
******
I'd have probably kicked me out afterwards, but we spend the whole evening hanging out. Sitting naked together on her expensive rug, drinking champagne - who actually has champagne just sitting around? - and eating pizza right out of the box. We talk, and it's nice.
After, there's this huge bathtub, it's insane. Big enough for both of us. I get to wash her all over, and it's great, she feels incredible all soft and lush and slick with soap. She calls me a tomcat and shows me where I scratched her upper back, when she was eating me. I guess I should be sorry; instead I feel pleased, kind of proud. Here's this beautiful expensive person and I've left my mark on her.
But she's got a plane to catch tomorrow, and I figure that's that. We exchange numbers, but I won't call. There's a class barrier, no matter what tonight was like, she won't want some scruffy little dyke tagging along at her heels, screwing up business lunches.
I go home. The apartment is empty. Jimmy calls, to tell me how the gig went; I tell him to fuck himself, and his bandmembers, and whatever else he can fit up his enormous ass besides his head, and I tell him a few other things too, and then I hang up on him.
...and a week and a half later, she calls.
Enjoy!
*************************
Start with hot water.
One of the best parts of growing up is being able to buy things on a whim. No need to ask or explain. So, a clawfoot tub deep enough to really soak myself - and a friend, if necessary - wasn't something I strictly needed. No matter. I wanted it and I got it.
It's the first day of my vacation and everything's arranged, bags packed for the airport tomorrow, reservations confirmed. Sunset played its last few notes and sank behind the skyline almost half an hour ago. All my phones - house, work cell, personal cell - have been turned off. No television chatter, no email chime from the laptop, no PDA, no more anything requiring thought. Just hot, jasmine-scented water; the tub three-quarters full and steaming aromatically in the candlelit master bath, mirrors fogging, something quiet and instrumental on the CD player.
And a knock at the door.
One does not, after all, engineer such an intricately simple evening only to ruin it by cooking.
***
It is fucking cold. I am fucking tired. Mother fucking, cocksmoking Jimmy Vae is making me cover his shift while he goes to a gig with his, get this, Vietnamese punk band.
(It's worse than it sounds. I know it sounds bad, but trust me. WORSE.)
My feet hurt, my ass hurts from the damned broken scooter seat, my last 3 stops didn't tip for shit and my last stop of all is in a fucking skyscraper. Floor 23. I hate heights, I hate winter, I hate this lousy job, I really (really really) hate Vietnamese punk music, and most of all I hate that fucking airwaste Jimmy Vae.
The elevator sways. I pretend just as hard as I can that it isn't.
Long, long hallway with expensive paintings on the walls, real plants in pots by each door. Plush. I'm leaving melty slushy bootprints behind me and I take stubborn pleasure in that. Rich people don't tip. Rich people especially don't tip skinny twentysomething girls with no tits, short hair, too many piercings. At least the night's almost over.
I knock on the door and hope his pizza is cold.
But when the door opens, it isn't a guy. It's a girl. No, it's a woman.
No. A woman.
I rattle off her order & total, running on autopilot, trying not to be too obvious about scoping her out. No tip is one thing, getting jumped by security in the lobby for ogling the rich & famous is another. And she's almost enough to make the rest of the night worthwhile.
Late 30's...maybe early 40's. In shape but not with that scary plastic surgery/gym addict look some older women get. Curvy. Black, black, black hair piled on her head, pinned out of the way but not really done - kind of artless, a few curls hanging down. It looks long. Like it would come down to her waist in back.
Short silk robe, lemon chiffon colored, long long stretch of leg underneath, full breasts, I can smell her jasmine perfume from here, and when she hands me the money I drop it like an idiot. Fucking christ.
I babble out an apology and drop to one knee in the doorway, combing dimes out of the thick carpet, trying not to look up. She laughs, really quiet, and kneels down to help me chase my money.
**********
I had honestly been planning a serene, solitary evening at home. It would have been a time to recharge, to renew my energy, to let go of work and the real world. The adventure was supposed to begin tomorrow, at the airport.
But sometimes you can find adventure at your front door, if you want to.
The girl is adorable. Honestly pretty under the clothes and the attitude, but those things do more to highlight her delicacy than to hide them. Young, tall, slender, almost angular; her mouth full and innocent of lipstick, her eyes lined a sticky liquorice black. Close-cropped blonde hair that I'm already considering running my fingers through.
I think I'm making her nervous. Good.
We kneel together on the soft carpet, gathering the fallen money, and when I hand it back to her I cradle her hands in mine for a moment, holding her still. "No wonder - your hands are freezing, poor thing," I tell her, and stroke them a little, letting my fingertips travel up to her wrist and back. Horribly unfair of me. She won't look up - so young, trying so hard to look brave.
I want to put another look in her eyes.
