Jan 282018
 

I came into the dark bedroom to get ready for bed and was shocked when the door slammed… and then I was slammed into the armoire. I wasn’t alarmed, even though I was taken surprised, as I knew it was my lover’s body pressing hard against the back of mine. Hands came around and gripped my breasts, my own startled breathing sounded nothing like his breath so intimately and yet somehow threatening in my ear – or perhaps that was my own thundering heartbeat not quite able to make sense of the whirling thoughts still creating a flight or fight sensation?

Within this cyclonic confusion, with nipples being pinched through clothing and arms like vices keeping our bodies together, he propelled me to the end of the bed. He didn’t stop there, as the purposefully hands now forcefully went to my upper back and shoved me to bend over. Pants were yanked down, my ankles kicked open, fingers rammed into my wet depths to where the remaining fingers and palm felt like a fist against my lips, as my shirt was pulled up and over, my bra unfastened after a hiccup with a front clasp that slows him down slightly (he’s amazing at a back closure for some reason). His animated hands were everywhere, demanding, they created a tailspin of movement that created an unsettled feeling – perfect for a headspace that left no discerning but his wants. I was far more enthralled by his rough fingers, empty thoughts drifted like feathers where all my nerve endings settled between my legs and collected in his palm.

Hair pulled back once I was undressed, manipulated the rest of my body to where I was twisted around and forced onto sinking and grateful knees. I breathed in his scent through the gym shorts inches in front of my face and smelled his intoxicating desire. My hands now had their own turn to pull down clothing, though far less vigorously, and with his hair guidance system and my eager mouth wide open, the head of his penis was devoured until he hit the back of my throat, then withdrew only to be sucked back in. He used my mouth as if it was his personal toy and the uncaring nature of being used for his delectation increased my own wantonness. As the head hit the back of my mouth and made me salivate and coat his shaft, the feeling was echoed throughout my core and my own thighs were drenched.

It isn’t often he uses me in this way and it was heady that is his own lust and will were demanded in such a way. It was deeply visceral.

Ravenous for his taste, the feeling of the ridges dancing along my tongue, he denied me that greed after a few minutes. Pulled up by hair and again pushed onto the bed, this time with persuasive hands gripping pliable thighs he capapulted me towards the center of the bed. I crumbled among the sheets, rolled over to see the assault of his following body. He entered me effortlessly, the initial resistance of my entrance barely a obstacle as he planted the full length of himself in my body and claimed me his. Yet, there were more parts to claim apparently as fingers advanced in my mouth and embodied his cock – in and out with the same dizzying pace, tiny taste buds and nerve endings felt the sliding imprint of knuckles and ridges and veins. Even his mouth dipped at some points and teeth caught and tugged a nipple to full attention.

He withdrew, but not to stop the onslaught, more strategically to roll me over and continue his onslaught of my senses.

Did I scream? I’m unsure, yet I was aware of the vibration in his hand as it was placed over my mouth. My breath, hot, damp, precious in his grasp, my sounds muffled and yet clamoring in vibrant colors in my brain to distraction. His fingers again became pervasive, hooked in my mouth; I was so thoroughly caught in relentless orgasms. He moved his hands to grip my hips, held me up as he thrusted down. His own grunts and groans signaled a release to the maddening pace that my brain could not keep up with and my body didn’t want to.

As he stilled, I opened my eyes and still saw the pitch black of the room, a comforting cocoon of calmness amid the rampant kaleidoscope of our passion.

He rolled onto his back and pulled me into the crook of his arm, his fingers softly brushing my back. When our breathing calmed deep and regular, our heartbeats slowed lower than frenzied, as endorphins and adrenaline stopped flooding our senses, he tucked me in between the sheets, pushed a sip of water between my lips, and kissed me to sleep.

Wicked Wednesday

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Jan 122018
 

It began with laying in the middle of the bed, putting on a blindfold. The vast majority of our scenes begin with such a start.

