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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Feb 232017
 

Febraury Photofest

A picture from this moment

After I gave The Wanderer head and he gave me multiples, we leisurely laid on the bed. I was fully naked whereas he was dressed – such a common occurrence between the two of us it almost doesn’t need to be stated.

He was laying on his stomach and I was curled up against his side. I couldn’t help myself, my fingers craved to travel over him, so softly traced the arm closest to me, then up and around to explore the width of his shoulders, lazily circled my way to the lower back.

He laid there, his breathing even and calm, and it occurred to me that I’m rarely just allowed to have my way yet his silence granted permission. I decided, as is often the case, to push my advantage and sat up to continue traveling his body. First, my hands ran over his bottom through his jeans, down his thick thighs, pressed a bit more and felt his ever constant tension. Though, his calves were the tensest by far and I spent some time pressing my fingers and palms up and down them, a pitiful resemblance to a massage that I managed through jeans and my far too small hands.

Back up, this time with the same pressure, firm and sure against his skin since he hadn’t stopped me, into his muscles. My hands lifted up the bottom of his shirt and slid between fabric and warm skin. Surprisingly, he offered to take off his shirt and I was ecstatic about the idea – it is not common that he has is shirtless. Once he laid back down, I curled up alongside his body and began my traversing again, this time following the path of my fingertips made with a few kisses and nibbles – innocent in nature, simply appreciated his taste as well as the feel of him; almost gossamer in sensation and didn’t linger –  still a bit tentative and surprised he allowed me such liberties with his body.

I reached down to his legs again and when I moved back up, kissed small trails across to the other side of him as my thighs straddled his hips, rolled on top of his body. My hands slid sensually across his skin, watched his breathing, leaned over the length of him and made sure that nipples grazed across his skin. I heard the catch in his breath before my own washed over the side of his neck, my lips simply caressed the sensitive places against his neck before my mouth became a bit more aggressive in kissing. As greedy mouth alternated up and down his neck, I made sure to keep my body poised where my nipples fondled his back.

I offered lotion so that I could apply more sliding pressure against his back and his agreement was a voice lulled at peace. I hopped up but was back on him before my body even missed his warmth, joked about being a sadist myself and threatened to smear his hot back in cold lotion. I didn’t of course, I liked his relaxed nature and wanted to take care of him rather than torment him (or perhaps I only view cold as torment?).

Fully armed and smeared with lotion, my arms glided across his skin, felt the tension and knots under the surface. As I stretched the pressure up, I allowed myself to just lay upon his back. Up and down, perceiving him to relax under my touch, kissing him every time my smaller frame laid across his larger one.

Eventually we were getting close to our check out time and still needed to pack, toys strewn out across the room from the night before. I could have rubbed him for hours more if not for a time constraint. I was unsure how to transition and remembered I asked him at one point if I was squishing him with my weight upon his back, to which he replied that he didn’t think I could, a challenge that I set aside but felt like it was the perfect time to accept. I belly flopped for all I was worth onto his back, his surprised exhalation of breath from the impact caused me to giggle. “Now am I squishing you?” I joked playfully.

“A bit,” he admitted, though whether I truly was or he was just being nice to me is undecided. Sometimes I wonder if he knows how to perceive my playful moods, or whether the moods are even appropriate – after all, I had just switched relaxing sensual rubbing with belly flopping squishing.

I can be pretty dense, or random, at times. Not all play has to be sexual, or consist of the pain/pleasure aspect, and I am far too dynamic (my friends might call me flighty) to be any one thing with even The Wanderer for as long as we’ve been playing, not to mention he was far more than a play partner.

I was grateful that he allowed me this level of intimacy, and that the day continued with the friendship aspect that also makes us so wonderful.

*And of course, since my Wanderer is also a blogger, you can read his perspective here.

Feb 212017
 

Febraury PhotofestHave I ever shared that The Wanderer knows me intimately? Perhaps it is because we have been friends for so long, but he knows how uncomfortable some words make me. And sadist that he is, he uses them and smiles about them (even from distance, I’m sure).

For example, he wrote to me that I was a good cocksucker. Okay, even writing the words makes me squirm a bit.

But he told me that as my mouth was wrapped around him last time as well. In the act, he uttered words that turn me shy. It was a contrast – a mind fuck that I always find delicious – as my body and mouth were wanton and bold, but words suddenly make me feel like a sheltered and shy unsure youth.

