Woohoo, we completed the FebruaryPhotoFest challenge (Sinful Sunday is being posted tomorrow with our last photo to the PhotoFest, so we’re good!). Maybe it wasn’t intended to be a challenge, but we really aren’t photo heavy (been trying to add some in from time to time other than Sinful Sundays, as people like visuals).
I was reflecting on how this month has changed, besides the “crap, let’s take a photo!” moments, and the biggest thing that comes to mind is that we haven’t written as much, nor have I cared if we write, because after all, we posted something every day.
This does bother me slightly in the reflection, as I love to read about others, and it is what our blog has been greatly based on: stories of ourselves and explorations, and erotica. We lost that a bit in doing this photo-a-day mentality (and our laziness brought down our views). Towards the end, I was a bit tired of not seeing writing and added snippets of writing to the picture, regardless of matching.
And then when we did write, it was a challenge to find (or create) a photo to the writing, some days we didn’t work this out very well, other days we avoided writing because it took extra effort to visually represent the written word.
However, there were also ways in which I felt this meme was rewarding; the biggest was searching/observing more visual beauty in the moments. When I had to take a photo or come up with a series of photos (I now have a chopstick series), I started looking at how to challenge my own mundane, routine perspective into something unique or visually beautiful.
One thing that really helped me personally was having a collection of photos that weren’t awesome enough for Sinful Sunday, but that I took strictly for me – I now had a reason to showcase a few. I also went back a bit through old phone photos to find some sexy, older photos – and realized that taking photos of myself is something that I am new to.
I envision your voice, firm and allowing no dispute, telling me to go into the room and get undressed. You tell me that I am to lay in the bed, knees bent, ass up, chest on the sheets. I am to await for you.
It’s the timber of your voice, the sure command, the mischief in your eyes that makes my cunt clench. I rush to do as I’m told, almost too shaky and tripping in my movements to get undressed, and I throw myself down on the bed and await you.
It’s hell…the wait. It’s the mind game of what you will do while I am in this position, exposed and raised up for your convenience. I grow wet with the fears and fantasies that swirl through my head. I try to calm my already excited breath. I anticipate so much and yet have no idea what your intentions are.
And you make me wait, you make me wet and needy and breathless. You make me tremble from the unknown and a need I do not understand. That is your power, your control.
………finally, you come into the room. I see a shirt being tossed on the bed beside me. I grow more excited, try to silence my questions, bite my lip.
I hear metal…a buckle? I hear swishing in what is unmistakably a belt through belt loops and fabric of your pants. Do they give away your erection, your own excitement as you view my exposed ass and wet lips? I tighten, eager for you to begin whatever you have planned for me.
…I am willing for whatever you have planned for me.
Will that belt come down across my skin? Will you watch me cry out in surprise, even though I’m anticipating it, to the sting and pain
…and pleasure as the imprint kisses into my skin to where my mind will only focus on what you are doing? Will you watch the internal struggle to remain still, patient, and to welcome whatever comes next? Will you harden even more at the thought of making me cry out again?
Every so often I have intimate thoughts that I want to write, but for whatever reason, they are shorter snippets. So I combine them into one post. I posted just a photo for FebruaryPhotoFest meme, but decided our blog this month doesn’t have much written content to it, so combined the writings in drafts to the picture.
He gripped my hair. “You need to be muffled,” before shoving my head into the pillow. “Spread them,” with a slap between my thighs until they parted. Assuming a position on knees that were as spread apart and still allowing space for his hand to slap up to hit the lips between my sex. And he did hit them, repeatedly, hard. The sting made me clench my thighs and close them slightly. “Spread them,” he repeated with more vehemence, my face pressed so hard into the pillow that breath was a bit of a challenge – but not enough to panic. I did, and he continued his stinging torment.
If you were to observe our sex, on the longer and more intense sessions, it would be more like watching a roller coaster.
I’m not just referring to the speed, though there is that, as he slows to stop either of us from orgasming, but also the power dynamics at work rises and falls. Perhaps that’s not even appropriate – the power dynamics are always there, but to an observer he simply gets very cruel right before he does the most loving things.
An example is impact play – where he strikes me until I can’t stay still, until I squirm and confess that I don’t want any more, pushes past that limit (because I haven’t safeworded), and then strokes and soothes and pleases me in the softest of ways.
Face Fucking Suspension
Yep, just like title suggests. I was suspended, just him and I, and he did the teasing of the breasts as he went around my body to do a chest harness. But then he also fingered me in between tying my waist, and fingered me again when I was off the ground sideways in a suspension. He watched my body writhe as much as I could tied in the air with an almost detachment of curiosity.
