May 152017

Every so often, for a couple of days, I have very dark desires. Even what turns me on is different. I’ll watch forced fantasies, consensual non consent scenes. I’ll masturbate roughly, often causing myself pain, discomfort, possible bleeding from the force of my own actions.

I’m not sure a lover has ever been able to pick it out – not even my ex husband who truly knew me and read me so ridiculously well sexually.

I don’t share the mood verbally, yet my actions, if I really reflect how they are with another, are even rougher.

One night, for example, Mr. Texas and I were in the hot tub and he was being stubborn and not admitting to his stupidity (don’t get this scenario wrong – I admitted to my own stupidity and was asking for him to do the same). I was done playing nice, so I propelled myself on his lap, dug my nails into the sides of his ribs right below his armpits, and bit down on his jawline alongside his chin.

He immediately panicked I would leave a bite mark on his face and that would frowned upon in the military (I didn’t).

He admitted he was stupid, and we made out, where I took his face between my hands and kissed him until he struggled to breathe.

Upstairs, when he reached around and grabbed at my backs of my thighs to bruise the muscle with his fingers, I bit down hard upon his chest, sinking teeth into muscle until my teeth touched into the skin. He pushed me away, told me that we needed to establish some sort of rule that that was not okay.

I mentioned our safe word, unapologetic. In my head, I was picturing my teeth tearing into his skin and my hand reaching into his heart – sort of like what you see in movies or supernatural stories.

Later, as I straddled and impaled myself upon him, I leaned forward and pushed my fingers into the deep teeth marks, smiling at his sharp intake of breath at the pain, kissing softly alongside his neck. In my head, I tasted his blood in my mouth as his pulse became weaker – sort of like a vampire movie, I suppose.

At some point in the night, I was flipped over and he was driving himself into my warm body; he slowed down and his hands softly caressed from hips to breasts, gently squeezed, caressed up to the sides of my neck. My own hands fluttered to cover his own, kept them along my fragile neck for a moment longer. I closed my eyes and imagined him squeezing the breath and blood from circulating life into my body as he was deep inside of me, stroked in and out as I grew dizzy and weary, and eventually strangled the life from me.

That would be a way to go, far kinder than most people’s, falling asleep with my lover’s cock creating pleasure, never to wake again. It would be hot if he grunted and groaned his pleasure over my unconscious body, came immediately after extinguishing my life, his semen dripping out of me.

It would be like a play, this fantasy, and the onlookers would hold their breath at the turn of events, this tragedy, and we would stand up and take a bow when the reality of the scene set in, proud of our accomplishment, our feat, our daring, and the horror and grief of the onlookers would realize that this wasn’t real, this thing in front of them, and would be relieved.

His life, my life, a life, played out to the finish.

The End



Apr 122017

“Play hard to get, remain silent, scared, and dramatically emotional,” Joy repeated to herself, closing the big red book of Fairy Tales upon her perch of the toadstool. She nodded to herself for extra measure, felt the breeze stir the fringes of her tutu skirt, rubbed her toes together for comfort, and laid the book beside her. She arched into the sunlight, welcomed the warming rays upon her bare arms and face, and closed her eyes, trying to remember the rest of what she’d learned about non humans trying to get humans to love them.

She’d like Beast’s methods best, but he was a male. She looked down at her breasts and giggled, nope…she just didn’t possess enough fur to carry it off and take the woman like he did. Besides, she had her sights set on a man. Of course, maybe men liked that sort, but her extensive research did not indicate that. She had read what men really liked.

He was long, but then again they all looked a bit long when one was tiny. He had the most beautiful garden, and seemed kind. She loved how what he was focused on reflected so beautifully on the lenses of his glasses. She hoped to be reflected there one day, with his luscious lips smiling at her in love.

She stood up, squared her shoulders, stretched her wings and let those embrace the breeze and sun before flitted to the nearby ground. She squinted her eyes and held her breath after casting, realized that wasn’t the most flattering, and forced herself to relax as all the fairies seemed to. Eloquence, grace, she repeated. A few seconds went by: a deep breath and her eyes opened to the grass so far below her she could barely distinguish the toadstool. She worried for the briefest of moments if she made herself too long, but worrying just wasn’t in her nature, so she shrugged and off she headed towards the man’s yard.