I was caned on the thighs and butt for much longer than normal, rhythmic to the songs to help  lull a quiet mind as it is hypnotic. His fists were next; there is something about knuckles sinking deep into muscles that feels amazing even as it hurts. Punched primarily on thighs, my body jerked with the impact, pressed more fully into the bed. Next, he instructed me to roll over so he could cane nipples – not something that we’ve done much of. The front side of my body was warm from being against the mattress, my backside heated from sting and impact; perhaps it was the warmth that allowed my nipples to handle it much better than I would have imagined. The stinging rod came down and set the already sensitive nubs further alive, more responsive, created a triangle of sensation from nipple to tense low and make me wet.

Rope was sensually strung and rubbed over skin: the inside of my wrists, thighs parted to welcome the twisted fibers, between lips where those same fibers felt rougher amid such sensitivity, breasts and of course the overly receptive nipples. He was unhurried, deliberate in the trail that the rope would follow, created paths that awakened my entire body to touch – not just the more focused upon areas. As wrists were tied, he directed whichever attached hand to grip his cock, and wrapped the rope while receiving treatment from my palm and fingers. I felt his desire growing, a brief interruption as one hand was tied up before the other hand was guided to continue such explorations.

Legs were folded ankle to back of thigh, pressed painfully together tightly in rope, before pulled wide apart at the knees and tied where I felt exposed. The room fan more fully showcased how parted my lips were as the breeze in the room touched wet pink places. A Doxy wand was tied in and barred the breeze’s access between my thighs, pressed at my entrance, began on a low rumble. Eventually, he slowly increased speed as he played with my body with caressing fingertips and his gifted mouth.

“How many orgasms?”

I was unsure, took a guess of three.

“Not enough.” He pressed the wand even harder against my wetness, increased the vibrations until I felt far too overstimulated, thighs tensed and made the rope more painful around. He replaced the scream in my mouth with his cock, sound vibrations reverberated along his shaft through another orgasm before allowing me to breathe.

His mouth was attentive to my nipples, those torturous pinpoints of pleasure throughout my orgasmic torment of the wand.

I begged him to fuck me; he teased me that something else would be inside of me; used my mouth instead, again through another orgasm.

Mercilessly, the wand throbbed between my legs. I begged for it to stop, for him to be inside of me. Again, I received a substitute as he inserted an anal plug – the edge touching the wand and reverberating the vibrations throughout the plug.

Begged again. This time the wand was stopped and rope was casually removed between my thighs holding the toy as his hot mouth slanted down and tongue tasted my orgasms, his fingers occasionally joining in to brush against the sides of my wet lips or delving into my depths.

Already overworked with sensations, his mouth was divine torture. I tensed against his lips, would have grinded myself more fully into his face except he was still unhurriedly untying my thighs. A brief respite as the rope was removed far too quickly to give a true break in passion.

Still, I begged him to fuck me.  He denied me yet again, this time a vibrator was inserted deeply into my drenched depths, slammed in and out. I arched, having full access to my body again, almost came off the bed as I came in sharp waves of pleasure.

I didn’t know how much more I could take, begged he take me instead. He commented on all my begging, encouraged me to let him know how badly I wanted him. When he heard enough, my hands finally felt the purchase of his shoulders, his hips cushioned between my thighs, the head of his cock pressed through the initial resistance of my entrance before pushing down into my body.

Unlike his more slow teasing and taunting up to this point, he kept up a maddening quick pace with sex, rammed almost painfully against my walls, made me come all the more harder from the impact, changed the positions after every couple of orgasms he took from me. Once, when I was rolled over on all fours with knees on the edge of the bed, he grabbed the Doxy wand as he was thrusting in and out and pressed it against the anal plug; my body tensed with the additional sensation and pushed against him and the wand. As he rocked in and out, I felt the plug moving with his hips and cock. I clenched around him in my own orgasms, felt him finally find his own release.

Sweaty, panting, exhausted, I crumpled onto the mattress and he chuckled as he snuggled around my prone form.