***********
Her hands are so warm, a soft heat that just sets me on fire everywhere. I've been turned on before - fucked plenty of pretty girls my own age, being bi is like the big thing now, every little freshman chick wants to get down. But this is different, this is new. When she stands up the robe shifts, flashing a creamy pale stretch of inner thigh; I want to force her back, pin her down, bite and kiss and lick and devour.
I'm still kneeling, looking up; she's standing, looking down and smiling. She knows.
"Are you in, or out?" she asks, kind of playfully impatient, like you'd talk to a cat that wouldn't make up its mind. A recalcitrant pussy. Turning, walking away from me into the apartment, leaving me on my knees in the open doorway, and as she walks - a barefoot, hip-rolling sway - the robe slides slowly down her back until only her hips are covered. There's a tattoo. Crimson flowers, hibiscus maybe, from the nape of her neck twining down all the way to the small of her back.
I have never stood up so fast in my entire life.
***********
She closes the door carefully...doesn't let it slam. Good girl. I hear her boots in the hallway, following, hunting me.
Seconds later I can feel her right behind me. I saw the lust in her eyes, before - so raw, powerful, masculine hunger tempered only a little with her insecurity, her youth. Soon she'll be reassured.
We're in the sitting room now, soft light and soft furniture. I reach the center of the room and turn, naked to the waist, feeling how the aroused flush has travelled over my skin, making my nipples hard, beginning that wonderful slick feeling between my thighs. I love being exposed.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Dora," she says. So quiet. She's standing very still, with a hunter's focused intent; staring at me. One or two steps and I'm right there in her personal space, right in front of her, smiling up into her pretty grey eyes, gone dark with arousal right now.
"Dora, would you like to have me?" I ask her, just as quietly. Holding her gaze. "I know that you would."
"You want me to?" she says, low-voiced. Eager. "Have you. Any way I want."
Closing my eyes, slowly, deliberately, on a long inhale, that deep tension growing, the last few moments at the very top of the rollercoaster. "Oh yes," I tell her, and take that last step forward, pressing the length of my body against hers. Feeling her slender, firm, trembling with lust for me. "I do want you to...please?"
Gently I press my mouth against the sharp line of her collarbone, and taste her skin.
********
We're on the floor. I don't remember pulling us down to the floor, but here we are. I'm still clothed, still in my fucking boots of all things, but it doesn't matter, because she's underneath me, lush and hot and bare with the robe fallen open; we are kissing, have been kissing for who knows how long, these incredible deep, wet, mindbending kisses. I pull her tongue into my mouth, bite down - not too hard, just teasing - and she moans helplessly, her body twisting under me, I made her do that.
So many things I'm going to make her do.
I've got my legs spread wide, knees jammed into the carpet, holding her thighs open around mine. It's good to be tall. One hand to support myself, the other free to slide across her body. Cupping her breasts, gently kneading - no silicone, so soft and perfect in my hand, the nipples large and firm and perfect for playing with, and when I do that, she whines. Right into my mouth. Incredible. We're both panting.
I let my hand slide lower, across her gently rounded belly, fingertips dipping into her navel just for a second before passing by. Curving down, short soft fur against my palm, and slick, hot, soft...gliding fingertips just between her lips, all the way down and then back up to hover over her clit. Then again.
She breaks the kiss, letting her head fall back onto the thick carpet. "Please..." she moans, begging. This beautiful woman is begging me to play with her. To take, to have. No need to ask or explain.
I'm absolutely on fire.
"Say that again," I growl against the side of her neck, in between little nibbling kisses that are slowly ramping up to be hard, biting, sucking kisses. "Beg me again."
"Oh please - please Dora..."
She sounds so lost, breathy...when I look, her eyes are wide and dark, her pretty face all flushed, all that long hair falling out of its pins around her on the carpet. Oh, she wants it so bad...
Gently, so gently, I spread her open, getting my fingertips nice and wet. Slippery. Then moving up, slowly up, until I feel her round swollen little clit under my fingers, till I feel the pulsing of her heart through her sex.
Now, she can have what she wants.
I feel elevated, indulgent, strong...watching her bite her full lower lip, writhe and buck under my touch. There's something about taking this beautiful, elegant woman and turning her into, well...
"Look at this," I whisper to her in counterpoint to my fingers sliding back and forth over her clit, finding her rythm, pushing her higher. "Such a pretty lady in such a pretty, fancy place, and here you are on the carpet getting screwed by a stranger."
She closes her eyes, turns her face away, but her body is still rocking with mine. Her heels digging into the carpet, helping her move. Breath getting faster and faster, and the little noises she's making, kitten mewls.. so fucking hot.
"Gonna come for me?" I ask her, and turn my wrist a little. Sliding two long fingers deep inside, where she is velvet soft and furnace hot, trying to keep my thumb against her clit while I...yeah...fuck her. It takes coordination, but I've had practice.