Not that Joy headed far, she simply stepped a few times, in awe of heavy she seemed against the earth, her feet slightly sinking in damp dirt, and reached for over the short gate to his gorgeous garden. A quick twist of the lock, a slight push of the creaky contraption, and she entered the path, immediately being surrounded by the lovely fragrance of roses and flowers. This was by far her favorite season, made her think of sex amid all the perfumed sweetness.

This year she was going to attempt a different type of sex, her family always did mention just how her curiosity got the better of her. It was such fun discovering new things. As she walked past the blooms, before she was already visible in the garden, she could already envision once he saw her he would stand up and gaze at her beauty. She would pretend to just notice him and turn back towards the bushes and climbing vines as if to seek shelter, but he would take her hand and guide into the sunshine in the center of his yard. She would smile coyly, a move she had been practicing, and would shyly kneel before him.

Men, she read, loved blow jobs, a sex called oral, and so he would be surprised when she kneeled in front of him but wouldn’t stop her. She would reach for his pants and pull out his penis. According to her reasearch, this was where individual preference mattered, so she would purse her lips and start blowing softly before she increased the intensity to hard blowing. She liked the breeze upon her wings, so she supposed a human male’s penis might appreciate the air she created across. Sucking she couldn’t imagine would create the same air stream, but supposedly that was important too, so she would suck in great lungful of air and would look up with him with eyes that looked like puppies and he would smile his appreciation at her gift, falling in love with her.

The tricky part was, according to the fairy tales, they would be married immediately but she didn’t want that part, only the falling in love and sex part; so she would have to run away once he proposed. But she would blow him a kiss behind her shoulder and wink to let him know there were no hard feelings, and try not to giggle (as was her nature) until she was once again in her natural form. (The tales also shared she would die a painful death if she didn’t succeed, but of course she would, she always did.)

Joy couldn’t wait to see the look on his face as she gave him what all men wanted so much they fell in love. She quickened her steps.
Wicked Wednesday

*Wicked Wednesday is on nature this week. Click to see what inspires others.

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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Jun 272016

I wrote about a guy that I have only a few sentences worth of material, the memory of answering the door, going down on him and nothing else. He was sweet in his communication afterwards, kept it up even though I moved across the country. When I was coming back out to the area for a visit, we decided to meet each other again – my motives were one he was unaware of – I was in an Ambien blackout when I was with him and didn’t remember him; I wanted to meet the man I had sex with.

So I knew he had the red hair, we had been exchanging photos and from the original dating site I found him on it had a picture of his face. He wasn’t abnormally tall when I greeted him at the door and I took his hand and pulled him into the bedroom. No point in trying to stumble over awkward conversations with a one night stand that I hadn’t seen in over a month. I stripped out of the baggy sweats I greeted him at the door with, to reveal the lingerie he requested I wear underneath. I even managed to wear fishnet stockings last minute thanks to my sister loaning me a pair.

He muttered how he missed my body as he drank me in his vision, his hands roaming almost reverently. I stood up on tiptoe and kissed the side of his neck, and he turned to capture my kisses into his mouth. His hands began to roam in earnest and our bodies pressed together. Our sex was mostly foreplay by me, sex with him on top. “Do you want me to cum?” he asked, and I replied that I did as he thrusted inside my body.

“One down,” I joked, as he paused on top of me before withdrawing.  He laughed.

He had mentioned wanting to come four times that night, he had also mentioned rubbing himself against me while I slept and waking me up for morning. He bought a large box of condoms in expectation of all the fun we would have while I was visiting – he didn’t want a one night stand, he wanted to stay over every night that I was in town.

After his first orgasm, we laid in bed and talked a bit. No awkwardness. I told him that I didn’t remember a lot from that night, that I was very sleepy. He didn’t fill in many details for me like I was hoping – just that he stayed for about four hours, that I was amazing, that he struggled to stay hard a second time, that I told him that I write about sex and what name I went by….ugh, did I really? I questioned that one with what I hoped was nonchalantly, and he said he couldn’t remember exactly the name.