He went around to the front of me, where he had cleverly tied my face level with his cock. He exposed his hardened shaft and I opened my mouth. Instead of moving into my mouth, he grabbed the back of my head and pulled me around him, the ropes swinging slightly towards him. He wasn’t gentle, he didn’t allow me to adjust my throat to his size, but just kept steadily pulling my mouth to take more of him. I worried at the angle he choose that my teeth would interfere, that he would accidentally scrape himself. I panicked and struggled to breathe, my hands were tied, hell all of me was tied and I didn’t have the usual physical resources to warn him of my panic.
So I did the only thing I could – I relaxed my mouth and focused on my breathing, and stroked him with my tongue in a calming rhythm to me that obviously felt good to him. I stopped tensing in the ropes and felt the strands dig into my body, painful but comforting. I surrendered into the rope, into my helplessness, into his movements and desires.
I crashed into subspace. There is no other way to describe it, and I apologize for the lack of words.
I wasn’t even aware that later he untied the suspension ropes from the structure and carried me like a suitcase in ropes to the middle to room to bring me to another orgasm on the ground, until afterwards.
I’m married. He loves me. Let me state one more obvious: he’s going to have sex with me.
But does he want to? Would he under different circumstances?
I woke up thinking of how I am not approached in creepy or even non creepy manners, I am not complimented with lustful intentions. Most days I am grateful for this, but today, I pondered if that means that I am not lust-worthy. Does someone want to have sex with me?
Now, I know this thought is ridiculous – for the most important reason that worth comes from self. But still, it’s been forever since someone actually wanted to have sex with me other than my husband. I missed that high feeling that comes with being seen as desirable.
I asked my husband: “would you still want to do me if we weren’t married, if you didn’t love me? Of course you want me because you love me, but what if you had just met me?”
Totally missing the point, he replied, “of course, you’re a great lay. I’d always be coming back for more.”
Perhaps I should be more thrilled with the fact that he’s speaking of a skill level (something I can control and a higher compliment) than attractiveness (something I have very little control over), but I was wanting an answer towards not knowing me sexually yet and wanting to.
Still, I let the question go. It was silly, to even ponder such thoughts, to ask my own husband such things. After all, what could he possible answer with? The obvious.
I’ve been on a wide variety of dates, but have definitely gotten used to the typical dinner or drinks. It’s casual, it’s classic, and it works. Every once in awhile though, someone mixes it up, and it’s refreshing.
Then there was THIS date.
He asked to pick me up at my house. He agreed to my terms of no murdering either myself or my dogs, and, on most days, no murdering my roommate either. It was old fashioned and I was comfortable enough to agree. For some reason, I was also comfortable enough (which doesn’t happen often) to agree to fly blind on the date. It was a surprise, and I wasn’t to know. My birthday happened to be coming up within days, and he told me to be prepared for a little extra.
Typically on first dates these are no nos. It’s a recipe for disaster. Typically too though, men don’t ask to call you and TALK in the world of online dating. This one did. He arrived at my house at the appointed hour and not only was he more incredibly handsome than I could’ve hoped, he had red roses in his hand. I know people call it cliche, but the thing is, it isn’t anymore. Men don’t do that. It would be cliche if it happened all the time. He helped me put them in a vase and then we were off.
He opened my car door for me, and there on the seat was another red rose. Good Lord, this man was good! I was already impressed before by everything, but this definitely made me feel like I had made the right choice in letting him direct things. As we drove to the unknown location, the conversation was easy and warm. We pulled up to a shopping center, and I was still kind of confused as to what the plan was.
During the course of our phone conversations I had mentioned once that every year, I had a tradition of buying a new Christmas ornament. It’s a new memory for me, and I’m a girl who loves tradition.
So he took me to Hallmark to let me pick out an ornament, which he got for me.
Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up. I’d never be this good or creative at planning a date.
Next was sushi, also a brief mention. The man was attentive. He noticed that the dress I had on that night was one I’d worn in one if my profile pictures. He actively listened and was open about himself, even the flaws.
I love men. Like, manly men. The manlier the better. So after we looked over the menu and discussed what we’d each like, he ordered for me. My temperature rose. That was one of the most sexy things a man has done lately. It’s confident and manly and assertive, and just… swoon. He laughed when the sushi was too big to fit in my mouth, and made a show of covering his eyes to tease me as I tried to figure out how to look sexy while having rice try to store itself away in my cleavage.
Once dinner was over he grabbed the check before I could even glance at it, and firmly rejected my offer to split. He got my chair and helped me into my jacket- another check in the gentleman box. We got back in the car and there wasn’t a break in the easy conversations we were having. At this point I already thought this was a pretty amazing date and couldn’t wait to tell my best friend.