Though that led to more caressing, more playing, as my responsiveness tempted him to continue. I asked for his fingers to be shoved in and stretch, wanted to feel more sore in my cunt, screamed through an orgasm that he granted. He lifted my legs, curled them up to gain access to the back of my thighs and bottom to punch, eventually getting tired and moved to his forearms making contact instead of fists, occasionally the impact touched my soaked lips and the plug, created further tension that eventually led to another orgasm.

Tempted by my reactions, again we had so much sex that this time I begged in and out of pleasurable waves of consciousness. Begged to stop, begged not to stop, screamed yes, screamed no. He pounded in and out of my confused pleas until he found his own orgasm.

Snuggled for the second time, his fingers lazily grazed against my skin, made their way between my legs. “You’re so swollen,” he murmured against my ear, which apparently meant I needed to be treated to my vibrator. An orgasm tore through my body and I was unaware of my reaction as I launched away from him, grabbed the vibrator out and threw it on the floor far away from me. He laughed at my unexpected defense instinct against overwhelming pleasure and called a truce.

Exhausted, prompted to clean myself up, he then tucked me in between the sheets and left me alone to pass out into a deep and well deserved sleep the rest of the night.

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Jan 042018
 

Anal sex is something that just recently occured in my life, and to date I’ve probably engaged in it about five times, including the first time when I was forced. Because of the rocky start that first time, it was something that I felt I needed to do again, and do it correctly with someone I trusted and shortly after that experience so that I didn’t turn it into something far more dramatic (like getting back on a bike after falling off?). The second time was complicated, especially with moving on from the previous experience, but I’m grateful I tried anal again. The third time was because I believe I should try something at least twice before passing judgment and the first time didn’t count.

Now? It’s meh. Mr. Texas has been the depth of my experience in this and he realized it was a go-to when he felt frustrated with me (something he had every right to feel in between all the reconciliation attempts with my ex-husband). Since he discovered that motivating factor for him, and because I am so neutral on the whole experience, we haven’t had anal sex in quite some time. Mr. Texas also isn’t the biggest fan, though I believe this to be because it was a turn off for him until we decided to give it a go and he’s slow to change his opinion on things.

So no, I don’t have a thing for anal sex, though at times I quite like anal stimulation.

I’ve also been the giver with pegging my ex-husband and my take away was it was hot to watch him be pleased but didn’t do much for myself, though I did learn that the thrusting motions are far easier from that side than to bounce up and down or even grind as the person being penetrated on top – no wonder men in my life can go forever if they want to.

I’ve also learned that having anal sex makes me feel more submissive somehow, less likely to make decisions or give a call to action – I want him to be pleased first and foremost. Anal sex isn’t unpleasant, I’ve even orgasmed from it, but it’s certainly not my kink and nor something I believe I’ll actively pursue (at least, not yet; my kinks have certainly expanded over time).

Dec 292017
 
Sinful Sunday
I like to play with clothespins with him, most often while I’m teasing him with my mouth, body, hands.

In this particular case, I believe it was more innocent. I clasped the clothespins on his side, straddled his hips, and massaged his back. I made my thighs dug in extra hard at times, hurting my own skin the process of torturing him with the little wooden clamps.

*apparently UK people call this a peg

Oct 302017
 

“Do you like her sucking your cock?” his wife asked in the backseat as he drove us to my house. Somehow I always knew that she would be that cool with another woman. Another bonus: I was using my truck the way I intended it – center console moved up so it’s a bench seat and I could have my mouth comfortably on a man as he drives. She was asking him how it felt and he described it as I gave him road head, before we reached our destination and all headed to my big bed together.

****************

“I taste you on your fingers. Were you touching yourself?” he whispered as he separated my thighs with his hips and drew my fingers deeply into his mouth. I blushed crimson into the dark room, though I’m pretty sure he didn’t need to see me to know that. “You taste so good.”

