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 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 162017
 

An unrelated picture that continues the hotness that is David

Febraury Photofest

 

 

 

 

I swear there is something wrong with a lover of mine. Either that or I’m losing my touch at training.

Maybe a bit of both.

I am incredibly verbal while having sex. When something feels good, I tend to verbalize it, either with words (a more conscious things) or just the sounds that slip unbidden from my mouth. I sigh, I moan, I groan, I state “yes” or “that feels good” or “don’t stop”. I arch into the touch, I hold it tighter, I grind down onto it.

It’s only when I get overwhelmed that I get confusing with directions, when I start to unconsciously say: “no yes” or “stop” (but don’t mean it). It’s when I grip tighter but then push away, squirm a bit from the sensation but say yes. But this is after an orgasm or two, so if a lover gets confused and stops, I’m okay…

I’ve had mine.

But I have a lover who stops when I tell him not to, slows down when I physically am at my most welcoming. He is constantly ruining my orgasms with the premature ending of what feels good. I am not being confusing in what I want to occur because I haven’t even managed to have one orgasm yet. Maybe he thinks even the slightest noise means that I’ve already achieved an orgasm, instead of I’m just beginning to feel the build up of pleasure.

But honestly, regardless of how confused I get when I have an orgasm, when I say “don’t stop,” it doesn’t mean to stop. Honest.

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

Sep 082016
 

*Time to return back to Mr. Texas…after all, I never did finish telling this chapter of my life, the drafts waiting because my ex husband didn’t wish to see the story.  

Mr. Texas is extremely ticklish. Everywhere, all the time.

I can’t handle not having my way with his body, how even giving him head is a challenge because while it feels good, it also tickles him – so he says, and he stops me quite a bit.

Not a thing I’m used to.

He made the mistake of telling me: “you just can’t go soft,” referring to the kisses I was trying to trail around his chest.

“Oh I can go hard,” I smiled down at him and then bit him right above the nipple where his chest muscle gave me plenty to sink my teeth into.

“That’s not what I meant,” he protested, so I clenched down tighter.

“Nope,” I released him, looked at my imprints in his flesh, and embraced it fully. “Too late, I’m playing and you’re my chew toy.” I leaned down and licked softly over the divots, my tongue washing against the redness, listening to his moan and smiling into his skin with satisfaction. I bit down next to the mark, staking new territory, and alternated nibbling and sucking in an arc across his chest muscle.

I could tell he didn’t know if he liked it or not; pain of any sort in the bedroom was a slow process, but towards the center of his chest he gave every indication of liking it a bit more, so I bit down harder in those focused places.

My hand gripped the front of his throat softly, a presence felt and not threatening, my forefinger and thumb moved to the jaw line and pushed his head to the side. I laid half my body on top of him and bit down where neck and shoulder met towards the back. His shoulders came up in defense but I bit down harder and made a noise that argued, my hand a bit tighter to his throat.

He relaxed under me. “My chew toy,” I whispered as I nibbled and sucked along the dip of his neck from shoulder to ear.

“Don’t leave a mark,” he warned.

“I won’t, I’m pretty good at going hard and not,” I assured him in between nips and bites. I alternated the sensations, making his neck a temporary and thoroughly loved red before switching sides.

I loved listening to his sounds, his sharp intake of breath, the way his shoulders and neck rolled and stretched under my mouth, the way his hands fought the urge to push against my body to remove me and ended up gripping me and pulling me closer intermittently.

I moved lower. “Time to see if you like this bit,” I breathed on the head of his cock and he sat up. I laughed and gripped his thigh, my nails digging in. “Relax. I’m teasing, I wouldn’t,” I reassured as one hand pushed on his marked chest to have him lay back, the other hand menacingly pressing nails into his flesh and muscle on the inside of his thigh if he didn’t obey.

