Aug 242017
 

It’s arousing when he uses my mouth for the sake of using it – no reason: he isn’t searching for a kiss, his cock will not replace his fingers. Mr. Texas will occasionally slip a thumb or a finger(s) in my mouth, sometimes it’s just to slide it gently against my tongue, to pry open my mouth, or to hit the back of my throat. Whatever the reason, it instantly flips a switch with me; I find it hot.

And when his fingers are more forceful in my mouth for no reason, it’s all the hotter to me. For a reason I don’t quite understand yet, I love being used, I love his fingers in an intimate place forcing it wider, or fingertips going deeper and almost making me choke…for no reason other than he wants to.*

I get off on that he is using a part of my body in an unusual manner, I get off on the power dynamic that he does what he wants with me how he wants to. If he’s being rougher, if I’m choking or gasping around fingers who do not appreciate the sacrifice like cock does, it just switches me to a more wanton being.

I want his fingers between my legs, being forceful and sliding against the wetness of my desire and not my saliva. I want the tip of his head to hit my throat, for my lips and tongue to explore the hardness of his shaft. I am being denied; he is being denied; he is creating this denial that benefits neither of us and that’s an incredible shift of power for me.

It’s so sexy.

 

*(Sure, he’ll tell you the reason is because he realizes it makes me wild and I obviously like it, and he loves that reaction).

Wicked Wednesday** I didn’t follow the prompt for Wicked Wednesday, but still felt inspired to write. Click on the circle to see what people find sexy about flying.

Mar 262017
 

The Wanderer and I spent a night together in which he immediately, with no warm up, beat my ass with a thick leather belt and created welts that marked for a week. We did so many things in the short amount of time we spent in the hotel. Here’s three:

Throat. Something I know he doesn’t do much of but something I enjoy is a hand around my throat. After a belt spanking, playing around a bit, dinner, orgasms, and a spanking, he laid me on the bed and fingered me to an orgasm. Nothing out of the usual, until his hand went around my throat. I’m pretty sure it was for my benefit far more than his, but instantly his large hand held my every thought. That physical reminder that I was vulnerable was all I needed to surrender any shred of control to him. He didn’t apply a lot of pressure along my pulse on either side of my neck, but I didn’t need it to feel powerless. I shut my eyes, focused on his other fingers deep inside of me and curling slightly, rubbing at place that had me crying out and shuddering in ecstasy.

Hot wax. The sad fact is that we were planning on playing with wax six months prior – he even bought the candles. But then I reconciled with my husband, so that didn’t work out at all. I had actually used one candle he bought on my friend – to show her how sensual and intimate wax and knife feels.

With The Wanderer, it was what I thought it would be – sensual and intimate. I was fuzzy brained from pain, tired from orgasms, yet for some reason I was a bit squirmy every time the drops hit my body. It hurt and stung in a way that I was surprised with, but perhaps my head space was all over the place by that point. He measured the drops, his eyes never leaving my body – I was the sole focus of his attention, something that I adore with any type of scene – the sole focus and connection found. After awhile, the pattering of the drops calmed me and I was able to breathe a bit into the rhythm he set, to watch his gaze, drops sizzling and then cooling to hardened little reminders of his travel. He teased around my nipple, not quite touching it but circled around. My skin was pinpoints along the trails, flushed from his attention as much as the heat.

Hand job. Prior to the wax, he had requested a hand job. If anyone were to ask me my deficiency in the bedroom, I would tell them that it was a hand job. I rarely even attempt to give them, and here he was asking for one. “You’ll have to teach me,” I warned. So he promised me he would, and he was an excellent teacher, able to verbalize exactly what it was he wanted from me. My hand wrapped around his shaft and he directed to where exactly to hold on the length. Unsure, I squeezed a bit and he directed me to clench harder. Up and down, my fingers felt the muscles and veins and ridges, my palm felt how deliciously hard he was. His encouragement with the timber of his voice, the erotic words directing me, and I found myself growing wet, imagining what I felt in my hand sliding up and down inside my cunt.

As he hardened even more, his thigh muscles tightened and his hips thrusted a bit into my hand, and I felt powerful. I was creating these sensations that he was enjoying, producing pleasure that had nothing to do with me and every bit directed just for him. There is something selfless about a hand job: it allowed me to be more of an observer of his pleasure, gifted me an intimate view of how he reacts and what he liked, such an intimate glimpse.

I felt him pulse and throb against my fingers and palm, watched as his milky orgasm reached its climax and shot out of his cock, heard his groan of satisfaction. It was so hot.