******************

I had no choice but to be spread open and grinding myself on the bed, as the positioning of the rope around my ankles and thighs kept me low to the bed and spread open, and the chest harness wouldn’t allow for me to move any further up, but the grinding might have actually happened once he placed the vibrator in me. Still, the bound position kept me low and bent over.

“This position is perfect for anal,” and my heart thudded with the thought that anal sex was what he had in mind as he applied lube against me. Instead, the plug hurt in a pleasurable way as he slammed it into me.

*****************

“It’s amazing how much you’ll hurt yourself for an orgasm,” he sounded amazed, but by this point Mr. Texas knows how I can get under the right circumstances. He continued to draw the curry comb against my nipples – or rather keep it pressed up against them as I scratched them back and forth painfully riding him. I would feel my nipples sore for a week, but the price was worth the pleasure.

 

****All different scenarios and times. Wicked Wednesday

Oct 082017
 

I have a few go to phrases, “I suck at handjobs,” is one of those. It’s something that I don’t have a lot of practice in because that go-to statement is normally enough to get my off the hook and moving onto things that I do better. The reality is just that it’s a nonpreferred activity in a bag full of fun sexiness, and something that felt awkward to me.

The nitty gritty of that statement is that I feel handjobs are an area of weakness for me and rather than encourage practice and learning about it, I avoid it like the plague. There will be no blemish on my skill level. Nope.

That doesn’t mean that my hand doesn’t wrap around a cock, or that my palm or fingers don’t appreciate sliding up and down to feel how thick and hard he is, the pulse that I can create, the veins that create a contrast to the smoothness. Oh no, I appreciate all of that. My hands will still most likely touch and feel, but they won’t ever promise a motion that promises fulfillment. My hands will work in tandem with my mouth, most often, if fulfillment to him and hands are involved in any way. That’s part of my own fetish anyhow, having him in my mouth, perhaps that’s why: my greedy mouth does not like to step aside for just hands.

I love when a partner shows me how they like to grip themselves, stroke themselves, the pace that gets them off. Besides being visually stunning and a turn on, I do learn from that – just don’t feel confident in that I could duplicate that sensation due to my lack of experience. I will mimic it, but more as a tease and less of an act in itself, stopping rather quickly so I can get to something I feel more confident in. Every man is so vastly different, from my experience, in how they want a handjob that it’s a bit daunting.

There have been some exceptions, I am sure, far far into my past where a man came unexpectedly, but I can’t place one situation. With my ex-husband, I would peg him and stroke him with a hand at the same time, but he took control of the handjob the first time so our go-to was I would encourage him to stroke himself while I fucked him. For us, if he wanted me to give him a handjob until orgasm, I would’ve tried, but he let me off the hook every time – besides our fascination was always deep throating or sex to fulfillment.

With Mr. Texas, he finally vocalized and showed me what he liked, but it is not something that I feel I could duplicate – rather I learned where he likes to be touched best and to what extent – knowledge I use frequently. The few times I have tried to give him a handjob, he has let me know he’d rather do other things – somewhat discouraging me when I feel bold enough to try. Which normally I wouldn’t care about – again, a bag full of fun things to do anyhow, but I would like to try to give him fulfillment in this way, as oftentimes he will just finger me to orgasm without his own pleasure pursuit so I would like to reciprocate… but he doesn’t seem to want me to try? Or perhaps I suck at the act? Maybe his own kink is getting me off without any pleasure being returned? (It’s not our lack of communication that stops me from knowing my answer – it’s my own fear of the answer).

The Wanderer, well, now I have a success story for this post. He loves handjobs – something that filled me with dread, but he is an excellent teacher, and he walked through my first successfully tried handjob. He was able to verbalize exactly what he wanted and needed, and that was such a huge turn on in itself. It was beautiful to witness.

“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” – Hot Wax and Hands

[jwplayer mediaid=”7535″]

Sep 242017
 

The first time I wrote about this topic was for Kink of the Week over four years ago. At that point, I had just been spanked for the time after orgasms. I really enjoyed that first time, and slowly, tentatively, carefully I was spanked from time to time – but always after orgasms and never with much frequency.

