Jul 152017
 

My favorite type of fingering is hard/rough, fast, and deep; I love thrusting type motions far more than anything else for orgasms so if one or two fingers are inside of me, filling me, and I can feel the remainder of the fingers and hand slamming against my lips, it’s heavenly. Fingering is something that I didn’t care much for until recent years, when I discovered I liked it exactly that way. I also learned that I can squirt, cover an entire wrist and leave a pool of my desire dripping onto the sheets, if there’s enough pressure applied and fingers curl just the right way inside of me (so far fingering and one time with a vibrator are the only ways that have made me squirt).

Recently I’ve had some amazing experiences with fingers…

…I was teased for a length of time, and then it felt as if his whole fist was inside of me (it wasn’t, I was reassured, just a couple of fingers), painful, and my body wasn’t quite ready and stretched to accommodate but the act of forcing inside of me, the tightness of my body gripped around the intrusion created its own pleasure, and soon I coated his fingers and relaxed more against the pressure. He moved so agonizing slowly, intentionally based on his smile and ignoring of my begging. Finger tips circled the entrance, pressed in, gradually sunk in deeper and deeper where the length filled to almost painful, unhurriedly slid along my walls, out. I squeezed against the length, willed my body to orgasm despite the maddening pace, but he deliberately kept a  measure  I couldn’t. Finally, the pain as his teeth sunk into the sensitive nub of a nipple created such tension that I gratefully climaxed around his fingers.

…A few times I’ve had a new experience of one finger anally inserted and the others crammed into my cunt. It is unbelievable to me  how much I really appreciate the feeling of being filled with fingers, of stimulation in both places so very close together that I don’t often experience. A few times I’ve wondered if I like it so much because it is a rare treat, or if I would like it each and every time I get to experience it; I used to have sex with a finger in my anus more regularly and I liked it every time, so perhaps it is not the novelty of the stimulation.

Fingering seems to be in many of my posts as it’s such an easy way for me to orgasm to…

Half laying on my side and stomach, I woke up when fingers roughly pushed their way into my body, pounded in and out to where the hand and remaining fingers felt like a fist against my lips.

I was already wet, as it seems I always am. I clenched around the fingers and dream and reality splintered with the rough and quick orgasm.”Feeling Forced

Waking up to a fingering is such a fetish I have, but I’ve learned that I appreciate the many different ways of anticipating fingers inside of me as well.

He put a finger in my mouth, and I sucked on it, running my tongue down the side, my lips sliding all the down the length of it, before he pulled it back and moved the finger between my labia, my own kisses allowing his finger to slide inside before it curled deliciously against my g-spot. He moved unhurriedly, rubbing it against my spot, uncurling, slowly easing the teasing digit out, softly circling my entrance, bringing out my cream, dipping back in, back out, spreading my dampness between my lips and up to my clitoris, circling and flicking the nub, again advancing between my folds…oh my…

We had been going all day; my sore body was still so very sensitive as well. “Finger fuck me hard,” I groaned, arching my back, my hips bucking against his slow and torturous finger. He complied, his finger dancing in and down to a rhythm by now he knew I liked. My thighs trembled, tightened, thrusting my hips up to meet his finger, to fuck it even harder….Tightening, tensing, clenching, trying to grip just the one finger, feeling it press, feeling my core absorbing the touch and fanning the sensation outwards, I moaned into my orgasm.” – Finger 

Jul 112017
 

The night prior The Wanderer and I did wax play but it brought up our need to have a knife. I love feeling a cold, sharp knife slide between hardened hot wax and my sensitive skin.

So the next morning, with a free day ahead of us (an unheard thing), we went a store and I selected a knife that I wanted. He was kind enough to buy it for me. Next time, we’re ready;considering my love of knives, it was really quite strange that I do not own any.

We decided to head towards a boardwalk on a nearby beach, where our first order of business was food. Splitting two meals so we could sample a variety of what the menu offered: shrimp and lobster. Sitting in a shady place on the boardwalk, with the ocean breeze drifting, and after he allowed me to caress him for an hour, the day promised peace that I don’t often feel. Conversation flowed as beautifully as the weather around us – I regretted not wearing a dress again and felt warm as the sun shown upon my jeans. Our friendship is easy enough for the silences not to be awkward amid a constant flow of any topic to happen back and forth.

Lunch was delivered and the lobster arrived wholly intact. I could barely even look at it and before I could request that they de-shell it, the waiter left. Fortunately, it seems The Wanderer is handy with cracking seafood and didn’t mind that I would not be helping in the slightest. He also was incredibly generous with gifting me with some of the best pieces. It was endearing, caring, sweet.