That’s when I discovered the date wasn’t over. Next on the agenda:
He drove around town so we could look at Christmas lights!
It’s the thoughtful, creative things that impress me, and whew, I don’t think this man could get more impressive.
Me being me, at this point I was ready to go rip his clothes off, but I behaved. It was easier because he was always the perfect gentlemen, while at the same time letting me know he thought I was incredibly sexy, beautiful, and awesome. The combination was wonderful, it lent itself to respect, but never a moment of “maybe he’s just not that into me”. During our discussions, I mentioned that I was kinda bummed that my house wasn’t really decorated for Christmas. I’d just moved recently and my decisions were buried behind a mountain of boxes. He then suggested, if I was open to another date, that he come to my house the next day, fish out the boxes, and help me decorate my house for Christmas.
After driving around for awhile he asked if I’d like to go home, if I’d like to hang out more, and where I’d be comfortable if I did. I agreed to go to his house because I was curious to see, after all, he’d seen mine. We picked out a Christmas movie to watch, continuing the theme of the date, and he popped it in. We sat on the couch and talked while it loaded and suddenly he said “You know, we’re not going to watch a movie. We’re going to sit and relax and talk, because I’m enjoying this and there’s no need for a movie for distraction.”
So we talked. And we talked, and we talked. Next thing you know it’s 2 am.
He kissed me and the spark was incredibly gratifying. I’m not going to lie, at this point I was so aroused my face was flushed. He rubbed my cheek and looked in my eyes and said, “I better get you home, because this has been amazing and it’s becoming really hard not to touch you.”
I wondered how anyone could be this charming, attractive, attentive, and creative all in one package. I’m not a girl who builds up unreasonable expectations, or at this point expectations at all, so I thought that even if this was the only date, it was absolutely amazing. He took me home and walked me to the door where he kissed me again, told me he absolutely couldn’t wait until he got to see me next time, and left me with a smile on my face that lasted the whole night and graced my face as I awoke the next day, eager for the next adventure.
When these flowers were given to me, they were as part of a very special romantic moment. Afterwards, to dry them, my lover tied them with ties so familiar to me, as these were ties often used when we do rope suspension together. The sight of these two things combined invoke such a profound response in, that for me so clearly captured in this photograph.
I can’t bring myself to clean our room. Not entirely. In a weird way, seeing your discarded clothing on the floor makes it seem like you’ve just left the room, moments before. It gives the feeling of expectancy, like at any moment you’ll walk in, pull me into your arms and kiss my breath away. I look around and hope that I look presentable for when you get home, slide my clothes off to join yours, and caress goosebumps onto my skin.
Although the room is filled with the empty hollow of your absence, my heart can’t help but to preserve you there in its increased rhythm when I smell you on our sheets. The slight disorder of our room comforts me in the mirage it presents, and makes the wait and the longing a touch easier to bear.
Cupid sucked. That was what she decided. So what if the day before Valentine’s she broke up with all her boyfriends and her girlfriend? She didn’t want the pressure of the sappy, consumer-driven holiday.
Barbara pretty much told Cupid to go to hell when he visited her in a dream. Of course, that was after she could stop gaping at his dreamy figure. He could have been a fashion model, so tall and well built. No wonder he was in charge of love, though she thought lust would have been more appropriate.
“All these years, and you’ve never settled down. If anything you’re getting more wild,” he lectured, pacing the carpet at the end of the bed.
“Mmm, you want to see me wild?” she asked, parting her legs and touching herself. What the hell, it was a dream, and it was Valentine’s day, she deserved a little lust, erm, love.
He rolled his eyes. She felt it rather unfair that if this was her dream, he should have joined her, spearing his shaft into her quiver. She giggled at the words that came to mind.
“You are going back to the eighties and you will stay there until you find a husband-“
“Not a wife?” she interrupted.
“A husband, while you’re still in college, like all the good girls do,” he continued, and poof, he was gone.
She finished masturbating, her body tense and her eyes shut tight during orgasm, and when she opened them, she was in a familiar, but very dated bedroom.
Dammit, she really was back in the past! How dare he! That was less than a week ago, and Barbara found herself exhausted and frustrated from fighting against his decree, from trying to conform and acting like a date was an interview for life, from putting on so much makeup and styling her hair so big again. She never wanted to live out these days again, and yet here she was.
She was devastated and collapsed to the ground, her dress parting. She really didn’t feel like she could continue in this period, and gripped the stupid land line in a hand, trying to think of who to call to get her out of the hell.
Forbidden Word: Phone, Carpet, Nipple
Extra Words: 20 Extra if her mom or dad finds her or is on the phone.
Extra Credit: Tell me a story about your worst phone call.