I wish I could remember that night. It does bother me that I confessed to things that I am clueless about, that I had sex completely unaware, that I blacked out, that there was this sweet guy that I simply didn’t remember. While our conversation flowed easily, with him doing a lot of the talking, I began kissing him again, starting at his fingertips which rested peacefully beside me. It was getting late, I was tired, and if he had a goal of four rounds then I wanted to get them going.

“Will you ride me?” he asked in a voice that always struck me soft gentleman tones.

“Yes,” as I reached for a condom to hand to him, licking and sucking on his thighs and balls while he unrolled it over his shaft. I straddled him and just sunk myself down to his hilt. He was long and he hit a wall, but I kept him there anyhow, missing the feel for some reason of that type of pain. His hands gripped and caressed up and down my body, especially my breasts and hips, while I rotated my hips slowly to find the right angle, then with more urgency when it began to feel good. After a bit, I went to raise up off of him so he could be on top. “No, wait, I’m cumming,” he pleaded quickly and my body clenched down on the tip since he was almost out of me at that time and I slid down again, taking him all the way down again.

“Tell me next time,” I breathed out as I slid down and then up again in measured strokes.

“Okay,” a groan, “sorry,” a grunt, and I ground down on him until his noises became softer and his body melted more into the mattress instead of tensing up into me.

“Did I ruin it?” I asked, concerned, looking down at him.


I raised myself up and slowly moved up, smiling at his noises of sensitivity. “Two.”

He laughed. “That might be it for tonight. I’m not the young buck I used to be.”

I smiled, rolled over, and thought of him being thirteen years my junior. If he wasn’t for my slutfest, I wouldn’t have even considered having sex with him. If I remembered him, I probably wouldn’t have invited him for round two. Yet, as he told me how he appreciated my forthright and direct manner that first time in approaching him for sex and my skill in it, as my body lay beside his and felt his heat wash over my skin, I was glad I was in bed with him. I wasn’t going to do another slutfest, but it sure was nice having one dedicated partner help me chase away the loneliness in a town that had everything to do with my husband and our future dreams.

My ambien guy was helping me sleep in a much healthier fashion than the disjointed, disillusioned dreams that would have haunted me otherwise.
Wicked Wednesday

May 192016
photo credit: Heroine via photopin (license)

photo credit: Heroine via photopin (license)

Shadows fall across my bedroom, taunt with lost potential and memories. This used to be my happy sanctuary, now it’s silent and dead. I feel as if a part of me died, though my brain is anything but restful.

My dreams don’t remember that he’s gone, my limbs stretch and reach for something no longer possible. I walk by and disturb his clothing, cologne, shaving materials and he is suddenly so there, being breathed in and exorcised by great gaping wounds in my heart that bleed through eyes that are never dry.

Why does this separation hurt so badly and is so hard to live afterwards? Is it because I actually trusted wholeheartedly in a future together, left myself vulnerable in my honesty and love? Is it because I was truly happy, truly allowed (or what I thought was) to be me, accepted? Because I mistakenly trusted that we would communicate everything and work through issues as they were needed? I feel naive and an overpowering need for the punishment that lurks in believing that I deserved happiness and love.

I don’t know why this feels like it’s killing me slowly; but I know I can’t survive in this bed that was once filled with heat that now leaves me cold.

I tried to replace the memories with a new reality, my longing with dark desire. My limbs reached out to tangle themselves around someone else instead of emptiness, to lose my memories however briefly.

The contrast of the men from him was a brief respite as much as it broke my heart. They didn’t know me intimately, didn’t touch me with love, didn’t fill me so completely. They couldn’t take me on the same trusting journey of pain and pleasure, couldn’t bring me to the same heights.

I worried about things like infections, performances, how I appeared, instead of getting lost in the moment with them, to enjoy the journey and the warm afterglow of two lovers appreciating each other’s bodies.

They stole into my bed in the middle of the night when I was most susceptible to the shadows and disillusioned dreams, and they vanished just as quickly, a band aid that just covers over the heartbreak, that hides the hurt unsuccessfully.