Kink of the Week also got me to talk about one of the rare times I bruised from having my bottom spanked a year after that, with a partner that was less careful and tentative, and whose spanking I discovered I really enjoyed despite the less orgasm-hazed brain and more with the warm up of just his hand on my skin. I learned that spanking on its own could be something I desired if done right – though far be for me to deny an orgasm.

The following year, again with Kink of the Week, I discussed how hands on my ass has helped me accept that even this part of my body is sexy – before that I thought I lacked the bottom for anyone, myself included, to appreciate.

That post was two years ago and spanking happened irregularly. Since then, I’ve met two men and they both spank me quite a bit.

The Wanderer’s main kink is spanking, and when we first began playing it certainly wasn’t mine – I was still really new to this activity and had a love/hate relationship with it. But I wanted to engage in a kink that he enjoyed, so he gave me my first over-the-knee spanking and showed me the power dynamics that can be felt from just a change of positioning. I have since learned that I enjoy spanking on its own and sometimes want it under the right circumstances. Bare handed spanking is now part of our play, which I had a strong feeling it would be because it was his kink, but I was pleasantly surprised how much I can enjoy it. We engage in this activity so much that I created a category for it on the blog. He’s taught me that spanking on its own can be a whole scene, that sex and other things do not need to occur for me to get something out of it that I need or want. Though again, far be it for me to say no to orgasms – I’ve even orgasmed from being spanked:

“Right when it began to feel good, it began to really sting again. He swatted constantly and consistently at a fast pace and somehow even with my legs rendered useless I managed to twist and turn around his body, wedging myself between him and the bed for protection.

He simply laughed at me and wrapped a solid arm around my waist, continuing his sting assault as he shifted his own body off of the the bench.

I clung to the bench as if it would save my overly dramatic life, pressed my breasts and belly and thighs into it, willing myself to meld into hiding.

He shifted tactics and used thuds – it was probably from his palms but it felt like his fists. My body tensed at the onslaught and I began to clench. More tension and suddenly my body released and surrendered at the pain, creating a pleasurable orgasm in the wake.” – The Brush

At the same time as spanking became part of my play, I was also dating Mr. Texas. He was a vanilla (big emphasis on that past tense word), and spanking seemed to be a good baby step. Mr. Texas doesn’t always like warm up, he loves to see the marks that his hand can create and is often impatient to get there, but he is a natural top in this. (He’s also taught me that I enjoy punching with the thud far more than spanking with the sting.)

He has also made me cry from spanking:

“Mr. Texas’ hands did the real damage as they almost always do, first caressed my reddened cheeks which felt amazing, softly patted a few times, then pulled back and spanked to where the imprint of every finger and thumb connect to his palm was not only visible – it was felt.

I jumped up and elbowed him in the chest, though not hard as I couldn’t see and he stepped back. If we had made eye contact, I’m sure my gaze would have conveyed my dislike over such extreme stingy pain, though he didn’t need to see – he knew how much I disliked it.

“Mother fucker,” I gritted, tip toeing to relieve some sting on my cheek – it didn’t alleviate any. His hand went to my mid back and he pushed me down to bend over the counter again.” – Wet Leather 

Between these two men, spanking has occurred a lot in the last couple of years, as well as the addition of a play partner in a dungeon who has used me as demo bottom for spanking with newbies. I think I claim that bare handed spanking is a kink of mine, something I could not do when I first began writing about it four years ago.

Sep 172017
 

Wicked Wednesday

photo credit: Gunn Shots (Catching up) Vistas of my youth via photopin(license)

This is a post that is always a work in progress, as I listen to conversations and agree with so many perspectives. It’s also shifted in myself. Consent is something that is on and off screamed about on Fetlife, and trust is something stressed in the kink communities. When the flurry of writings come out, I try to sort out my own perspective and mixed emotions – especially when it came to my own experience of my trust being broken.

