This week’s choice for Sinful Sunday was turned into a sexy threesome as Jack and Jill of Frisky in the 916, one of my favorite couples, helped decide which photo made the cut. Thank you for your awesome help and great inspiration!
Sex. My muse, my will, my motivation.
He was gone and there was nothing I could do. I’d never have him, I don’t know that he was ever mine to begin with. At the same time as this rent in my heart was split wide I finally bit the bullet and admitted I was in a funk I couldn’t get out of. Cue Lexapro.
It was wonderful to be at a continual even keel. Truly. My friends and family all remarked on how calm I seemed, less harried, able to slow down and enjoy and not stress over everything all the time.
Suddenly though, my motto of “An orgasm a day” was forgotten. I didn’t even think about sex.
Uh, I’m a sex blogger, I read beautiful, stirring, erotic things all day from others in the community and that’s not even mentioning the images. I love sex, it’s a integral part of my day. Suddenly though, the desire had flown swiftly from me.
I couldn’t give you an honest evaluation of what percentage each event had in the disappearance of my libido. The most heart-achingly painful thing to see in me though was the drying up of the wellspring of creativity. I knew losing my lover had a great deal to do with that, but a lot of my writing came from being simply turned on… I was suddenly rendered in a perpetual state of OFF.
Something had to be done. Boundaries explored, a solution to be had. Masturbation suddenly took 30 minutes, a previously unheard of length of time, and I might as well forget involving a partner, I couldn’t even get wet. It wasn’t like other medications, where I might as well have been Barbie for all of the sensation created in my erogenous zone, this was more like a dull echo. I felt it, I could vaguely tell it was pleasant, but eh… I could be playing Minecraft.
I approached my Dr about my concerns. After all, a woman at her peak doesn’t go from positively exuding sex to being a diminished light overnight. Creams were prescribed to increase sensation, and assurances of normalcy issued. The problem is, even with the possibility of sensation being increased, I didn’t have the desire. In fact, when the compound wasn’t ready when it was supposed to be at the pharmacy I merely shrugged my shoulders and didn’t go back. Lack of desire.
So, I flirt and I flit, and try to go through the motions. I try falling back in love with me and focus what creativity I have on pictures, on revealing myself to myself. My sister carries the brunt of the force of our blog and due to luck and a previously raging muse, I have pieces in draft from back when I was that goddess of smoldering sexuality. The things I do produce are lackluster, I can see the drop in interest…
Sometimes the dam breaks. Sometimes the tears fall, the indifference is lifted, and sometimes I feel the spark. There are so many beautiful and provocative people in my blogesphere, it’s impossible not to be moved. I get wet at the thought of someone’s hands caressing me, the sight of someone’s body captured in ecstasy. A flirt and banter exchange with someone will move me to get naked, grab my camera and be the embodiment of sex I so recently was and always had been. I owe so many thanks to so many people who have unwittingly jump started my drive.
It is a heavy weight in my heart, the decision of continuing on a medication that I see making improvements in my somewhat crumpled world right now, or gaining back my passion, my zeal, and my lust for life and all the sexy things in it…
I’m still not entirely sure what path to take, but right now I feel as though I’m in a holding pattern, in the absence of… anything.
For this week I decided to post a piece I’ve been holding onto. I guess I took this week’s prompt of “peace” and decided to find mine by letting it go….
He’s here, in my arms, sitting so close to me. I have him. All of him. All night he is mine and I instantly find comfort and the ability to relax as soon as he is in my presence. The stare and longing in his eyes create heat that’s spreading through my veins.
I love that; his ability to drive me to heights without touch. I hate his ease of it. After this though, those abilities will be irrelevant. I will no longer quake at the thought or touch of him.
This is goodbye.
I want it to hurt. I want it to leave an impression on my skin as it has left an impression on my heart, my soul. I want it to last, to remain, long after he is gone. I want to be bound tightly in rope as my heart is bound to him.