After we finished lunch, he asked me to hold his phones for a moment. It was a first and when he put a hand out, I smiled and cradled them closer, turning away and demanding a kiss. I was secretly worried that he would freak out without not immediately being handed the phones back, but he hesitated, reached around to grab them but briefly kissed me as he did so. A token price, but a huge step in the right direction of relaxation and playful interaction for us.

We walked to the end of the boardwalk after lunch where he had to take a phone call. A slight breeze cooled an otherwise far too warm day and I had to the urge to frolic among the much cooler waves. After he was done with his call, we decided to walk along the shoreline. I took off my sandals and rolled up my jeans above my calves; he did similar though was far more dressed so the casual rolled pants and finger hooked around the heels of dress shoes made a startling contrast. It was simply another reminder that I didn’t observe him relaxing much.

As we walked, we had discussions of vacations that were sadly more of dreams far more than plans – as more time goes on I realize this is unlikely to happen as a marriage and children take the spare down days; still, how nice to dream at times. It was truly our first date, and as dates go this one had visions of a future between two hopeful people establishing a connection; I believe one of us even mentioned that it was an actual date rather than our kink sessions mixed in between his business meetings, even the morning had no real BDSM elements (though the night prior was filled with such explorations).

Eventually we reached my vehicle, and after brushing the sand off of our feet and legs, unrolling our pants, and a brief hug and kiss, I’d drive him to the airport and watch the methodical way he grabbed his bag and made his way in the hurried no-nonsense manner I see every businessman do.

Jul 072017
 

To strip out of lingerie, slowly touching. To fuck myself with the wand, to make myself squirt. The bed had a puddle. To orgasm over and over again. To take my toy and fuck myself, to edge myself, to finger myself. To watch him play. To play while he does. To orgasm with him.

I was a sweaty, drenched mess resentful of squirting, of so many orgasms. Overwhelmed.

These were the notes to finish the punishment post – which I never did finish as we (of course) broke up shortly thereafter. It was our longest reconciliation, and our final break up, before we finally reconciled the fact that we were no longer meant to be together.

We jumped right into the power dynamics almost every time we reconciled, but this was different, this punishment – as it was truly a punishment. I dislike so many aspects of this scene:

To perform on command

To masturbate in front of another

To push past one orgasm towards another

To squirt

Edging myself

Sweating

To dress sexy

To be told what to wear

To watch me over the phone live

I won’t finish this post either, as this is a purging, but it was incredibly fucking hot. And horrible. A great punishment for failing at a task.

But this isn’t just a purging, it’s a reflection also. My ex husband knew me so well that sometimes that’s what I ache for. He knew what was pushing my limits, how to control me, how to give me a look that could silence me, the tone of his voice that I simply could not argue with, what my limit was, and when I was hitting peaks.

As I explore power dynamics: both with Mr. Texas and The Wanderer, I miss this awareness that my ex husband had. I miss the absolute knowledge to control me. The Wanderer I heed to simply because it’s our dynamic, because I sense when he holds back for my sake and I am grateful, but also slightly intimidated that he does hold back a bit at times (yay for not always now though, I survived one time he didn’t). Mr. Texas is learning, but it is slow, as it will be with another, as my body and words and my actions are often at odds in pleasure and pain. I do not always feel the need to obey him, sometimes truly debate if I should (because I want him to grow confident in dominanting me and that’s what we negotiated so how horrible if I didn’t) or I should not (because he’s pushing me far more than he realizes, or doesn’t know my exact limits, or can’t read me so beautifully). He’ll get there – this is all new to him.

Mimir got it very quickly, but Mimir has a true gift in the BDSM realm of being able to observe, to withhold, to read people, to push people, to listen, to know them. He is incredibly intelligent and has such a background in kink that his bag of tricks never ceased to amaze me. Even with a bag of tricks, and a breadth of knowledge on things, I have nowhere near the patience nor the skill to read people the way that Mimir did.

The way that my ex husband could read me.

Mr. Texas has no advantage to him other than me as a bottom – who knows that he is capable and the love to be patient.

But how I crave, how I ache, for what my ex and I had. If I have to debate power dynamics, they don’t feel very powerful to me. It’s a choice I am making, a request I am granting; though I know that it is and has always been a choice – it felt more instinctive, allowed me to get out of my whirlwind thoughts and simply obey.