For a play person, consent is crucial. Safe words, negotiations, boundaries being respected are all important factors of the dynamic. Sure, there is trust, but the trust is that those consent pieces are respected. I also have a love/hate relationship with safe words – for a play partner, I keep them at the forefront of my mind; in a relationship I don’t think to use them unless it’s been negotiated prior – I want to go further down the rabbit hole and explore the strange curiosities of comfortably uncomfortable. Safe words imply that a boundary may be crossed due to a lack of awareness of a limit (which may be necessary in both play partners and relationships, but less so in a relationship as the person knows limits).

For a relationship, trust is crucial – consent less so. There is a level of trust that must exist in order for me to fully let go; I entrust things to someone else – including my well-being; I leave it up to that person in that moment. Trust is based on the unknown as well as the known – my partner knows me well enough for this relationship; I trust my partner to choose things specifically for me without my knowledge and based on what is best for me.

To think of it another way: when someone asked what you want at a restaurant and you say, “I’ll leave it up to you,” or “surprise me,” they will not order things that they know you despise. If you go on a date with someone, you strive to the next date – not push your own agenda without care for the other person. So too do I expect my partner to take the time to know me deeply, intimately, to know what I will not do, to push gently for that next step together and go at a pace that is conducive for us both.

I too take that same pace with them – I am not a passive participant.

This type of trust is built over time and carefully cultivated – hence the relationship aspect for me, and it is constantly evolving. It’s a delicate dance of patience and nurturing. And serious communication. It allows me to enter into gray areas, push past boundaries, experiment in a safe place.

Consent is black or white, broken or upheld to the highest degree. It hints at a lack of trust. Negotiation is fantastic, and often necessary in the beginning of two people who do not know each other, but there is something far sexier in the wonder of what’s next in a scene unfolding to me.

At a munch, someone asked the group, “how do you know if someone wants this,” and they replied communication, asking. These are simplistic ways, and truly a great thing, but mid scene I do not want to stop, nor am I going to the very limits of what is negotiated or something that they like. If someone gives a list of kinks, I’m not going to go down every one, I’m going to stroke a few carefully and watch for reactions.

Some examples: with The Wanderer:

“I test the waters, unsure of what he’ll allow…he’s a new partner and I want to please him. I am lucky in that I know a bit about him … but I don’t know what level he exerts dominance, what level of passivity or submission he expects from me.

So my fingertips lightly caress, then become bolder with hands, and then move from fabric to removing fabric, then from hands to mouth.

I never once push, ask, nor even communicate through body language that he should fuck me. I respect his boundary, as I am always very respectful and conscientious of any boundary given,” – Developing 

Okay, now I play with the boundary in a teasing way for fun, though I would never push for sex – it is the boundary. I’ll still mimic the act of sex, grind myself down on his lap, bend over before he spanks me and bump my bottom against his pelvis – but it is clearly a tease and not trying to get away with something I shouldn’t – I only do things of his nature when he is fully clothed, wearing his chastity belt of pants as it were. Even to be comfortable enough to know that my teasing would be acceptable took patience and tiny trials, starts and stops to see how far our trust in each extended.

With Mr. Texas, we started exploring pain elements with safewords, now it is something that is not needed, nor rarely used unless discussed, so it is something I would not think to use unless discussed:

“I also, especially when I top him, realize that I am dealing with a man not used to coloring at all, so I listen to his body language,  his words, his noises, and his actions and proceed cautiously, stopping far before he colors. If I force him to color, I warn him ahead of time that is my intent and do only one action (like bite down) until he remembers to use it.

Again, though, I don’t believe that I should only stop when he uses his safe word. If I am playing to the edge it is with someone I trust and who trusts me, someone that I have played with many times before, someone that will know my tells and listen to my body language the same way that I do theirs.” – Safeword Complication

Mr. Texas and I have extensive trust in each other, and we have certainly baby stepped our way into kink since he was inexperienced and I was untrusting (when he met me). It is this openness of being a strong foundation of exploration that allowed me to relax enough to try anal sex again and impact play has gone far more than any other in more variety of ways.

