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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Jan 022017
 

“People are surprised you are able to keep on going at all, they compliment you all the time. They are surprised you haven’t crashed,” Mr. Texas commented, when I lamented that I haven’t been writing recently. I’ve barely been surviving on the domestic front either. Everything seems such a struggle.

“I am shocked I haven’t crashed yet either, I feel like it’s around every corner, could happen at any moment,” I replied, lying in bed, recovering from jet lag as I watched him wrap him Christmas presents that I had bought but had no energy to wrap after traveling to another country.

Mr. Texas takes excellent care of me, so much so that I’ve officially moved in with him. He even added that he felt like perhaps I won’t crash the way I fear because he is here to support me, not to mention that I’m on medicine right now to help me limp along with my emotional wreckage of a life. I hadn’t been sleeping to the point where I could no longer function – it’s amazing what some sleep and emotional stability can provide to functioning.

So let’s catch up my life to speed:

2016 greeted me with my husband wanting a divorce – which ripped my heart out and left me a shadow of my former self. The divorce also left me abandoned in my former hometown, looking for a new job and away from my support system of friends and my sister.

Somehow, during this stressful period, two men have been kind enough to care for me: Mr. Texas and The Wanderer. My relationship with both of them has been rocky, especially reconciling with my ex husband briefly, but they are supportive and patient through my struggles.

Before I felt fully myself from the divorce, my baby sister died unexpectedly. My family leaned on me, the way they always have for some odd reason (they say it’s because I’m the most responsible and strongest though I feel far from that), but I simply could not handle even the littlest things reeling from another loss so dear to my heart.

Mr. Texas, throughout it all, has held me and stepped up when I simply couldn’t stand on my own. We have a ton of issues – mostly coming from my end, but after my sister died and sex and hurty rope didn’t offer the comfortable escape I sought, Mr. Texas simply opened up his arms and held me through the tears, kissed and beat and fucked my body until I temporarily could seek release from it all.

When he wasn’t around, I fought the sleeplessness; the admitting that I needed help, counseling, medicine; limped along in my job and fought panic attacks; I binged ate and forgot to eat. Time and time again I kept coming over to his house, our kids blending seamlessly and he offered home cooked meals, wine, hot tub, comfort.

He offered home.

He changed his work schedule (a rare opportunity in the military) to help me with school schedules, painted bedrooms and negotiated with all the kids involved to make space personalized for everyone.

I don’t know if we’re suited: he was very vanilla but is now open minded enough to accept my want of polyamory, finds himself liking and even craving the kinkier intimate moments and the social communities; for myself, I wanted the freedom that older kids came with and exploring my outgoing kink lifestyle yet now find that home makes me content most days. It may be a fleeting acceptance on both of our parts but we are willing to see where it goes.

It’s a scary step.

I still fight the feeling that I need to stand on my own, that I need to find myself amid all this chaotic life changing loss, that I am relying on another so heavily.

I have always been the reliable one, the one that my family and even my ex husband relied on, the stead fast one, always known who I was, what I wanted, and how to get there.

I’ve no clue anymore. My heart is shattered in so many pieces I am shocked that anyone wants to hold the slivers and be in my broken company.

Maybe, even if I’m doing this wrong or for the wrong reasons, it’s what is right for right now.

And maybe it’s time I set aside my worry and allow Mr. Texas to soothe my vulnerability with love (and yes, even opening myself up to another potential loss).
Wicked Wednesday

Aug 142016
 

So with my husband and I reconciling, one of the first things on his list was anal play for him. He hadn’t experienced it in months and I think that he was even made to feel that it was viewed negatively in some regard.

He missed it.

He had thrown out all the toys that he was in possession of that we had split, so we no longer had the very cool dildo that went beautifully with our harness (and also fit inside of me with vibrations); I was still in possession of the harness. So, off we went to a sex store where we found just a standard dildo that the harness would hold in. It was more malleable than the other dildo, which actually helped cut down on me accidentally hurting him; the downside is when I really got going it would slip out a little easier. It was also lighter, so while nothing was inserted into me, at least it stayed put in the harness a bit better.