Neither of my current partners are capable of this dynamic – The Wanderer does not even have the time nor the inclination to pursue it at this point in our relationship, and my darling Mr. Texas and I are exploring it – not always with success, but more with persistence. We at least have physically forcing going for us – that’s hot.

Though I sometimes ache, sometimes crave, the power dynamics that force me with just a presence.

 

Jul 032017
 

I really am failing Mr. Texas. I introduce him to kink, meet a man who can finally meet my sex drive, and then I spiral into a deep depression. Sex isn’t as crucial as it once was…at least to me. Neither is kink…at least to me.

…But for Mr. Texas, I sparked something very primal in him and then ask him to constantly tame it, ignore it. I know exactly how he feels, it’s something that I have felt so frequently in my own life and sexual journey. It also doesn’t change the fact that for me, the timing, the mood, the passion, the spark just isn’t there. Mr. Texas doesn’t wait for me to initiate either – another oddity in my life, so I can’t blame him for not even trying.

Recently, it’s been hit or miss, I’m starting to have echoes of my old drive but it’s just as perverse as anything right now – at the most inconvenient of times. Twice that day I asked him with words and my body pressed against him to have sex with me, but he delayed me for one reason or another – all legitimate: it’s my body and mind that want what I can’t have.

I put myself to bed early one night but was restless, more wanting quiet than sleep. He respected my wishes, but when it was time for him to come to bed, he wrapped me in his arms. I was not in the mood for sex, but he wasn’t indicating either. Still, I felt bad that this passionate man was always just an unfair deal in my moods and drive. He caressed along my back and I thought how knife would feel as well, so I asked him to grab a knife and lay on his stomach. If nothing else, I could caress him and pay attention to him in a way that I knew he would also appreciate.

He did as asked without question; my fingers stroked his skin and I felt his muscles relax under my touch. Gripping the knife gently, I slid the cold flat blade up and down his back slowly, introduced his hot skin to the cold steel, moved down to his butt and thighs eventually, expanding my playground. Flat of knife became the sharpened tip that skimmed and scratched at the surface of his skin, up and down where the noise was more obvious than the marks. My other hand or mouth would occasionally caress in unison, but the focus was the knife.

I found myself fixated on the knife in the dim lighting, felt as though it was an extension of me. Applying more pressure with the tip, he took an intake of breath and I was hooked on his reaction, looking for my next fix. This time the tip pressed into his skin, created a triangular shadow as it compressed down, left a pink streak as the sharpened tip scratched down, the flat of the blade catching the light of the room and created a contrast of reflected light casting a path for which the darkened skinned tip followed.

It picked up every freckle, mark, smoothness of skin, and goosebumps of the man so trusting under my touch. It highlighted every place that I would mark, mar, love, caress, claim. Shadows were cast with his intake of breath, his slow exhalation, my heart and own breathing seemed to match his in the intensity of such close cognizance.

This was about the limit that was on the line in comfort with, so to get a further reaction I dragged the tip deeper against his skin. Red trails followed my blade now and he struggled to relax into it. I wasn’t having him relax into it, so softly I questioned how badly it would hurt if I cut an area I was in, how it would be just terrible if he bled, how he would think of me when the opened skin would touch something throughout his day or sting with his sweat. I feel fairly competent with a knife, and his trust was in that I would not cut him, but calmly putting the thoughts I had no intention of following through on was enough for him to panic slightly. He warned that it felt like I nicked him, muscles tensed where I was, he wanted me to go easier.

I used a soothing voice to tell him to relax and did not ease up, only leaned down and thoroughly kissed the swell of a cheek and side of a hip as I whispered that I needed to love my blank canvas. Stretching the moments until he felt the tip of the blade, I scratched red letters into white skin, a love letter unfolded along the curve of his body. Mr. Texas thoroughly believed that I would scar him, protested but didn’t color, so I traversed back up his back after I was done expressing my words and explained that I would never violate his consent, that I would not intentionally ever cut him, scar him, but that his mind and his body were mine in those moments and that I was in control of what he thought and felt.

It had been a long time since I had engaged as a top, longer still with any sort of dominance, and I felt like he needed some kink in his life. He also needed a reminder that actions are all the more powerful with words and feelings behind them, that a scene can be carried out without a break, that limits can be touched without being broken.

Apparently I also needed a reminder that when the knife is sheathed and I snuggle into his body, he is a man who learns a lesson, whose spark is easily lit, and who is intelligent enough to realize that I am no longer in control. Fingers wrapped around my throat, his body forced mine onto my back, knees sunk painfully deep into my thighs to spread them before his fingers sought my wetness and increased it to soaking. He plunged into my body, his fingers going from throat to the back of my head and gripped my head back, but I could sink my teeth into his shoulder as deeply as he sunk into my depths.