Before the fallout of my ex husband, he gave me the safe space to explore my sexuality and my world to kink (it was a mutual new experience for us both) without judgment. He pushed my boundaries far past what I thought I would be comfortable with, but it was gently, always (until the end) with the intent that the exploration continue and was comfortable with both of us.

I believe in both consent and trust – but my relationships are less about consent because I do trust them, boundaries are more gray areas, safewords not necessary as we read and know each other (though still there, if need be- a safeword would not be ignored). I cannot consent to a journey unknown.

Sep 072017
 

Squirting is a sexual hangup on mine; my very first hangup since becoming sexual active and it happened less than ten years ago. It also occurred with my ex-husband. The first time he made me squirt, he lifted his hand and smelled it. It wasn’t a sexy smelling he was doing, he was checking to see if I peed myself. Since I had never done this before to my awareness*, the sensation certainly felt like I  had. When I saw his hand lift to his nose, it was a horror-movie-moment of slow-motion what-is he-going-to-find? I immediately excused myself and went into the bathroom and cried, mortified and embarrassed. The sexy moment between us had come to a screeching halt and I wished I could have just vanished. The talk afterwards didn’t go well, then, either (once he finally coaxed me out of the bathroom). While we communicated openly and honestly, we just fumbled and stuck our foot in our mouth.

I hated squirting.

Because of that first experience and the fact that he could make me squirt with such ridiculous ease, we compromised that he never sniffed and eventually we settled to only in the shower.

When I squirt, I will cover an entire wrist and leave a pool of my desire dripping onto the sheets or an arm; there has to be enough pressure applied with a vibe or fingers – which curl just the right way inside of me (so far fingering and a vibrator are the only ways that have made me squirt). I dislike the mess outside of a shower, to be honest. Sheet and mattress pad have to be washed, odds are I’ll have to shower – something I don’t feel the urge to do outside most sexual acts but squirting covers so much of my lower half I may as well at least rinse off.

Once, I was able to do this myself with a vibrator.  Feeling the urge to masturbate, I grabbed my vibrator, and without any warm up, forced it through my dry entrance, slowly eased it in, pulled out and smeared my juices inside around my lips. Then I thrusted my vibrating toy in and out, hard, rough, frenzied. I heard my orgasm, the wetness slapping against the vibrator; felt the tension then liquid hitting my hand, little splatterings that surprised me. In that moment I was proud I had accomplished such a feat.

Once, Mr. Texas ordered me to make myself squirt – something my ex-husband accomplished over a video chat once, ordering:

“Harder,” he would urge, “really fuck yourself,” and, “you can go deeper… you won’t be allowed to cum unless you really give it your best effort,” finally followed by the order, “cum”…The sound traveled across miles, from one receiver to another, and hit my body like thunder. I squirted, my fingers and wrist coated from the force, the bottom of my lingerie and the bed catching the drops of the tensioned storm because he knew how to make me do it-even to myself. – My Punishment

I tried for Mr. Texas, but I immediately felt like crying over such an order – I really don’t know how to do it, nor do I even want to (hence why my ex made me- it was a punishment). Truly, what is most frustrating at times is when a partner reads about experiences I’ve had and believes that the dynamics, actions, experiences can happen again. Squirting is elusive now, something that I do not mind in the slightest.

Nowadays, Mr. Texas has gotten me close, and perhaps even achieved this, though I do have a defense mechanism that is instinctively for whatever reason: I hit. I’m sure I did this with my ex-husband but he never paid any heed if I hit him; Mr. Texas stopped immediately, concerned. We’ve talked about why I do this, and so most of the time he still proceeds or even pins down my arm (surprisingly I only instinctively hit with my right, never my left), but squirting orgasms have to be forced from me, and with my own resistance towards them it becomes even more challenging to create this orgasm.