*Written during slutfest week, when I went back to our home to pack up what I could after it was certain that he wanted a divorce.

Jan 072016

Questions found from Insatiable Desire:

Day 6: Describe your weirdest/most interesting sexual fantasy.

My weirdest was also described on the post Darker Dreams. It’s just a fantasy, and not something that I want to come true.

A reoccurring fantasy I’ve had is where it’s almost ritualized rape, where I am on a bed, altar, or platform and men in hooded cloaks are all around me, faces unseen the entire time by the hoods and the dim lighting only provided by candles – somehow all the hotter because I will never know who is penetrating me. I am tied spread out on my back, wrists and ankles at corners. They are intent on watching as one after another roughly has sex with me. They do not make any noise – they don’t discuss what’s about to occur, say nothing about me or to me, and don’t even verbally indicate who goes next. I am scared and intimidated, I constantly try to pull out of my bindings – to no avail, I am physically exhausted and sweaty from the sheer number of men around me, and yet I still gush from one pleasurable orgasm to the next.

click to read more

**Day 6 is perfect for the prompt on food for thought friday, so I’m using this write up as well. The questions:

Do you have a sexual fantasy that you would be embarrassed or ashamed to tell anyone about?

Is it a complete fantasy or would you like it to actually happen in real life, if you had the chance?

Are you brave enough to share it here with us?

Day 7: What’s your favorite toy?

My husband’s penis. It’s the most pleasurable and doesn’t need to be plugged in, charged, or take batteries. It’s waterproof and safe for insertion. It doesn’t make me blush when going through airport security. It tastes delicious. It’s an amazing texture and feel, not to mention beautiful to look at.

Second to that, probably my Lelo Soraya, though I’ve had that for a couple of years and one of the vibrating motors loses a connection or is dying – which makes me a bit sad as I really thought I found a vibrator I wouldn’t break.

Third would be rope – yes it’s a sex toy. When I’m tied up for sex, it tends to be some of the best sex (hence why I write about those sessions so much – we don’t use rope as often as I believe blogging would leave one to believe).

And fourth would be the Doxy Wand. I can’t take much of it, and it overwhelms me, but there is no better toy with rope predicament bondage for just that reason.

*And yes, I’m aware that the question asked for my favorite, but I figured that would be a short post, so I expanded a bit more.

 Posted by at 7:45 am
Oct 022015
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Sexy Searching reveals one of my biggest fantasies: the unknown. It’s going to take readers to this fantasy, and also a book review that explores why this fantasy may be so desirable.

I have a fantasy where I am shared by my partner (has to be shared so I know that they at least know and trust and person). But I have no clue who this person is because I am bound and blindfolded. I also am thinking I would like to be gagged, so that I cannot be my curious self and try to reach out to the person for a confession of who they are, nor can my words  of “no” or “stop” halt them (though some safe word/action would be in place, as well as my husband who knows when I’ve hit my limit).

Absolved on the ability to do anything creates a feeling of blamelessness of fulfilling this dark fantasy of mine. There’s the true reason I want to be bound – I cannot escape my own desires, and in doing so I am free to accept what is being done to me. I don’t have to behave, control myself, perform in any way, I can simply be a vessel of pleasure and pain. I am passive, a complete opposite to who I normally am.

I am also blindfolded so I don’t know who this person is, adding an unknown variable and tiny bit of fear and uncertainty to keep this a bit hotter for me.

Perel states that unknown factors increase excitement and desire, hence the giddy love-rush feelings at first. But unknown isn’t synonymous with security, so we seek to make each other more known in a commitment: “to control the risks of passion, you have tamed it out of existence.” (Perel, 10)

As a side note: even reading other bloggers really helps my own sex life. It has made me curious to try new things, to get out of my comfort zones, to point towards someone else’s words who have more effectively communicated wants that I’ve been trying to tell my husband. There are even some great videos that bloggers provide to offer how-to for so many numerous kinks. – Unknown Leads to Desire

Perhaps this compares to New Relationship Energy, where two partners are excited at the prospect, the adventure, the not knowing each other and discovering. I can explore this type of energy with my own husband, in exploring BDSM, my kinky self, and even enacting (or even just confessing to) my fantasies. I have experienced this unknown variable without having additional partners, though of course I long to push the limits even further in this fantasy of being shared – but my husband is still present in this dream, to add that security, to make it feel safe and acceptable, to “control the risks of passion”.