The following day, he would have a few letters still remaining though barely visible on a hip and a bruise on his shoulder, and I would smile with the memory of how we conquered each other.

Jun 192017
 

We laid in bed and snuggled in. It then that I realized my mouth, as it was inches from him. 

I shut it. Why did I forget my mouth? I could smell the sin on my own breath , surely he would be able to as well. 

Why was so careful to inspect and hide all the evidence of my cheating but my mouth still carried the scent? I should have brushed my teeth, of all the simple things that I simply overlooked!

It was glorious cheating for once, I relished and reveled in a different taste, though my body didn’t care for the experience.

But now that I was literally face to face with him, my lips were sealed, not just with the secret but to not slip proof of my weakness. 

And I realized, it wasn’t worth the risk.

The taste in my mouth became pungent and putrid, it laid on my tongue and made me victim rather than victor. What would he think of me if I were to expose myself as someone who succumbed? 

Hopefully if he pushed his tongue into my mouth to delve and taste, he would think it was a bad breath rather than bad form. But my breath, which gives me life and sustinence may now end something that I hold dear…

If nothing else, I would see, especially this close to his face, the disappointment rather than pride, the distrust.

The chili dogs weren’t worth it.

Jun 072017
 

Mr. Texas has this habit of not coming very quickly. It may seem like a wonderful thing, except I like to change up from having sex after about 15 minutes, regardless of how many positions we engage in. I used to have this habit of hooking my heels on the insides of a man’s hips and physically pushing him out if he was on top after about 15 minutes. I don’t do that with Texas, I let him continue until his incredibly sexy grunts and groans and goosebumps dotting his skin signal his climax.

Perhaps it’s because he orgasms so beautifully I let him continue.

So after far too many multiple orgasms, with his own pleasure slowly trickling out of my body and the drops increasing my sensitivity as they move between my folds, he presses my body against his own – little breathless spoon wrapped around gasping and sweating big spoon, sealing our bodies tightly together. His fingers caress, and his semi erection presses against my cheeks; I moan and arch slightly into him.

He roughly rolls me onto my stomach, his hands grip thighs, palms press into cheeks, and he leaves me for a moment. I turn my head to look at what he is doing – such an unusual activity from this man after we start to cuddle. “Who gave you permission to move?” His voice stern, cluing me in that my body is about to go from pleasure to pain. I clench instinctively, and the echo of an orgasm throbs where our orgasms are still pooled in my depths.

A few days prior, in the hot tub where all our steamy discussions drift, we talked about our experiences with the cane that he now grabbed. I guided him in that discussion for more breaks, more change up from hard to soft, moving his position so it hit on different legs different ways; the cane was a challenge for me because it stung and I am positively wimpy at sting. So when the cane came out, he must’ve remember our talk.

He did everything right and the pain only heightened my sensitive body, became crests that were at the edge of my tolerance and rolled through my foggy brain, keeping me present on him and my beautiful body.

Rolled over, he entered me again, his hands going up my body and gripping my breasts. “I have this urge to take the crop to your nipples.”

“Go for it,” I agreed, hazy and breathless from an orgasm, “just remember that my nipples can take a lot but my breasts can’t.”

So gently, with precision, he cropped my nipples, that unexpectedly hardened and created sparks of pleasure and tension tightening even around his cock buried deep, led to such a powerful orgasm.

My body is a wondrous thing.

Earlier in the day, we painted the bedroom in colors of my choosing so that it felt like my domain – Mr. Texas is clever at using things at hand. He rolled me over, brought out the tape used in painting and stuck it over the reddened stripes. He caned over those places, the sting more thud with the protective layer, and then smacked with his hand a few times.

Next, the tape was so slowly and sensually peeled off. It was odd: far too intimate for my body to feel like clothing, more like I was losing a layer of skin or stinging places were peeled off that exposed sensitive nerves to the air. Three strips of tape were on each thigh, going from inside the thigh to wrap around and slightly up to the outside of the thigh. They glided off effortlessly with the slight pulling, making my skin so achingly aware as they gently removed.

So sensual; I moaned and raised my hips up in welcome.

Unable to resist the plump offering, his fists beat against the fleshy bottom and back of thighs, a welcome thud after sting. Being resourceful, he took an unused paint roller and slowly rolled the fuzzy fabric up my thighs, bottom, back – a warm blanket rolled up and graced my skin. Wherever the roller was, so too were my every thoughts, just feeling the sensation. A short pause, a movement alongside me, when again the roller traversed, there was a thin line of cold  across – water he dripped onto the material – that really made me aware of the roller circling around as it traveled.