He brushes the hair back from my neck, fingers grazing the sensitive skin on my collarbone. Chills run down through to my fingertips and the heat is spreading faster.
To touch him, to taste him, is a compulsion. I need this like air. I curl into his side and my lips find his as my hands reach searchingly for some purchase that will keep him here.
I want this to be the best, consuming, unforgettable. My pride demands that I make him remember this for all time. I want it to hurt him too but not in the physical. I want to be a brand in his mind and on his heart.
Soft sheets caressing fevered skin. My mouth explores the recesses of his body, I know all of his secrets, and I use them to increase the ache. His mouth finds my heat and I am a puddle of desire.
I struggle to push him onto his back, I need to drink him in, I want to taste him in my mouth. My nails rake down his sides as my tongue strokes his hard shaft, coming to firmly hold him while my mouth devours him.
The need has driven him to the brink and suddenly the hand in my hair tightens. I’m flipped over and driven into swiftly. His shaft fills me and drives a moan from my lips. This is everything. Love, heat, lust, need.
Ever moving, never still. Gliding together to heights where its hard to breath and the world is miles away. He flips me over, upside down, turning me inside out. We have the passionate fight for control that has me grinding on top of him one moment then screaming my pleasure into the pillow as he pulls my hair from behind.
It isn’t enough, it never is. The fulfillment leaves me speechless and wilted, floating and sated, but I always want him. Always. This then is it. A last memory, a last time in his arms. My body was made for him, for his pleasure. I hold him through the night but my bed is already cooling from that fevered pitch and I know not when it will witness such ecstasy again.
Until such time, I will wait, and whisper softly as he falls asleep in my embrace: “Goodbye my love”.
This kink response will differ vastly from my sister’s.
I was one of those people who didn’t “get it” at all. Why would anyone want to be spanked? I didn’t enjoy pain in the slightest, it was one on my “no-no” list.
And then he started sucking on my nipples, hard, and I craved his mouth to increase the intensity, to make them hurt. I loved the feeling of being sore afterwards too, of knowing that he was there. Of my nipples hardening by fabric, of me turned on from nothing other than the sensitive little bits of rose-colored flesh.
And I became curious…would I like spanking?
For some reason, as I was still debating this whole issue, right after multiple orgasms one night he smacked my ass, hard. I moaned and lifted my bottom, feeling the sting, feeling my already sensitive but exhausted vaginal muscles tighten so quickly that I was almost lost to another orgasm. The imprint of his large hand covered almost one entire cheek, which he stroked softly and almost in apology. Almost, because my moan gave away my delight. He was almost as surprised he spanked me as I was. But the stroking so much more sensitive, my hot burning skin felt soothed but expectant to touch. The lightest graze felt so much more intense.
And I became curious…would I like more? Harder?
I’ve asked for it, but considering this is new territory to us both, he is hesitant. He is afraid of hurting me, but I become more anxious to be hurt by this activity. At first, he would rarely spank me, only once, and only after multiple orgasms. Then, with more encouragement, he would bring his hand down upon my ass at the height of an orgasm. Now, he will do it intermixed, and with slightly more frequency. Recently, he spanked me three times, curious more than any other motivation if he could see the different imprints. After three smacks on the same cheek, it looked something like a peacock. I loved it.
He has never bruised me. I am excited to see if I enjoy this, but again, I need to work at his pace, with his comfort level. But what we have done so far, I have loved and enjoyed.
The fantasy would be at this point simply to have him go rougher, with more frequency. And I hope to one day take a picture of my reddened ass, burning but oh-so-sensitive. Or a bruised one – a constant reminder of what he’s done, how he made me feel, and how badly I want it all over again.
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~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~
Honesty sometimes feels like manipulation
Blood, life, sex
~ Featured Posts (Molly’s Picks) ~
Grief and Sex
Bringing Others into a Dom/Sub Relationship
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Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor
Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish
Master’s Valentine’s ToDo List
The Passion of First Encounters.