Though in a way, it feels like he would be protecting the risks from myself.


 Posted by at 8:55 am
Aug 212015
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cammmies on the floor

Sexy Searching is a meme that that looks to the most searched for terms to lead people to the blog. Time to give credit to our longest search term, and one that pops up every month: Masturbation. I’m going to attempt to examine why, when this is our longest and most consistent search term, I haven’t written about it until now.

Sis A first wrote about this topic, including a picture, in regards to mutual masturbation.

“Sexting, Skype, and phone calls are becoming more and more a part of everyday masturbation tools, much like porn. With high quality and ease of photo taking available on your phone, naughty antics is mobile and convenient.” – Mutual Masturbation

For some reason, I’ve been a bit more hesitant to discuss it. Shy? Ashamed? I’m not really sure on the emotion, but for some reason I hesitated to masturbate even in my youth, not doing it until I was in my twenties, and had been sexually active with others for awhile already; so perhaps it’s just a delayed thing to write about as well. Sex bombards our society; whereas masturbation is a closely guarded secret. It seemed okay for me to share my body with others, for our mutual pleasure, but to just please myself – that seemed wrong, selfish, self-centered. I don’t believe that my family influenced this in any way – after all, Sis A had no problems sharing about it very early on with writing on the topic.

I am also quite shy in this regard, and almost never please myself if my partner can please me. Apparently my husband became used to this behavior and took it as almost an insult when I did masturbate (without him):

“I don’t do this activity often. And never if he’s home…I don’t even masturbate much when he isn’t home, perhaps once a month or every other month, (people view this as odd as I will gladly have sex all day long) and didn’t see anything wrong with taking care of myself while I waited for him.” –Sexual Hangups (*Nov 2014)

We (sort of) worked through the issue of masturbation without him if he’s home, but it’s not something that I’ve really done since (again, it’s mostly because I don’t feel the urge to when he’s available). And while I know it turns him on to watch me pleasure myself (something I really only do when he asks it of me, and then only if we’re separated/long distance), I struggle to do this in the presence of another. For one, I feel like I have to perform. For another, it still seems so secretive to me, so private, so vulnerable somehow.

Just recently (and I’ll include the *actual date of writing rather than publishing) have I felt comfortable writing about masturbation – either in my habits, what I fantasize about, or what I read to turn me on. Here are a few examples that I wrote about (and to be perfectly honest, cringed when I hit “publish”):


“I give a lot of credit to the people that I follow and read online, and when I find something that turns me on or intrigues me, I add it to my monthly roundup of great reads. And I also will occasionally add in a book I’m reading” – Mental Masturbation Material (July 2014)


“But even with myself, I wasn’t in the mood for soft.  I tugged and pinched my nipples, felt the ripple of pleasure go through my core and connect with my cunt” – Rough Fantasy (Feb 2015)

“Orgasm denial… something that seriously turns me all the while frustrating me at the same time.**I haven’t had any of these experiences, these are four separate dreams or fantasies that I’ve had this last week.” – Rope and Denial Fantasy (March 2015)


Habits (though to be fair, I would orgasm all day from a partner, not myself as the first sentence may imply):

“When I ovulate, I masturbate. If given the opportunity, I would orgasm all day. All day – that’s not a dramatized statement, it’s a want and need that some rare days I am fortunate enough to experience” – All Day Need (July 2015)


Fiction (thank you Masturbation Monday for pushing me further out of my comfort zone):

“she dreamed of the room pitched in midnight. Her hands lazily wandered to the juncture between her thighs as she explored the darker places” – Unresponsive Satisfaction (Aug 2015)

So that’s where masturbation as a search term may take a reader. Upon writing this, I’ve actually discovered that my own masturbation thoughts tend to veer towards kinky elements, and not soft and slow moments. I also will write about masturbation more when I’m ovulating. Perhaps this is the benefit of writing in this way – it’s revealing.