Thankfully, I have so many more less frustrating orgasms, easier to obtain, in such a variety of ways; I’m not sure why squirting orgasms are even desired by a partner. I don’t hate squirting anymore but I can’t claim to like it either.

*I can recall drenching a bed from just fingering and multiple orgasms before my ex-husband, but due to the nature of the multiple orgasms didn’t have the time or the brain power to reflect upon the oddities of the orgasms. I believe that this was my first experience with squirting, about a year prior to meeting my ex-husband.

Sep 052017
 

*Continued from here

Punching is far more effective and safer when I am pressed against something soft from the recoil of force, so after the orgasm Mr. Texas guided me away from the hard and unforgiving bathroom counters. It was blindly, as a leather blindfold now soaked with my tears unusual smell was my primary overriding sense. Trust led us back into the bedroom where he bent me over the bed and punched a few more times at the softest fleshiest parts of my bottom and thighs before throwing me onto the bed on my stomach. It was unsettling to not be able to see, for my body to snap from one place to another by force, something that created a different type of awareness within me.

His fists came down faster and harder in the familiar position but I yellowed rather quickly on both cheeks.

“You normally take a lot more,” he commented, rolled me over and fingered me to yet another orgasm, completely took my mind off of the pain. He kissed me passionately as the head of his cock pushed past my entrance and parted the way into my depths; my body welcomed his intrusion, clenched with pleasure rippling along his length.

After an orgasm from me he slid out, one hand glided across my throat as his fingers and thumb found my pulse on both sides of the neck and softly pressed. It didn’t cut off air nor blood, just a gentle reminder that he was in charge and immediately made my mind quiet down again, an unvoiced complaint of him stopping sex silent on my lips. The other hand roughly fingered me to several more orgasms, my fluids coated his fingers and sounded out into the otherwise quiet room – I am often non verbal with a hand around my throat.

Again, in between orgasms, the smell of wet leather wafted into my awareness.

He slid into me again and we had sex for so long, in so many positions that I screamed in overwhelming pleasure until my throat felt raw and my stomach hurt from the tension.

Eventually he growled sexily in his own release. At the time I was bent over the bed standing so he scooped me up and laid me gently in the middle of the bed, cuddled against me despite how sweaty my overworked body was. The blindfold came off but the pleasant smell of wet leather lingered.

Mr. Texas praised how well I did as he stroked the side of me, his hand ran across a hip.

Smack! And he was back to patting a cheek, positioned his lower body a bit away to get the space to reach my bottom while the arm underneath my head went around front to hold steady firm pressure against my throat. Several soft strokes from his hand and then a hard one, the anxiousness of an occasional promise of a hard one that never landed to watch me tense and gasp, which made him chuckle.

Eventually he positioned me onto my stomach to again punch against my cheeks and the tops of my thighs, though I was fast complaining.

I was also in that floaty space where pain and pleasure collided and blurred and nothing else existed beyond the sensations.

…That is, until he reached to the nightstand and rubbed menthol into my cheeks. “Red,” I stated, concerned at how cold my cheeks became, how they intensified the sting that my skin had already been feeling.

“Okay,” he said soothingly, rolled me over and held me. “No more.”

Perhaps it would seem strange that menthol made me red so quickly, but earlier we had played with a few chemicals and menthol had made its way to my clit and I hated how that felt.

The smell of it finally penetrated the wet leather smell.

I asked him to wash it off so he pulled me into the bathroom and bent me over the counter, this time was only to graze my overly sensitive bottom with a warm washcloth.

He commented on how out of it I looked after our play session and steered me back into the bedroom, tucked us both into the covers and snuggled up against my back. I dozed but woke quickly once the gel penetrated my muscles and made my cheeks feel on fire – a different sort from the hot throbbing after impact, more like pins radiating heat from deep under the skin.

He was already fast asleep but it woke me and kept me awake until the sensations much later finally subsided, effectively taking me out of my quiet mind.

Lesson learned: I don’t like chemicals.