I can’t wait to see him and learn some new techniques to pleasure him with my hand(s).

Masturbation Monday Week 134To read his thoughts on hand jobs, click here. To see a picture of the wax, click here.

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Feb 272017
 

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.

I was pushed fully on my stomach, my legs spread by Mr. Texas’ knees as he popped the head of his cock between my lips and past the initial resistance of my entrance. My wet body allowed the rest of him to slide effortlessly to my wall, which he hit surprisingly fast and painfully. A few more thrusts that hit and hurt, and my body stretched more fully to accommodate him, adjusting to where it was less pain and more pleasure.

Even in the pain, I tightened in the pleasure and raised my hips to welcome him hitting the depths that caused the discomfort. I love the uncaring taking, the forcing in. It turns me on far more than words can express. Even now, as I type this, I grow wet with the memory.

I groaned a bit too loudly. He yanked back my head with a fist in my hair; I moaned even more, arched back and took him deeper, and he pushed my face into the bed.

Perhaps he did so because of the sleeping kids in the house, he is after all quite considerate.

I struggled to breathe for a minute, my nose squished uncomfortably. I came; I screamed. The uncaring nature of such an act, the pounding of him inside of me, the slight objectification of being used in such a manner, all of it so unbelievably hot to me that orgasms simply didn’t cease, pleasure after pleasure crashed and didn’t ebb. It allowed me to not think, to go from dream to orgasm after orgasm, to not even have to be conscious of my own noises or own reactions, just to be repeatedly rammed by his cock. I felt every ridge, every throb, especially the tip of his head and the curve underneath – felt like a hook scratching an incessant itch against my walls.

The fist demanded my head up so quickly I had to use elbows to brace myself, a hand went around my throat and his fingers felt and dug where I showed him I liked on either side. Normally, he allows my own weight to dig into his fingers, this time they squeezed as he lowered my head upon the fingertips, my elbows no longer needed to brace myself up. His cock continued it’s relentless pleasure thrumming in my body. His fingers around my throat competed with attention. Dizzying, I felt my legs lower and my body become heavy. My eyes were already shut or otherwise I would have noticed the world go dark; I only noticed the gasping of breath as he rolled me over, the heaviness of my body, the haziness of my brain.

“I think you passed out for a moment, your whole body went limp,” he thrusted himself between my thighs as he stated that, and though it didn’t sound like it – I still sensed the concern even as he fucked me senseless.

I knew amid foggy brain and orgasms he still needed reassurance. I also knew that if I passed out, it was done correctly, safely, and was far shorter than my ex husband and I would do.

“Probably, and that’s hot. I’m fine,” I managed to breathe out in between cries of pleasure. I bit down on his shoulder as my arms wrapped around him, my heels digging in to his hips to pull him in even deeper.

He leaned back, grabbed my wrists, forced them over my head, pressed upon them with his body weight as just that action alone caused another orgasm. I was so tense under him and in that tension tightened even more as his own grunts and groans signaled his release.

I fucking love rough sex, feeling forced, being taken, pinned.

And I fucking love the softness of being held, of reassuring that what occurred was amazing, of praising each other and communicating how deeply we care for each other.

Wicked Wednesday*Wicked Wednesday is about one man, and in these moments no one and nothing exists except this one man.

**February Photo Fest photo continues the story of David, unrelated to the above story but this picture is so beautiful at visually being taken. Febraury Photofest
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Dec 012016
 

I wasn’t even going to write this post, but after:

  • I viewed my sister’s body and can no longer deny that she is dead;
  • I cried hysterically as I laid my head next to hers;
  • I stroked her glorious hair (she had amazing hair);
  • I say a tentative goodbye (I know there’s many more);
  • I comforted my father – a man that rarely even expresses emotions;
  • I bemoaned why there would even be a viewing – how morbid!
  • I get drunk at lunch as my father keeps ordering more and more drinks.
  • I go back to the bed that she used to sleep in and take a long nap.
  • My friends hear about my day and graciously kidnapped me,
  • We head towards a kink event which was at a swinger’s club,
  • I am distracted by the wonderful performances of my skilled friends,
  • I am kissed and cuddled by David,
  • I have incredibly public sex with David,
  • I ride the sybian,
  • He rides the sybian.
  • And then I said goodbye to friends and he took me back to my sister’s house,
  • where during the ride home I tell him for the first time I just lost my sister and he reacted very compassionately:

At first it seemed we just intended to cuddle once we stripped naked. It was the early morning and we were both exhausted. Plus, we had had multiple orgasms already at the club. His hand grazed my nipple and that was all it took for me to request sex. I was tired, he was tired, so I told him to grab a condom before he thought I was asking for foreplay. He fucked at a fast pace, one that I couldn’t believe he could keep up as long as he went. We moved positions quite a bit, but a favorite of his was me on my side with one leg split up between our bodies. The position allowed him to bottom out and I welcomed the pain.