Ma’am’s Turn (First Meeting Part 3)
Nipple torture and girl love
I’m in the Mood
Lolita Twenty-Thirteen, Part Two
A Quick Preview
Erotic Non Fiction
Postponing the Inevitable
Watching Has its Own Rewards
A Farewell Torment
I want to lick your pussy
Cap D’Agde 2012 Foam Party
Hundreds of orgasms
our open marriage- mina’s date
1+1+1= My first threesome
Writing Sex Scenes
Beginnings and Endings
One Cole the Dane + One WeVibe Salsa = Orgasm
I’m ready for my spanking…
He brings life into my skin, turns into a rosy hue. Makes my eyes sparkle and dance, delighting in the vision of only him, the only thing I am capable of seeing.
A splaying open if you will of my heart. I read “confusion” and this instantly came to mind. The following is an emailed response to a story I wrote from my lover, used with permission, if not a great deal of trepidation. The key to this story is that my lover was bound and drawn by duty and honor to a place I could not reach. My heart left with him. “It hurts! I hate that it all starts off letting me know that it “is the last…” Whether it’s title is Fiction or Finale, both are aptly applied and it hurts! Life, recently, has lost damn near all flavor. While I hoped that the story only has some similarities to me, with us, that was pounded to oblivion like surf on a rocky shoreline with our texting yonder-eve. I had wondered if I would receive any more writings; now, though, I’m quite confident that this will be the last of’em. It’s not the way I wish it…but it seems the writing is on the wall… I think the thing that hurts the most was the use of the term “goodbye”. I remember having that conversation with you. Absolute! Granted, the more I read it again and again and again…well, I go back and forth. One reading of it will point out my being “irrelevant” now, while another reading through drives, like a skewer, home the resounding “goodbye.” Loud in my ears and full of… I don’t want it to be true; I want to still be the one to drive you to heights un-reached with a mere touch; a thought…to be irrelevant…it hurts. Had we not been in the particular circumstances of that evening, the events described might have actually come to fruition. It’s certainly a pleasant fiction to think upon and certainly would have been a much better way to have parted…probably…most like. I didn’t…I don’t want this story to be about me; about us, but…………..well, we can’t always get what we want. I chuckle, a bit uncontrollably; that is to say that it’s an automatic chuckle that I’ve not been able to really stop; at a thought regarding Valentines Day. “I guess I didn’t knock it out of the park!” So much for Steak and Blow Job day?. I was so looking forward to such a wonderful treat! There’s that surf, again; can you hear it crashing against the rocky shoals? I can, and it causes my heart to ache; to long; the sting in my eyes are not that of surf spray though I pray it were so simple. Will they fall… You got want you wanted, it hurts; unfortunately it hurts physically, too. For that I’m sorry, but sometimes it is what it is. My heart aches; a breaking if you will. Only truly been felt twice in my life. Once, you know about. The other, we hadn’t gotten around to having that discussion. I’m sure that we would have, in time; you were destined to know more than any one person was ever meant to know of me. The compartments so carefully created seemed to have ethereal walls when it came to you — we never got to that discussion. I can’t count the number of times I pick up the phone looking for a text or email from you. I don’t know how you managed to work yourself into my heart so fast…no one ever has. And we didn’t even get to all of the “secrets”. You never found out how dark my fantasies go; in what direction they lie. There were so many things I was hoping for…looking forward to exploring…I still want to experience you! I WANT YOU! I LOVE YOU! Much like a venomous bite, though, your words resound in my head from our phone conversation…”what’s the point? What’s the point.” … I had a dream about you some nights ago; a dream where I was needing a room to rent and had asked you if I might could. Very reluctant you were; though you weren’t exactly opposed to it. You had a very specific condition that I needed to meet and if I did, then it was on. I awoke then… I thought I saw your car, the other day; made a U-turn to check it out. It wasn’t you. It was a red _, but not your car. I was sad. I don’t know that I’ll ever send this message. Hours and hours it has taken me to respond, as I told you that I would. I’m sure you read the severe editing process that was involved in sending the one message in response to your email. I guess I want to know if I have left a brand on you? Is there something that is wholly you and I? Aside from the We Vibe III. Maybe one day I’ll send this to you — I think that it will spark pain and possibly create some anguish. Foresight would suggest I’m doing it intentionally, but that is simply not true. Hard to dispute, but absolutely not true. I never have wanted; I do not want to hurt you. (Well, obviously in the good ways that we both crave; but then that’s not really hurtin’ you is it?) I’m sorry! Random thought…do I still retain “AWESOME” with approved hand gesture? Silly stupid stuff to think about, huh? I don’t want “goodbye!” Does it have to be goodbye? Is that what you want…goodbye? I’ve promised I would send it…not exactly what you were expecting, I’m sure; nevertheless here it is. The other night you texted that you didn’t want to know if was hurtful or cutting; yet you’ve asked for this message; my initial response; the dread confirmed…I’m sorry! I’m truly sorry. Forgive me? Love me? I LOVE You! I want you! p l e a s e . . . . . . . . . . . . .”