Anyway, it doesn't take long.
**********
For a while, everything is dark and hazy. The world has been wrapped in cotton and packed away, waiting for my body to stop throbbing, for my breath to slow. It's wonderful.
Eventually, though, I come back to myself. Dora is beside me, sitting crosslegged on the carpet, watching me and nibbling on her fingertip. That was just inside me, I think, and shiver. She's absolutely delightful.
Catlike, deliberate, I stretch out, arching my back against the carpet. Her silence changes, becoming watchful and predatory. That's a good game, one I can play.
I roll onto my belly, then to hands and knees, and crawl to my lover, moving sinuously...letting her watch. Leaving the robe behind on the floor. Slowly I come to her and move into her body, nuzzling, curling naked into her lap. Looking up at her with big innocent eyes.
"Thank you," I say, and she grins. It's unexpectedly infectious, and suddenly we're laughing together.
I reach up and trail a finger along her row of silver earrings, the metal cold and slick under my skin. "I've had mine..." I tell her, in a Very Serious Voice. "Now, young lady, I believe it's time for you to have yours."
First, the boots. I kneel in front of her, sitting back on my heels, and take one of her legs in my hands. Playing the good little geisha. I can tell that she's enjoying it. While I'm carefully unlacing, she slips out of her t-shirt - wasn't there a jacket? I don't remember when that came off - and sits barechested, her breasts small and white, perfect pink nipples with a little silver bar through each one.
Boots set aside, I push her legs apart, lean over and unbuckle the wide leather belt. Jeans underneath, that's easy, and plain white panties under that. Her skin, the angular grace of her body, are making me warm again, and I take every opportunity to touch, with fingertips or palms or the backs of my hands. She's silent as I work, breathing slow and deep. Watching.
Finally, the clothes are gone and we are exposed to each other. She's lovely. Sitting with knees bent, apart so I can see every inch of her, arms resting on her knees with false casualness. Her fingertips are twitching a little.
I let my hand rest against her ankle, sliding up slowly to her knee. "Smooth," I murmur, and smile. She's a little ticklish behind the knee, but I leave it alone...maybe later. "You're smooth all over."
Leaning forward, silent, she presses her mouth to mine. A slow deep kiss, not as rapacious as before, but still I feel her need, her tension. The soft, almost subsonic moan, the nip at my lower lip as I pull away. The hand at the back of my neck, long fingers curling gently into my hair.
We look at each other for a long moment; then she presses against the back of my head, pulling me in close, and low. "Do it," she hisses, and oh, I have no objection at all.
Her cunt is neat, shaven, another tiny piercing through the hood of her clit, and soaking wet everywhere. Gentle at first, I lick at her, tasting and exploring, letting my body slide down to lie curled on the floor between her thighs. Sliding my arms around her hips, feeling her tugging urgently at my hair.
She doesn't want gentle. Doesn't want slow. If she was a man she would be deep in my throat right now, holding my head and fucking into me, making me take it...the thought makes me whine, and I bury my face into her, just as eager for it as she is.
She curses and rocks and I rock with her, riding every hip thrust and every wracking shudder, until she comes. Her body goes tense and hard, like marble, she stutters and goes silent, and I open my eyes, watching over the flat plane of her stomach, watching until she cries out like a child and goes limp. Hands sliding away from me to fall beside her.
Perfect.
******
I'd have probably kicked me out afterwards, but we spend the whole evening hanging out. Sitting naked together on her expensive rug, drinking champagne - who actually has champagne just sitting around? - and eating pizza right out of the box. We talk, and it's nice.
After, there's this huge bathtub, it's insane. Big enough for both of us. I get to wash her all over, and it's great, she feels incredible all soft and lush and slick with soap. She calls me a tomcat and shows me where I scratched her upper back, when she was eating me. I guess I should be sorry; instead I feel pleased, kind of proud. Here's this beautiful expensive person and I've left my mark on her.
But she's got a plane to catch tomorrow, and I figure that's that. We exchange numbers, but I won't call. There's a class barrier, no matter what tonight was like, she won't want some scruffy little dyke tagging along at her heels, screwing up business lunches.
I go home. The apartment is empty. Jimmy calls, to tell me how the gig went; I tell him to fuck himself, and his bandmembers, and whatever else he can fit up his enormous ass besides his head, and I tell him a few other things too, and then I hang up on him.
...and a week and a half later, she calls.
12 November 2007
*SQUEEEEEGASM* (aka Sugasm #105)
Oh, holy crap. I've been doing this for what, a month? And I'm in the top three. I am STUPIDLY happy about this. Thank you!
Sugasm #105
The best of this week's blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #106? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you're all set.
This Week's Picks
Bonbon
"I feel him start; then he groans into my mouth, a deep helpless sound, and I know I've got him."