He yanked back on my head a lot, my scalp complaining at the pain, my body thrumming at the pain and pleasure contrast. He also wrapped his hand around my throat and gently squeezed every so often. David is excellent at creating a helpless feeling and letting me know that he is in control. I surrendered that control to him, my mind more fully escaped into the sensations he was creating.

He also talked dirty to me, something that is always slightly shocking (though why, considering how many men recently have done that?) and takes me away from my orgasms a bit. He called me a “fucking whore” quite a bit, verbalized how he was going to fuck me next, how good I felt, how good he felt – all using crude language that I’m sure would have me blushing, except the shock factor of the words was just enough to penetrate through my orgasms AND also the emotional numbness that was beginning to creep in from the past several days.

Would I like the talk otherwise? Probably not. It’s just not my thing, at least how he was doing it. But in that moment it was appropriate because I needed something to take me out of my comfort zone to help me escape the numbing despair, even if just for moments.

I was being fucked into existence with his hammering inside of me; and I was alive. 

He pulled out of me after far too long, my body sore, and tore off the condom, straddling my chest and stroking himself. “I’m going to feed you,” he stated, and then guided my mouth to wrap around his cock, impaling my head on his shaft until his hot cum spilled down my throat. He roughly fucked my throat through his climax and then we cleaned up.

When I came back to bed, he pulled me into his arms and held me tightly, smoothing down my hair. Soon he was asleep, but he woke up every time I stirred and pulled me in close.

It was nice to doze in and out always surrounded by the arms of a friend. It was comforting to not be alone, to be cared for.

It was the only night I allowed myself the luxury of seeking comfort with sex and a man, and it was with a friend.dsc_7466

Oct 272016
 

I wrote a post back in February on trying anal sex for the first time with my husband – who had just left me weeks prior. I stated I felt that it needed a trigger warning, but I wasn’t sure why.

And then I sat on the post for four months because he didn’t want me to post it, was outright upset with it, and I thought (and still think) it’s because it showed he cheated on his monogamous girlfriend with his wife.

I posted it when he did some asshole things to me and why should I care and protect him? Also, because the bad decisions of that weekend still nagged at me, and I felt that I didn’t read enough real stories of desperate people trying to hold onto a relationship with terrible decisions (like how I was the other woman and trying all sorts of new things with my ex).

It shocked me to see the consent issue come up, because I hadn’t thought of it, but once I read the comment, that was exactly why I felt like it needed a trigger warning. (It’s hard to believe I didn’t think of it, now, when my writing definitely looks like non consent.)

And then his girlfriend felt the urge to defend him and question me in the commentary, and while she didn’t state it was her, I knew it was and confirmed it with him. (She interacted several times with me but I didn’t keep the entirety of the interactions because I feel it is inappropriate that she addressed me at all – I never once addressed her on anything.)

“You made it seem like rape,” he declared, upset, defending her action.

“It felt like it was at the moment,” I shot back, and then realized…yes, it did.

It was not the consensual non consent scene, hell, it wasn’t even edge play by either of our standards. When he proposed anal sex before he came that weekend, I told him probably not, but that I would think on it. That morning I told him I wasn’t interested in it. And then he pushed for it during a head space a bit foggy with orgasms. And while I said maybe, I did not say yes. And when he pushed for it, I told him no. And when I asked him to stop, he blood-chocked me unconscious.

The fallout led me to crying hysterically for hours and finally crying myself to sleep. It led to him yelling at me to get a grip on myself and my emotions. It led to me not being to articulate what bothered me so badly about the experience. It left me seriously depressed (or maybe that was being divorced, ditched, all the way across the country from my support system?).

And it wasn’t until the comment that consent wasn’t given that I realized why this moment devastated me so fully.

But let me perfectly clear – I am not calling this rape.

Maybe this is where the shades of gray and debate can come out.

I am only saying that it felt like rape; and this is the first and only time I have felt like that.

First and foremost, while my safeword did not occur to me, I did have one. My ex truly expected me to use it.