*This picture is not with The Wanderer. It’s a shadow that I love from the photo story of David and I.

Feb 192017
 

Febraury Photofest

Wicked WednesdaySometimes when I think that a mark blemishes my looks or skin, I need to remind myself that the marks that fill me are stamps that shaped who I am. I am by no means covered in them, most scars are barely visible or tiny.

Ankle scar: knife fighting. Once upon a time I had little man syndrome (little dog preferable?). I wanted to be tough. I learned how to throw knives at a very young age, but I didn’t stop there. Why not try to fight someone with them in close quarters? What was I thinking? Luckily for me, only my ankle and tiny little scar on my wrist show the evidence of this stupidity.

Thigh scars:  I’ve talked quite a bit about the idiotic time I let my ex husband cut me within weeks of leaving me, and how they are now undeniably scars. Hopefully they’ll fade, if nothing else to the barely detectable and far more numerous slivers created from sword fighting. I graduated from knife fighting into a more civilized sparring. I loved this, and taught for three years. A boyfriend taught me, and renaissance competitions furthered my love and skill. This wasn’t fencing, and we very often didn’t wear armor of any kind. And yes, a few of us went to the hospital for that poor decision, but it never altered my love for it, nor did I want to be encumbered by material that wouldn’t allow me to move the way I needed to. My sword of choice was a saber in close combat as the sword was cut down and balanced to be short (though I could fight against a sword of any size). My advantage: being one of the few females at these events, and wearing a tiny tank top, I’d bow to my opponent, and as they gazed at my breasts, I’d go in for their neck (never to slice, but to win). Thankfully, my thighs were only ever scratched, the sword wounds were never ragged, and the faint scars have gradually diminished to practically nothing.

 

Stretch marks: kids. Really the plight of most stretch marks for many women. I evaded them completely with my eldest daughter, my son decided to take my hips and made them even wider, my ass to become art of skin scribbles, small but visible ones on my breasts from his consistent nursing, and one deep mark going up my stomach (which thankfully can be hidden by jeans and just barely peeking out of a bikini bottom). Yeah, he created havoc, but even if the first child did, I would still have them; they are the greatest joy and worth leaving a lasting impression upon my skin – it simply echoes how they imprinted on my heart.

 

Ring finger: saving sister. Now, details are fuzzy on who is at fault, but one of my sisters got stuck on top of the monkey bars in our backyard. Being the eldest, and quick thinking intellect that I was, I searched for some way to save her. A wooden table was stashed in the corner, and I dragged it over to the jungle gym, putting it directly under the monkey bars and coached my sister down. Proud of my accomplishment in saving her life, I went to tell our parents. I reached for the back door and screamed when I saw nothing but blood pouring down my hand. Details after that are fuzzy, until a nurse bandaged me up. I had split the skin from tip to bottom of the inside of my finger somehow on the wood. Still have the scar that reminds me that I am a life saver to a sister.

 

Then there’s the less permanent marks…

Bruises days after The Wanderer took a belt to my bottom

Marks on my ass and thighs: a recent love of mine with spanking. I will now have red hand marks on my ass from time to time, and occasionally he will break the skin. Or a cane’s stripes will raise up in angry red and feel so soothed from a caress. Less common but far more of a long term reminder I can feel is the crop or a belt – I hate the sting, the way the stiff material lashes out at my skin, but the pain creates an instant head space that focuses me on the present, that makes my body attune to everything that touches it from that point forward, that makes pleasure all the more heightened afterwards. The most lasting impression I’ve experiences so far still comes from fists, however, as after so many orgasms I adore the thud against my bottom and thighs, the impact sinking deep into muscles that for days after remind me of our time together every time I sit, lay down, sometimes even walk.

Finger bruises bring back memories of sexier times: I tend to get them from sex. Perhaps his fingers grip my body to maneuver it, to yank, push, or pull to where he wants me next- so hot when he takes control. Perhaps he is clutching at my thighs as they are spread and holding me down as his tongue delves between my lips, or his cock slides deep into my body; perhaps he is pounding into me so hard he is fastening me to the mattress so that we don’t end up on the floor. Perhaps he is slowly teasing me and I am squirming and arching and trying to end the pleasurable torture.

Rope marks: if anyone has been reading the blog for any amount of time, are a certain love of mine. I love to trace my fingers along the paths that rope can leave, feel the deep tracks from spun threads where I was bound.