Domme virginity lost
I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. You know that, don't you, sweet boy?
Reality Check: Lessons Learned From Clients
"From my conversations I've learned a number of things that have helped me, educated me and surprised me."
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Belladonna Likes Heroin
Editor's Choice
Each Mirror has two sides
See also: Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
NSFW Pics & Videos
Anetta Keys - Mischief In Mind
Carmella Bing - Keeping It Hardcore
Erica Campbell nude by Andrew Blake
The Hottest Babes... Right Here, Right Now
How to behave after sex
Jade | Mirage
Sex News, Reviews & Advice
At least he's not going blind!
Lust, Caution review
NEW Gender Bending Designs
Orgasm - Do You Fake It?
Pierced for Play
Pjur Eros BodyGlide Original Silicone Lubricant Review
Top 7 Horror Porns
Erotic Writing and Experiences
At Your Service
Boy
Catalina loves (Polyamorous) Fantasies - Part II
Confessions: Babysitter
Encounter 2, Part II: All About Jane
Having her cake
How zep got me my first feel of tit
"I'm not having sex with you in here."
A Letter...¦
Sexual Initiation
Splick
Symplexity Presents: The Friendly Skies
An Unexpected Opportunity
Sex Work
In the Heart of Real America: How Porn Made Me a Patriot
BDSM & Fetish
About last night...
Beat Me Baby: A Step in Submission!
Bitch in heat
Dirty, Filthy, Nasty Instructions
Feeling a Twitch
Goofiness
I Will So Whip Your Ass
A Little Fantasy I Wrote For The Mrs.
Masturbation Fantasies
Men are dogs: a fantasy
On Hands and Knees
Re-Education Part 2: A Fantasy
Revisiting the piss slit
Shame, Shame, Shame; Shame of Fools
Whippings in the eighteenth century
Sex Poetry & Recipes
Cooking With Mandy: Get Your Ass In the Kitchen Slut and Spend Some Quality Time With Your Husband Pasta with Shrimp
Friday Poem: Hot Boobs and Spam
Then
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
"As Long As Your Vagina Looks Good..."
Ethical Adultery
Femme vs. Feminine
The Full Body Project, or Fat Can be Sexy, Part 2
Need, Want, Love
Return to sender
Sleepy HNT
Today is "Mom the Minx('s)" Birthday
You Are So Sexy
08 November 2007
I Love Spiked Cocoa
...You saved cedar chips from the tree they cut down two blocks over, a whole bag full of them, just for this. It's November - maybe the last good fall night, winter coming in hard, coveting whatever leaves still cling to the trees in their shrouds of color. Russet, orange, gold. I expect frosted windows in the morning.
Our porch - balcony, whatever - is tiny, barely enough room for us, the old salvaged loveseat we're on, and the little hibachi grill that serves as our fireplace. Still, it's beautiful. All the stars are out and magnificently bright. We're wrapped together in a huge old blanket, sleepy-warm, stuffed with toasted marshmallows and amaretto-laced cocoa. Our breath steams, joining the aromatic woodsmoke on its skyward journey; the CD playing ended ages ago, but we're not ready to go in yet, despite the cold. Here everything is quiet and perfect, sheltered in love.
I'm leaning against you, my back to your chest, your arms wrapped around my waist. Both half-asleep and warm from the alcohol. We could stay like this, I think through the haze; just be here forever in the crystalline dark, us and the glowing cedar coals and the stars overhead.
I don't mean to say any of this aloud, but you chuckle and tell me that eventually we'd freeze, so I guess I did. "It would be a terribly romantic end," I tell you. "Found together in the morning all covered in frost, still embracing. Very Victorian."
Warm fingertips edge under my sweater and skate across my stomach, caressing; seeking. "This is romantic," you say, as your hands slide up to cradle my breasts, no underwear to come between our skin. "I think this is fine, don't you?"
I mumble an answer and snuggle more deeply into your arms. Those fingertips trace soft circles around my nipples, barely touching, bringing them up to stiff little peaks; my head feels heavy, resting back against your shoulder. The sensations making me squirm. Against my lower back you are hard, ready; your mouth so soft, trailing kisses down the side of my neck that fill me with a beautiful slow heat, only half-awake still in this little pocket of warmth.
"We could go in..." I offer. "Warmer...private..."
"I like it right *here*," you say. Toying with me, now, gently pinching and tugging at my nipples, molding my breasts under your hands. Making me crazy. I whine, pleading, turning my face up to you for a kiss.
But you don't oblige, not yet...moving one hand down along my torso, searching, pushing at the waistband of my sweats. Sliding them down my hips. I squirm around, trying to help, making you growl when I accidentally - well, mostly accidentally - brush a hand over your cock, feeling you through soft cotton, hardly any barrier at all.