We have talked about this sensitive topic since then; I truly do not believe that he meant for the experience to feel the way that it did. I believe that he expected me to safeword if I felt that strongly about “no” after talking to him months later. And I truly did not even think about using a safeword, felt like my “no” and “stop” were enough; after all – just the day prior we discussed needing the safeword before a scene. I didn’t use a safeword with him just having sex with him – never felt that was needed.

Perhaps this is a horrible complication with using safewords, when stop and no don’t always mean stop and no.

I still take responsibility.

I am still his friend, and still hope to be so. I hope he doesn’t take offense, as I mean none, in reflecting on anal this week.

And I still feel that the scene needs a trigger warning – if nothing else for me – I can’t even reread it and haven’t since I wrote it (other than the third italic sentence I added in the beginning to clarify a comment). Hell, even reflecting on it, I feel sick.

May 012016
 

Masturbation Monday badge - smallI love the after moments, after my lips fairly drip with the evidence of our orgasms. When you are soft and relaxed, lazy in letting me stroke  you.

I love how your fingers will sometimes drift and graze across a nipple, my sharp intake of breath a clear indication of what those orgasms have done to create a sensitive nerve-centered body.

You might pull me over and on top of you, a hand around my neck to keep me there – not threatening my air flow but an evident display of your control over me. My head rests back on your shoulder, trusting and further exposing my vulnerable neck. I am only in this moment, with you and a body that cries out for more pleasure despite how overwhelming it may already be.

You reach down and your fingers dip into my wet center, drag the the slickness up and down my slit, circle and press lightly on my button, dip and finger fuck me roughly.

My hand reaches behind and continues to stroke you, harder now than moments before, your ridges becoming more evident against my palm and fingers.

You whisper in my ear how wanton I am, how I never get enough of you, how wet and needy my body is. You whisper of your next moves and your fingers echo of the pleasure you paint in words; a tension in my body’s core is created and I roll my hips against your fingers, turn my face closer to your words.

Prompt for Masturbation Monday Week 87

Apr 252016
 

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U is for Ultrahot (yes it’s really a word) for my A to Z Challenge. This man I experienced a lot of firsts with, and he has to have been the hottest I had ever had sex with (if we’re going by society’s standards – he didn’t turn me on physically the most out of every body.)

He was pretty. His photos were of a body that was incredibly sculpted, his smile friendly. He had light eyes and hair. He contacted me within minutes of my new dating profile that my sister had helped me create for “slutfest” – as she called it. In my profile, were a lot of lingerie and me in a bed type pictures so people didn’t get the wrong idea. The tagline and profile was a mixture of corny and pretty direct – I would have never written it myself, but with sis A at the helm of the keyboard, my inner most slut was polished and put on online display.

If he would have contacted me later, I wouldn’t have responded, as his message was generic. The first few guys had the advantage in that I had zero expectations towards communication. And the amount of communication I received in being so direct in just wanting sex was staggering.

We exchanged messages, and then kik (which I created because he suggested it). He was respectful, left openings in the conversations, but didn’t come across as aggressive or desperate.

We met at my place, the place I went back to to pack up the remainder of what I could gather in the home my husband and I had shared – all the way across country (this time I flew back). It was still in the same week my husband had turned me away, and I figured that I needed to empty the house belongings before I looked for a job since I couldn’t guarantee my husband would help me move later. (He did offer to help in about 2 months, but that was no guarantee with two people divorcing.)

I stuck out a hand and introduced myself at the door – how does one make an introduction to an online hookup…a kiss, a hug, a handshake? He was my first ever hookup in such a manner. I asked if he wanted to go into the bedroom; he smiled and said yes, eyes widened in surprise at my directness, but he was there for one reason only and I didn’t want to engage in small talk – I was still crying daily and the smallest things set me off.

I hopped up on the bed and began undressing, he complained he was bloated before removing his clothes. I laughed at his self consciousness as I admired the incredibly gorgeous body that was being revealed. He sat next to me on my big bed, and leaned forward to kiss me. I pushed him back so he was laying on the bed and kissed his neck. He gripped my hair and pulled me onto my back.

He hands were often forceful around my throat or in my hair, an unusual move for someone new who had zero discussion of my comfort with kink. He tried to penetrate me without a condom, even though I stated condoms were to be used before he even arrived. I kicked out from under him and reminded him of the condoms.