He laid down and my tongue swept across the fleshy top, tasted his precum, before swirling haphazardly around the head and under the ridge. My mouth didn’t even come close to closing in on him – I wouldn’t bite but I wouldn’t please either.

I moved to the inside of his thigh, my tongue replacing my nails and tasting the slightly metallic taste of where nails truly imprinted. I was gentle and caressed a wet trail, leaned back a bit and blew some cold air on the reddened divots, so small they were barely discernible. My hot mouth crashed over the cold area and I sucked and nibbled, and when he moved too much, bit along the inside of his thighs.

Gently, I moved to his balls and took one in my mouth, rolling the thicker part with my tongue. He arched and gasped and I increased the pressure just slightly before moving to the other.

Things after all have to be equal, I figured.

So his other thigh also got treated to my rough administrations.

I straddled him and slowly positioned the tip at my entrance as I nibbled at his neck again. “Just the tip, that’s a fun game, right?”

He groaned and tried to slam his hips up and force the issue, but under my body I felt the tension and moved with him, keeping contact but adjusting so he slid along my wet slit in case I miscalculated how far he would rise.

I bit down hard on his neck. “Stay down. This is my game, chew toy.”

Again, I positioned him rolled my hips so that the thickness of his head rotated around my entrance, barely sliding in. I watched his face as I felt my own sensitivity and the torment that I viewed encouraged me to delay my own sensations towards pleasure when his frustration was far more intriguing.

My darling Mr. Texas has been learning a thing or two, however, and after a few minutes, when he had obviously had enough, he gripped my hair and arched me painfully back, slamming up into me to the hilt.

He kept his painful pressure in my hair as I wildly rode him, my body clenched and drenched around his own orgasm.

Jun 052016
 

*Maybe this needs a trigger warning? It certainly triggers me. This is NOT the consensual non consent scene; this was something I told him I was NOT doing the morning of. 

“Anal?” asked mid orgasm with a thumb in my ass, already in that high orgasm head space.

Still, I answered, “no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Just the tip?”

“No.”

“Just try it.”

“No.”

“I’ll stop if you say.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’ll be slow and easy. You’re ready. Besides which, when will you ever do this again?”

“I don’t know. Never.”

“So…?”

“Maybe.”

He grabbed a condom , set it to the side, proceeded to have sex with me. After an orgasm, he put on the condom but it was just to continue having sex with me. Another orgasm.

He positioned me to the side, curled my legs up, positioned his tip at my back hole, and with a lot of lube slowly eased in.

“No, stop, it hurts.” I dug my nails into his chest.

“Shh, relax, it’s fine. I’ll stop here,” he grabbed my hair and yanked hard, diverting the pain to my scalp and eased in a bit more. Both hurt. He grabbed a vibrator and pushed it in my vagina, leaving less space in side of me but some pleasure. And pain. He eased in a bit more. “Relax,” he said in a soothing voice at my ear, his hand going around my throat, his fingertips pressing in.

“No,” I protested before the world faded. When I came to consciousness, he was completely inside of me, going a bit faster and harder. The vibrator didn’t override the large object moving painfully inside of me. After awhile, he pulls out, takes off the condom, then has PIV sex, coming immediately.

*

I cried, great heaving sobs, and he held me. “I’m proud of you, you did good,” he whispered in my ear.

I curled into his chest, seeking comfort from one who hurt me. I trusted him even though he pushed for anal sex and was about to leave me. I trusted him even though he told me that the weekend had to be a secret because he was now monogamous with his girlfriend and I – his wife – was now the other woman.

“I knew this would be hard for you.” He murmured into my tears.

Then why would he do it and leave? I consented but it was from a pathetic desperation to keep him that consented to something I was uncomfortable with and had zero desire to do.

I felt violated but I violated myself. I felt disgusting –  not the in the act but in the desperation. I trusted a man who would walk away. I allowed something uniquely special to a man who didn’t value my worth.

I cried so hard I slept and when I woke up, I cried again.