Black satin ribbon, red polish, and high heels…
Come see who is being sinful with me…
I get out of a shower and go into the bedroom, sore from just working out,when he greets me naked on the bed. His smile is seductive, his eyes are confident and mischievous; he is stretched out fully in the middle of the bed, already hard. I laugh and state that I am sore, to not expect great things from me at the moment, but shed my robe. His eyes light up when I stretch my sore body next to his, intentionally rubbing skin to skin. He suggests then, that great things need to come from him.
I can only nod in agreement as suddenly his mouth is upon my nipple, the other hand squeezing my other breast, fingers discover and pull the nipple hard. His fingers rolled the nipple, his mouth pulling the other, hard, until I catch my breath with pain and pleasure. He moves, the cold air hitting the sensitive nubs, and positions his face between my legs. I spread them a little further, bend my knees slightly out, and he pulls apart my lips, and immediately his hot mouth is upon me. His movements are focused, practiced, determined, and he has no intentions of playing the tease.
I am pressing into his mouth, his warm breath against my tender pink sex. His tongue flicks back and forth, then circles around my clitoris. He stays there until I try to shift his mouth lower by moving my pelvis up. He slips one finger around my moist entrance, taunts, softly tracing the lips, dips in slightly and spreads the moisture around, before slowly sinking in. Then two fingers slip inside, curl and press into my g-spot, and probe in accompaniment to his tongue. He begins to suck, his free arm grips my thigh and holds me forcefully there, slows my bucking hips. As his mouth moves harder, his tongue a solid, slick presence against my pearl, his fingers move faster and harder until I am arching into him, panting, moaning, clenching down hard on his fingers, climaxing, drenching his hand.
I am dizzy, still on the verge of coming down from the cloudy plane of pleasure, when I feel his cock draw me open, quickly thrusting and fucking, my own juices oiling against any friction or resistance, and I am right back up on that surreal fantasy of an orgasm, barely able to breathe, unable to contain my screams in pitch with his plunging in and out. Everything is tense, my thighs gripping, my hips rising up to meet him, falling with his answering weight, muscles clutching his hard shaft, my legs wrapped around pulling him deeper, toes curling, arms around his shoulders and arms, fingers digging into skin as if I’m afraid of falling, nails marking him as surely as his body is bruising mine. I milk him, force him to travel to the finish with me.
I am aware of the pounding in my ears, harsh breathing, his weight pressing me into the mattress though slightly reduced where he’s lightly braced on elbows. He rolls over to his side, takes me with him, adjusts so I am also on my side facing away, one arm is my pillow, another arm wraps around me, my butt nestled against his now glorious spent member; we’re as pressed together as possible. He brushes my still wet hair away from my face, tenderly kisses me, a sharp contrast to our fucking. Tells me that I am beautiful, and that he is a lucky man. I quip that he is surely a man capable of great things.