It's a matter of seconds for us to get there. Our clothes are moved aside just enough under the blanket; then you pull me up into your lap, still facing away. I'm already wet, and you slide into me so easily, stretching and filling me without effort, until our bodies are flush, connected. Wrapped warm and safe in your arms, perfectly full, feeling the pressure of your cock so deep inside me as we rock together. Fucking slow. Little easy thrusts beneath me, your hands steadying my hips, moving us in delicious counterpoint with your breath hot and unsteady against my ear. The air is so cold, God, the stars are bright, and under the blanket we're burning, we're melting together...
"Please," I say - it's so hard to talk, to form the words, to move air through my body in the right way - "Please - a little more - "
Beneath me your body shifts, leaning back further into the couch; the angle and our rythym change slightly. It's enough. I tense and for a moment everything stops; my breathing, our bodies, the smoke and the stars above us.
Then I'm coming in long slow waves, coming and rocking in your lap and laughing a little at the crazy pleasure of it.
A few seconds later and you join me; almost soundless shuddering, biting down where my throat meets my shoulder. It doesn't hurt. Everything is dim and hazed, starlight shining through woodsmoke, the perfect night.
We hold each other, and breathe, and watch the smoke rising to heaven.
Our porch - balcony, whatever - is tiny, barely enough room for us, the old salvaged loveseat we're on, and the little hibachi grill that serves as our fireplace. Still, it's beautiful. All the stars are out and magnificently bright. We're wrapped together in a huge old blanket, sleepy-warm, stuffed with toasted marshmallows and amaretto-laced cocoa. Our breath steams, joining the aromatic woodsmoke on its skyward journey; the CD playing ended ages ago, but we're not ready to go in yet, despite the cold. Here everything is quiet and perfect, sheltered in love.
I'm leaning against you, my back to your chest, your arms wrapped around my waist. Both half-asleep and warm from the alcohol. We could stay like this, I think through the haze; just be here forever in the crystalline dark, us and the glowing cedar coals and the stars overhead.
I don't mean to say any of this aloud, but you chuckle and tell me that eventually we'd freeze, so I guess I did. "It would be a terribly romantic end," I tell you. "Found together in the morning all covered in frost, still embracing. Very Victorian."
Warm fingertips edge under my sweater and skate across my stomach, caressing; seeking. "This is romantic," you say, as your hands slide up to cradle my breasts, no underwear to come between our skin. "I think this is fine, don't you?"
I mumble an answer and snuggle more deeply into your arms. Those fingertips trace soft circles around my nipples, barely touching, bringing them up to stiff little peaks; my head feels heavy, resting back against your shoulder. The sensations making me squirm. Against my lower back you are hard, ready; your mouth so soft, trailing kisses down the side of my neck that fill me with a beautiful slow heat, only half-awake still in this little pocket of warmth.
"We could go in..." I offer. "Warmer...private..."
"I like it right *here*," you say. Toying with me, now, gently pinching and tugging at my nipples, molding my breasts under your hands. Making me crazy. I whine, pleading, turning my face up to you for a kiss.
But you don't oblige, not yet...moving one hand down along my torso, searching, pushing at the waistband of my sweats. Sliding them down my hips. I squirm around, trying to help, making you growl when I accidentally - well, mostly accidentally - brush a hand over your cock, feeling you through soft cotton, hardly any barrier at all.
It's a matter of seconds for us to get there. Our clothes are moved aside just enough under the blanket; then you pull me up into your lap, still facing away. I'm already wet, and you slide into me so easily, stretching and filling me without effort, until our bodies are flush, connected. Wrapped warm and safe in your arms, perfectly full, feeling the pressure of your cock so deep inside me as we rock together. Fucking slow. Little easy thrusts beneath me, your hands steadying my hips, moving us in delicious counterpoint with your breath hot and unsteady against my ear. The air is so cold, God, the stars are bright, and under the blanket we're burning, we're melting together...
"Please," I say - it's so hard to talk, to form the words, to move air through my body in the right way - "Please - a little more - "
Beneath me your body shifts, leaning back further into the couch; the angle and our rythym change slightly. It's enough. I tense and for a moment everything stops; my breathing, our bodies, the smoke and the stars above us.
Then I'm coming in long slow waves, coming and rocking in your lap and laughing a little at the crazy pleasure of it.
A few seconds later and you join me; almost soundless shuddering, biting down where my throat meets my shoulder. It doesn't hurt. Everything is dim and hazed, starlight shining through woodsmoke, the perfect night.
We hold each other, and breathe, and watch the smoke rising to heaven.
06 November 2007
No escape from SUGASM #104
Sugasm #104
The best of this week's blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #105? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you're all set.