He had a hard time staying hard but we were certainly all over the bed when he was erect. I was on top. He was top. He pulled out, put his face down and spit between my legs – the first ever to spit on me and one I tried to not laugh at – it seemed so porn-like; I disliked it but said nothing. He rolled me over for doggy style, where he almost spanked me but instead his hand came down hesitantly, softly down upon my ass cheek; again the hesitation surprised me considering that I found a hand around my throat more risky than a spanking.

Then I was back on top.  I marveled at his strength, couldn’t keep my eyes off of his arms as he picked me up and fucked me standing, lifting me up and down with such an ease. After some time, I was laid back on the edge of the bed.

Again with the spitting – so strange to me, lube is far more effective if we needed it (and I almost never need it) and it was almost a show with its line of slow spit. Too much porn?

Almost face slapped, and just like his spanking, his hand came down softly on my cheek, the movement tentative. Then he told me to “spit on it, jerk me off,”. Apparently it was my turn to spit, but I just couldn’t do it – I don’t spit for starters. I gave him head instead until he took control right before he came and stroked himself furiously. He came in my face and down my body. The first man to ever do it and an experience I could have done without. It felt a bit rude and a day afterwards (when he contacted me) I recommended he ask someone first before gushing over their face.

Too much porn? I thought that far too often with this man.

He suggested a shower afterwards, complained his butt was big (it was gorgeous like the rest of him), and then asked so many questions about me that I had no inclination to share but didn’t want to be rude. He was sweet and respectful, soft spoken in contrast to his sexual dominance. He laid in the middle of the bed and reached out for me, not necessarily to cuddle but just to be near. I stroked his chest and felt the prickly shaved hairs, thought what a shame – I prefer a hairy chest.

It was not a bad first encounter for a hookup. I liked his dominance – an unknown factor, though some discussion would have been nice. When he left hours later, he was expressed more self consciousness – this time of his hair. I joked he was pretty, that he was slightly obsessed with how he looked.

He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and I shut the door after him, locking it.

*As a follow up, we kept in contact a good month after the fact; he would occasionally begin contact, and I genuinely liked what little I knew of him, though I kept the conversations short.

 Posted by at 8:42 am
Mar 212016
 

*Trigger warning of rape play

Mr Texas, my new guy, is ridiculously sweet and old fashioned…and a tad clingy. He knows he needs to tread carefully in that aspect of his personality, as it really clashes with mine.

He is a great father and has a few kids. He drives this massive suburban, black, with the windows tinted.

We kissed goodnight in the dark as I walked him to his car. “I should just throw you in the car and take you with me,” he whispered into the darkness as he pulled away from the kiss.

I gripped him harder and said against his chest, “yes, you should tie me tightly, throw me in the back, kidnap me and fuck me hard.”

I peered up into his face and the moonlight showed shocked. He hugged me to him. “I never know what you’re going to say,” he laughed. I knew he would never do something like that, I knew that my statement surprised him.

With his arms around me, my mind drifted to someone else. Someone a month ago, who as a parting gift, gave me my fantasy of consensual non consent. He appears in my thoughts unbidden, being held in the arms of another man.

…His arm whipped around my neck and I was thrown back onto the bed.

The force of this made my jaw hurt for weeks afterwards. Also, my legs were very bruised as they are my biggest asset in fighting back, and I did. That was the point.

…At one point, I kicked against him and kicked myself right off the bed. His long arm reached down and dragged me up by the hair. “Go the fuck to sleep,” he growled with a hand around my throat as my nails dug in for all of a second before I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was in the center of the bed and there was a pressure between my legs as he ripped his favorite pair of lace panties.

The beautiful lace panties – his favorite pair – being torn to shreds, seemed incredibly symbolic to me. “Hope you don’t want these anymore,” he said as he ripped. Those panties would have served as a reminder of how he desired me every time I put them on. No, I probably didn’t want that reminder anymore. After our session, I threw the tattered lace in the trash and never saw them again.

…He forced my thighs apart and held down my body, both of our harsh and ragged breathing the only sound.

But we stopped at that point, he didn’t have an erection in trying to force me. Whether from exhaustion of the actual struggle we both seriously engaged in or the concept being so foreign to his nature, he simply couldn’t get hard. We were both out of breath and just held each other amid the gasping.

“You were holding back,” he accused me once he could talk again. I looked at him, at his fat lip and bruises, and nodded. How could I truly hurt a man that I loved so deeply and desperately?

Though I could give him some bumps and bruises along the way; it was bound to happen as part of the journey.

 Posted by at 1:21 pm