He had been inside of me in every way possible and would be gone in hours.

May 242016
 

To read about being brand new to this place and knowing no one, and the negotiations, click here.

He directed me to clean the play space that we entered in. I rather liked his authoritive tone. After I was done, I asked if there was anything further I could do.

“No.”

So I started taking off my boots and thigh high stockings. I pulled off my dress and then stopped with it halfway up. We had negotiated to what level clothes were off, but not how they were coming off. “Is it okay if I strip or did you want to do that?”

He smiled. “You’re fine, go ahead and strip.” So I did, and then awkwardly stood where I was. Do I approach him? Do I go directly to the table? These little details of what I should do with a new play partner drive me crazy. He approached me and laid his hands on my shoulders, looking down into my eyes. He rubbed my upper arms a little and then told me to get on the table.

It looked a lot smaller from a distance, I had to hop and use my arms to pull first one leg and then another up to get on. He chuckled a bit at my effort and my grumbling.

I had requested a blindfold to help my head space, and to be less aware about a place full of new people looking at me, and he kindly took his time to be careful around my hair as he secured it. In sharp contrast, he then grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, and lowered me from sitting to lying on the table.

I heard the electricity buzzing from the wand and thought how the sound intimidates me more than anything. Then the currents kissed my shoulder, my arm, back around to the upper swell of my breasts, to the other shoulder and arm. He was respectful of my ribs and stomach and simply ran his hand across to keep the connection before rousing the skin on my thighs, down my calves, even across the tops of my feet.

He very quickly revealed a love for zapping around my breasts and nipples. Even being blindfolded, I could tell that my response to the nipples being stimulated excited him.

The scene very much became incredibly nipple centered. He would pinch, twist (which I don’t care for much but he never did it to the extent that I yellowed), electrify, and run the Wartenberg wheel across them constantly.

The few times his hands were not on my breasts or nipples were when he would need both hands. At one point, he gripped my hair, pulled my head into his chest as he stood beside me, rolled my body to the side, and took the wheel to behind and hips. Another time, he climbed on top of the table, gripped both my upper thighs and forcibly spread them, gripped them tighter. He leaned forward and yanked at my hair, forced me to arch my back into his chest, his breath heavy and dominated my hearing while his other hand scratched its way up the inside of my thigh.

He continued staying between my legs, sat up and pulled me up by my arms before keeping me up sitting in front of him with a fistful of hair. My legs wrapped alongside his body for balance. He took the wheel to one nipple, which was already so painfully sensitive by that point. My arms reached and grabbed, my nails dug into his back as I tried to push myself into his chest for protection by leaving him no space to touch them.

We hadn’t negotiated my touching him, but at the moment as caught up as I was, I didn’t think to ask first and he didn’t make a move to stop me. As a matter of fact, he whispered at my downturned head, “oh yeah?” as if curious and surprised by my nipple sensitivity.

He yanked my head back enough to clear the space to take the tines of the wheel and flick back and forth at the tip of a nipple. I cried out, arched, and raised my hips, my legs and arms tightened around him.

He pulled me down to again lie on my back, his body over mine – not touching other than his hands, the violet wand, or the wheel. He gripped under my bottom and squeezed hard at the cheeks, I tensed and raised my hips, and my body began to ask for things. He pinched along the creases where the cheek meets thigh, his breath washing against my neck – almost intimately…but not quite, almost menacingly…but not quite.

He rested his weight on an elbow and still managed to grip my hair, the other hand going to a nipple.

I was moaning, uttering words of please.

“Do you want to cum?” he asked, and I did. Though a bit foggy in the sensations, I debated whether I wanted this strange man to touch me so publicly.

To an extent, I decided, and said “yes.”

His fingers moved over my lacy fabric and didn’t make any move to push it to the side or pull down. I was grateful, as I about to tell him over clothing. As fingertips brushed against the lace, I felt my own dampness. It almost felt as though the underwear was not there. Up and down my wet fabric slit, hair still gripped firmly so I was aware of his power, and I begged please.