Editor's Note: I thought it was Monday all day today. By the time I realized it wasn't the new Sugasm had been up for a few hours. I'm just leaving it. The #105 post request will go up on Tuesday like normal.
This Week's Picks
Awkward Sex Attempts (and Other Common Experiences)
"This put a slight damper on the "sexy" feelings I was trying to work up."
Do You Want Me To Call You A Whore?
"Who doesn't like having their hair pulled during sex?"
Two Fer
"Neither of us heard the front door open when Jason's roommate came home."
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Girls and Guns
Editor's Choice
Being a Feminist in the sex industry
See also: Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Go Ahead. Label Me
Oldie But Goodie - Altoids And Blow Jobs
Short and Sexy?
Why Doesn't My Wife Want to Have Sex with Me Anymore?
Why I HATE the Term "Cuckold"
BDSM & Fetish
Always Your Slut Part 2
Angela-la Cake - Bloggers getting sweaty
Different
Fucking machines
Story: The Perils of Drink
Straight Boy Gets Fucked in the Ass
Unmasking
Who Doesn't Dream About She Males?
Sex News & Reviews
Kumi Is A Yummy Fetish Model
NEW Bold & Sassy Designs!
NSFW Pics & Videos
Angelina Crow - Peep Show
Annette Schwarz (updated)
Catalina loves HNT (Bondage Tape)
Exotic Bloom
If I had a clone...
Merry Samhain!
More Naked Lazer Bunny Hotties
Erotic Writing and Experiences
All About the Tricks
Ancient and Debauched
Backdoor Love
Cream for my Coffee?
The dangers of blogging
First Encounter
The first time: Having sex with my wife.
I dreamed of Margene
New Beginning
Sex Report: Poolside Follies
The six days of halloween
"Smokin Ass" or Halloween Remembered
Touching
02 November 2007
Bonbon
New territory for me, gentle readers. Enjoy!
Bonbon
Delicate cream-colored demibra that lets my nipples peek through the lace trim? $22.
Adorably soft, fuzzy, rose-and-cream striped socks that come up to midthigh? $18.
Pink stripper heels, Mary Jane style with an ankle strap? $35.
Total expenditure on hair, nails, perfume, assorted gourmet goodies in the fridge next to an appropriate bottle of vino, and the extra super special birthday present for my lover, maybe...$200 all told? What can I say, I got a raise.
The look on his face when he comes home to find me in his favorite chair? A vision of pink and ivory framed by dark leather, legs draped shamelessly over the armrests, both hands wrapped around the shaft of the silicone cock rising from the crimson velvet harness around my hips...
Absofuckinglutely priceless.
"Hi, honey," I say in a breathy, disconnected voice. He stares intently at my hands, watching as I stroke the toy, using motions and rhythm that I normally use on him. "Sorry I couldn't wait but the vibrator in this thing is - just - uhmmm..."
Writhing in the chair, grinding my soaking wet self against the buzzing toy, gasping and whining and letting him watch me come.
Afterwards, I run my fingertip along the bottom of the shaft and smile at him.
"Gonna join me, pretty boy?" I ask teasingly, and he flushes. Good.
"You...Jesus." His incoherence makes me giggle; so rare to catch him off balance like this, usually it's me stammering and blushing. "What gave you the idea to - "
"Come over here, sugar...c'mon." It takes him a moment to leave the doorway. Then he's all over me, sucking at my mouth with fierce kisses, stroking my shoulders, seeking out my nipples to twist and tug at through the soft lace.
My hands, I dimly remember through the haze that I need to be using my hands... one goes into his hair, holding on, pulling him down into the demanding kiss; taking it over. With the other I take one of his hands and press downward until our fingers wrap around "my" cock, my hand over his. I feel him start; then he groans into my mouth, a deep helpless sound, and I know I've got him. Caressing, hesitant at first, then sliding and tugging, rocking the base of the toy against my clit. I bite his bottom lip, just a tease, then lean my head back to look at him.
"Uhmm...so good.." I tell him, encouraging. "Look down. Look what you're doing to me..."
He does. His eyes are so wide, dark and dazed, full of sex; rocking my hips a little with the pressure of his touch, becoming more insistent. My forehead rests against his; watching him watch himself feels even better than the vibration. I run my fingers through his dark hair, catching soft curls between, stroking him reassuringly as he strokes me in an entirely different way.
"Kiss it for me..." I ask. Breathy soft voice, pleading for it, and gentle but insistent pressure on the nape of his neck. Oh, the beautiful shudder that goes through that body - so much bigger and stronger than my own; how many times has he pinned me helpless in our own bed, making me beg, taking me at his leisure. A man's control, physical, rough.
The way I like it.
Now I've barely touched him and still he trembles, breath unsteady. And he sinks to his knees for me, with unthinking grace. I lift my hips a little and his strong hands slide beneath me, cradling my ass, the harness soft between our skin.