*And I actually wrote this today. So know that I’m terribly shy and withdrawn right now, as I hit send. One day I hope to break this annoying habit.

However, consider this: many of us masturbate, but few rarely discuss, and rarer still is those who write about it and then publish it so publicly.#SexySearching

 Posted by at 5:19 pm
Aug 122015

She handled like a Ferrari; all sleek curves and beautiful lines. She was exotic. A man could spend all day fantasizing about being inside her. Smooth supple skin, an irresistible pull to run your hands down her. Cherry red lips, glossy, catching the lights, making your mouth water to even get near her.

Once you turned her on, that’s when the magic happened. She’d purr with delight, letting you know how you’d accelerate her heartbeat, slow her down just to speed her up again. She made you want to show her to the world; shout that she was very rare and all yours. She made you want to take the utmost care of her, something so valuable demanded the best. She was something you’d dream about from boyhood, never dreaming you could make her a reality.

Yeah, she reminded you of your dream car, but nothing in world, really, could compare to her.

Wicked Wednesday

Aug 092015

Masturbation Monday Week 49The sun peaked through the slotted blinds, cast shadowed striped patterns across her pale form, but she dreamed of the room pitched in midnight. Her hands lazily wandered to the juncture between her thighs as she explored the darker places.

He would come in, slowly and carefully at first, not alerting her sleeping form to his presence and just listen to the silence. Tentatively he would turn on his flashlight, a beam penetrating the heavy darkness, seeing a small foot at first and following the curves and contours of her naked, unconscious body.

She was exposed, wholly, so drugged that the covers were too much of an effort to drag over herself before she crashed into the darkness.

She was lovely laid out in this manner, so vulnerable and open, one knee bent to a parted thigh, almost exposing the very essence of her.  Her nipples were hard and he would feel himself stir and grow in his own desire.

He would strip naked, still trying to maintain some quiet. Reverently, he would touch an ankle, follow the straightened leg, thigh, hip, waist. He would cup a delicate breast, the sliver of light that he placed on the nightstand highlighting the globe prominently. He would appreciate the plumpness, the softness of the skin, and his thumb would stroke up to the nipple.

She of course continued her deep slumber despite her nipple rising more firmly from the attention.

He would sit on the edge of the bed, closer to her, and reach out to grasp both breasts, squeezing a bit and watching her face for a reaction. There wasn’t one. One hand would position to the front of her throat, the fingers and thumb seeking her pulse on either side. He gently pressed in, felt the thrumming of life at his fingertips.

She was so beautiful defenseless.

Her face was so unconcerned. He would withdraw his hand from her throat and slap her across a cheek; the sharpness of noise cracking against the stillness. Indifferent, her face would turn away from him. His fingers would dig under her cheekbones as he roughly flips her aloof face towards him. His hands take note of the coolness of one untouched cheek versus the fiery heat of the other.

Suddenly he is impatient, he can no longer wait. He tears apart her legs, he would spear himself inside of her depths, push past the dispassion of resistance inside of her, and penetrate as deeply as he could. He leans forward, paws at her breasts, bites into the rosy buds. She is unresponsive no matter how hard he thrusts but he is determined to find satisfaction in her body anyhow.

Her whole body flows with the pounding of his hips, passively clings to the mattress rather than his intrusion. He smells starkly her sex and his sweat in the oppressive room and suddenly would wish to rid himself of her.

But not until she yields him pleasure. Through no action from her, he can still come, he knows this and pursues it fully. He simply couldn’t pull himself away from her at this point. He was torn between wanting her issue a noise or shiver of excitement, or capitulate until her body swallows him wholly. Frantically, violently, he thrusts into her body, his arms would wrap around her waist and pull her more fully against him; he likes how her back arches, a scene for fucking.

He feels the heat and explodes inside of her very depths, holds tightly and firmly, deep as he can while he finally feels the relief that her body conceded.

Exhausted, his arms would release her, her body dropping away from him. He would withdraw as quickly as he could, step backwards and almost trip over his pile of belongings, and sweep them up. Desperately, he would exit the room as quickly as possible, leaving the small light accentuating her shadowy form.

 Posted by at 9:18 am