“You may cum,” he whispered against my neck, and my brain processed that he misunderstood my please – this please meant please continue so that I can get there, but the fact that he thought I was asking permission to come was hot, so I tried for his sake.

The second please I was more aware of and his guess as to what it meant, so when he granted permission I came. It was odd to orgasm without penetration first. It was odd to orgasm in full sight of people (which blessedly I couldn’t see). It was odd to orgasm when I had no intention of even playing this night, and then certainly didn’t expect orgasm control – a favorite of mine but with a lover, never with just a pick up play partner.

He rolled me over, spanked my ass and thighs, took the wheel to the reddened areas, yanked me up to hands and knees, and played with my nipples from behind for so long that the “please” was issued from my lips. His fingers moved between my thighs, “I can come from my nipples,” I gasped and his fingers immediately went back to them. I orgasmed twice, the tension and release so strong that I was sitting up kneeling, leaning heavily against him and gripping his forearm.

I don’t think he had ever seen orgasms from nipples before, and I was wiped out, sweaty, overwhelmed from the tension created to achieve those orgasms. I begged us to stop as I was overly sensitive and he immediately put his arms around me, cradled me against him, his heart thudded in his chest, his hands soothed my hair down after pulling off the blindfold.

I gasped, shocked at how spectacular though totally unplanned the night turned out to be, tried to grasp and analyze why my body would orgasm under such circumstances, why I would consent to so much, why I moaned and screamed and orgasmed in front of an audience, and decided I didn’t want to over analyze – I wanted to just enjoy this moment with this man in my wonderful body that appreciated every second of it, and my silent brain thanked me.

That is, ultimately, one of the goals of attending these things.

Though the thought of behaving as I do with an orgasm, and so publicly, makes me blush in remembrance.
Wicked WednesdayThe topic for #WickedWednesday is “Audience”
Sexy Searching

I’m using Rebel’s topic of Breast Orgasm for my #SexySearching

May 012016
 

img_1618I hate seeing my reflection right now. 

Have I mentioned that my husband left me for someone over ten years younger and thinner?

It doesn’t help, either, that her looks are one of the only positive things about her he speaks of. So, he left me for superficial reasons? (I realize just how stupidly I simplified his reason for divorce, but sometimes the mind drifts to such ridiculousness.)

I’ve never felt the need to compare until just recently, and I don’t know if it’s because he constantly does or if I’m truly insecure all the sudden.

When he asked to FaceTime recently, and I stupidly agreed, the first thing he mentioned are how “looks aren’t everything”…an obvious backhanded compliment – he doesn’t like how I look but he still loves me.

And now I’m dating, where I feel that I am judged by appearances first, everything that matters second.

It doesn’t help that I stress eat and have been putting on weight for months, or that I was so busy moving that I haven’t exercised in months.

I’ve never been concerned about looks much – still don’t do my hair and make up most days, and the mirror and I have never been close. But recently, I’m shocked when I do actually see my reflection. I see the exhaustion under my eyes, the scars from where I let him cut me and forever mark me as the other woman, the dried and veiny hands from living life, the stretch marks from babies. the gray hair that I’ve had since I was twenty that is now dominating my head.

I should embrace hands that have held life being born and life passing through its final moments, marks that claim that I have given carried and given birth, hair that will grow so that a lover can pull it and curls naturally in humid climate, eyes that have seen such beauty…the knife marks, no, that I am horribly saddened and ashamed by, I can’t even put a positive spin on that.

I know I should view myself more kindly, but I’m not. I am an enemy to my reflection instead of a best friend to my person. I used to not care about stripping naked, now I care very much.

I would love to blame my ex husband for giving yet another thing to feel self-conscious about, but the truth is that I am responsible for this and only I can change what I view in the mirror.

 

Sinful Sunday