"You are so beautiful like this," he tells me.
"So are you," I murmur back, and reach down. One hand in his hair, the other around the base of the toy, holding it steady. Offering it.
"C'mon, pretty...lover..." I coax. Dripping wet under the fabric. "Suck my cock."
The 'flesh' of the toy is firm but not unyielding - I went through four or five condoms earlier in the day, testing it. I can say with absolute assurance that it is neither too thick nor too long and that it feels good in the mouth. And other places. He can do this...if he wants to.
He looks so vulnerable. I would never have expected this to look good on him, but it does. Wild eyes, lost eyes, his chest rising and falling with each shivering breath. Still in his work clothes. Why does that make it hotter? The eyes close as he leans forward, touches his mouth to the toy's sculpted head in the softest of kisses.
I moan my encouragement and it isn't fake, though of course there's no physical sensation. My left hand is still in his hair, cradling his skull, and suddenly I understand the impulse to press, to bury this jutting piece of silicone in his mouth. This must be the most perverse thing I've ever done and it is fantastic.
My other hand wriggles the toy a little, rubbing it against his lips. "Suck it," I whisper - loud in the silent room - and give a tiny bit of pressure against the back of his head. Now he's trembling. I can see the outline of his cock through his work pants, bigger than the toy, fatter. Ready. But that's for later.
Now, all I want is what I'm seeing...his mouth opening for me, letting me in, taking almost half the length of the toy in one slow slide. God.
I thought I was doing this for him. Something super kinky that he would remember forever. But it's driving me crazy, this hot shaking lust I've never felt before. I want to take him. To fuck him. I may actually be growling, can't tell. My hips rise a little, involuntarily, rocking...tiny little movements, ever so gentle, shaking with self-control. Fucking his mouth.
Talking - I don't know what I'm saying, encouragement, obscenity, telling him how perfect he is, how beautiful he looks. How good it feels, as if it were my own flesh and not a pricy sex boutique toy. Our moving together is grinding the base of the toy into me, tiny little movements driving me higher and higher, I drape one long stockinged leg over his shoulder and then he reaches up and I feel his fingertips searching along the velvet - finding a gap - pushing and sliding and then he has two thick fingers buried in my pussy, curling up towards my pubic bone to hit just the right spot. Sucking and pumping those fingers into me and I cannot fucking stand it one second longer, I pull him down to me and cry out blindly and when I hear the raw wet sound of him sucking hard, really taking it, I come... like something breaking deep in my belly, strong, making me scream. Making liquid pour from me, escaping the harness, spilling over his hand and pooling in the leather chair seat.
That's never happened before, either. It's a night for firsts.
There is a long, long pause between the orgasm and the point where I know what's going on again. His head is resting on my thigh, my leg still curled over his shoulder.
"OK?" I ask, amazed at how shy I sound after what we've just done. When his eyes meet mine the look on his face is almost worshipful; I don't need any better answer. Still, he nods, and kisses my leg.
"Bedroom," he says after a second. "Now. I have to fuck you or I'm going to explode."
He helps me out of the chair - dropping his cotton undershirt into it to soak up the puddle, must've taken that off after I came - and we stumble towards the bedroom, arms around each other. I pat his hip reassuringly and smile.
I guess he doesn't realize. I'm not the one about to get fucked.
Bonbon
Delicate cream-colored demibra that lets my nipples peek through the lace trim? $22.
Adorably soft, fuzzy, rose-and-cream striped socks that come up to midthigh? $18.
Pink stripper heels, Mary Jane style with an ankle strap? $35.
Total expenditure on hair, nails, perfume, assorted gourmet goodies in the fridge next to an appropriate bottle of vino, and the extra super special birthday present for my lover, maybe...$200 all told? What can I say, I got a raise.
The look on his face when he comes home to find me in his favorite chair? A vision of pink and ivory framed by dark leather, legs draped shamelessly over the armrests, both hands wrapped around the shaft of the silicone cock rising from the crimson velvet harness around my hips...
Absofuckinglutely priceless.
"Hi, honey," I say in a breathy, disconnected voice. He stares intently at my hands, watching as I stroke the toy, using motions and rhythm that I normally use on him. "Sorry I couldn't wait but the vibrator in this thing is - just - uhmmm..."
Writhing in the chair, grinding my soaking wet self against the buzzing toy, gasping and whining and letting him watch me come.
Afterwards, I run my fingertip along the bottom of the shaft and smile at him.
"Gonna join me, pretty boy?" I ask teasingly, and he flushes. Good.
"You...Jesus." His incoherence makes me giggle; so rare to catch him off balance like this, usually it's me stammering and blushing. "What gave you the idea to - "
"Come over here, sugar...c'mon." It takes him a moment to leave the doorway. Then he's all over me, sucking at my mouth with fierce kisses, stroking my shoulders, seeking out my nipples to twist and tug at through the soft lace.