Next, it was the paint brush’s bristles, stiff little points passing along my curves, following paths of red stripes that no longer hurt but welcomed the brushing.

He beat me with his fists again after such gentle care, yet my body and brain welcomed the sinking of his knuckles into muscles. He rolled me over onto my back and in one hand gripped both of my ankles, curling me up a little to smack at both sides of my bottom’s crease and thighs, occasionally getting my swollen wet labia, where eventually the stinging smacks made me cry out.

Telling me how absolutely beautiful I was, he lowered my legs, then mentioned moving me into the bathroom where there was more light for a picture. Mr. Texas is learning so very well, however, as he changed his mind before he could encourage me to move off of the bed, instead allowed me to lay in my hazy brain and lazy body, and held me in his arms. My body was now a sweaty mess, hair tangled and refusing to be tamed no matter how much he tried to brush it back as I laid my head on his chest.

I drifted in and out of his praise and caresses, fell into a deep sleep that gloriously lasted the entire night.

May 312017
 

I used to joke that my husband sucked in bed once. He did, but he could laugh good-naturedly about it because he was asleep when he sucked. How that man was fully asleep, and yet could carry on a conversation, be hard, let me ride him, and even cum inside of me fully asleep – I’ll never know. The military may train these men to sleep under strange circumstances, as I also don’t understand how he sleeps through mortars or standing up.

And now he has sucked a second time (almost a third, as the night before that wasn’t that great, though it wasn’t terrible). The last time I had sex with him (why does our last times have to suck in some way?), the sex wasn’t good. That night he didn’t want to have sex with me at all – even though I hadn’t seen him in weeks and we just had two nights (and not even days) together, but in the morning hours after his alarm went off he was apparently in the mood for it.  I didn’t even orgasm – and that’s saying something for me. He was fully awake but I received no foreplay before he was pulling me on top of him. I rode him until he found his orgasm in the early morning hours before he climaxed and then began to get ready to go for the day.

Perhaps he was still asleep? No, he was fully awake, he even admitted as much later, and he approached me for sex, not me pushing my body down on his lazy form that I was unaware was sleeping.

Perhaps it was good bye sex? No, good bye sex is meaningful in many ways. It has the passionate ending that is fizzling out but contained for one last burst of brightness. It has longing and love and tenderness behind every moment, and an intense unspoken message in every action. It is a parting gift, a last hurrah. There was no message in his action, no passion in his movement.

Perhaps it was one stand sex? No, even one night stands are more impressive. They explore an unknown body, or a body that they haven’t seen in awhile. People show off a skill normally in a one night, like a one trick pony putting on a display. They seem unsure because it is just for one night. He seemed sure of the steps, of the dance, of the show; uncaring of the tricks that he knows will bring me delight.

I didn’t say anything as he left.

Perhaps it was good bye sex that I was feeling? And I was tired of the words – besides which, he had uttered them far too often and only once to my face – and that was more of a repeat of the words he stated as I drove across country towards him.

Perhaps it was one night stand sex? That was how I felt, as if this person underneath me was just using my body for one time and uncaring of putting on a show; though I was: I was grinding down and tightening in ways that I know bring him pleasure, bring most men to pleasure, putting on my one trick in a way that tires me beyond one show. I didn’t know this person that my thighs straddled, he was an emotionless stranger to me that time and distance and anger and hurt and other relationships created.

…Later that day, when he called me when I driving the distance home, he said that he didn’t feel a connection to me the whole weekend. I could tell and let him know that.

I could also tell where the conversation was leading, as I had heard this enough from him. We didn’t place blame or point fingers, there was no “you do this” but only “I feel this” of a healthy communication expressing of feelings. He didn’t want to do this anymore: he wanted his family to take care of him, he was afraid of change, he was unsure of ever trusting our relationship again.

And to be honest: I was ready to let go. I didn’t want to do this again. I didn’t want to change who I was, what I wrote about, have someone jealousy paranoid, be in a relationship where there was no trust: me not trusting him to stay with me despite time and commitment, him not trusting me in a monogamous setting where I am not even talking to people in a sexual manner. I didn’t want to sacrifice anything further for him – I had already sacrificed so much. And I didn’t want him to sacrifice anything for me when he told me over and over again that he didn’t want to, and I didn’t want the resentment if he did.