My hands, I dimly remember through the haze that I need to be using my hands... one goes into his hair, holding on, pulling him down into the demanding kiss; taking it over. With the other I take one of his hands and press downward until our fingers wrap around "my" cock, my hand over his. I feel him start; then he groans into my mouth, a deep helpless sound, and I know I've got him. Caressing, hesitant at first, then sliding and tugging, rocking the base of the toy against my clit. I bite his bottom lip, just a tease, then lean my head back to look at him.
"Uhmm...so good.." I tell him, encouraging. "Look down. Look what you're doing to me..."
He does. His eyes are so wide, dark and dazed, full of sex; rocking my hips a little with the pressure of his touch, becoming more insistent. My forehead rests against his; watching him watch himself feels even better than the vibration. I run my fingers through his dark hair, catching soft curls between, stroking him reassuringly as he strokes me in an entirely different way.
"Kiss it for me..." I ask. Breathy soft voice, pleading for it, and gentle but insistent pressure on the nape of his neck. Oh, the beautiful shudder that goes through that body - so much bigger and stronger than my own; how many times has he pinned me helpless in our own bed, making me beg, taking me at his leisure. A man's control, physical, rough.
The way I like it.
Now I've barely touched him and still he trembles, breath unsteady. And he sinks to his knees for me, with unthinking grace. I lift my hips a little and his strong hands slide beneath me, cradling my ass, the harness soft between our skin.
"You are so beautiful like this," he tells me.
"So are you," I murmur back, and reach down. One hand in his hair, the other around the base of the toy, holding it steady. Offering it.
"C'mon, pretty...lover..." I coax. Dripping wet under the fabric. "Suck my cock."
The 'flesh' of the toy is firm but not unyielding - I went through four or five condoms earlier in the day, testing it. I can say with absolute assurance that it is neither too thick nor too long and that it feels good in the mouth. And other places. He can do this...if he wants to.
He looks so vulnerable. I would never have expected this to look good on him, but it does. Wild eyes, lost eyes, his chest rising and falling with each shivering breath. Still in his work clothes. Why does that make it hotter? The eyes close as he leans forward, touches his mouth to the toy's sculpted head in the softest of kisses.
I moan my encouragement and it isn't fake, though of course there's no physical sensation. My left hand is still in his hair, cradling his skull, and suddenly I understand the impulse to press, to bury this jutting piece of silicone in his mouth. This must be the most perverse thing I've ever done and it is fantastic.
My other hand wriggles the toy a little, rubbing it against his lips. "Suck it," I whisper - loud in the silent room - and give a tiny bit of pressure against the back of his head. Now he's trembling. I can see the outline of his cock through his work pants, bigger than the toy, fatter. Ready. But that's for later.
Now, all I want is what I'm seeing...his mouth opening for me, letting me in, taking almost half the length of the toy in one slow slide. God.
I thought I was doing this for him. Something super kinky that he would remember forever. But it's driving me crazy, this hot shaking lust I've never felt before. I want to take him. To fuck him. I may actually be growling, can't tell. My hips rise a little, involuntarily, rocking...tiny little movements, ever so gentle, shaking with self-control. Fucking his mouth.
Talking - I don't know what I'm saying, encouragement, obscenity, telling him how perfect he is, how beautiful he looks. How good it feels, as if it were my own flesh and not a pricy sex boutique toy. Our moving together is grinding the base of the toy into me, tiny little movements driving me higher and higher, I drape one long stockinged leg over his shoulder and then he reaches up and I feel his fingertips searching along the velvet - finding a gap - pushing and sliding and then he has two thick fingers buried in my pussy, curling up towards my pubic bone to hit just the right spot. Sucking and pumping those fingers into me and I cannot fucking stand it one second longer, I pull him down to me and cry out blindly and when I hear the raw wet sound of him sucking hard, really taking it, I come... like something breaking deep in my belly, strong, making me scream. Making liquid pour from me, escaping the harness, spilling over his hand and pooling in the leather chair seat.
That's never happened before, either. It's a night for firsts.
There is a long, long pause between the orgasm and the point where I know what's going on again. His head is resting on my thigh, my leg still curled over his shoulder.
"OK?" I ask, amazed at how shy I sound after what we've just done. When his eyes meet mine the look on his face is almost worshipful; I don't need any better answer. Still, he nods, and kisses my leg.
"Bedroom," he says after a second. "Now. I have to fuck you or I'm going to explode."
He helps me out of the chair - dropping his cotton undershirt into it to soak up the puddle, must've taken that off after I came - and we stumble towards the bedroom, arms around each other. I pat his hip reassuringly and smile.
I guess he doesn't realize. I'm not the one about to get fucked.
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