Armed and ready, we were going to try pegging again.

Actually, it was a scene that I was giving him with pegging so he laid down tied in the center of the bed with a pillow under his bottom. I started with softer sensations (he dislikes pain of any kind). My hands would roam and my mouth was active the whole time:

tongues danced together with gentle caresses reaquainting fingertips with his body, soft sighs and a building of passion and love and trust;

blindfolding him with a soft leather strip so he could focus more on the physical sensations and less visually, my mouth hovering above his own as my tongue darting out to trace his lips as he tried to catch a kiss;

brushing his skin with feathers as my mouth would roam and suck at delectable areas that incited moans;

using stinging flicks of a toy as my teeth would nibble and occasionally bite, causing goosebumps and pinkened marks to appear across his body;

taking the tines of the wheel and traversing across his body as teeth would sink into muscles, causing him to jump or take sharp intakes of breath as he worked through the brief flashes of pain;
an ice cube melted in my mouth as my tongue swept across his reddened areas, cooling down the heated flesh right before I would drip hot wax from a candle, reheating the area and giving a contrast.

When I increased the sensations in roughness, I also took less care of tenderness – kissing him less, manhandling him more. When he would try to move away from a sensation, my hand was around his neck or my elbows were digging into a pressure point to keep him still, with a warning that he soon heeded to stay still and work through accepting the sensations. A black hood (a new toy of mine) with just an opening for the mouth was pulled over his face, effectively turning him more of an object that I was toying with and a mouth to fuck, as I immediately told him to stick out his tongue so I could straddle and fuck his face. I made sure to press my hips down every so often to make his breathing a little more labored as he brought me pleasure.
It wasn’t long before I placed on a glove, a lot of lube on one finger, positioned myself between his legs, and then my mouth teased the tip of his erection as I slowly circled his anus before inserting the finger. As my finger moved deeper into his body, my mouth moved lower down his shaft. Two fingers increased my sucking, which moved at the same time of my fingers – down and in, up and out. Three fingers – a bit trickier as my pinky always seems to be in the way, my tongue swirled around the ridges of his head as I inserted before attempting to deep throat him as my fingers tried to fill his body.

He sighed and moaned and groaned, his hips occasionally tried to thrust up and welcome the sensations even further. He was so hard in my mouth, occasionally pulsing at a delicious part, hitting the back of my throat at times, his muscle clenching around my fingers as they curled slightly, explored, slid in and out.
I decreased the sensations before stopping, taking off my glove and moving up his body, briefing sliding my own body to where he was inside of me and grinding on top of him while I took off his hood and kissed back his humanness. I kissed the sides of his neck as I took off his blindfold, slowing rotating my hips rather than fucking him roughly, leaned down to passionately kiss him before I slowly unraveled him to freedom, wanting him to have full use of his hands and legs. His hands immediately went to my hips to fuck us to pleasure, but I removed myself off him and told him to put me in the harness.
Less than a minute later I was again between his legs, liberally applying lubrication on my dildo, positioning it at his entrance. He seemed surprised that rather than enter him, I leaned forward and kissed him, pressing my body down on his own and telling him how much I loved him. Then I leaned up and carefully entered him, watching his face closely in between the toy disappearing into his depths. He gave me verbal feedback the whole way in, positive that it felt good, that it wasn’t hurting, that he could take more. When I was all the way in, I praised him as I leaned forward for a kiss again before straightening up and slowly easing out and then in. One hand stroked his cock and the other caressed his balls. Masturbation Monday Week 102

Soon I was fucking him, both hands gripping his hips like he so often did to me to have more leverage and go as deep as I could, and his own hand was stroking himself. I slipped out a couple of times, but eventually his body tensed and his hips lifted as his hand slowed while white spurts shot across his chest with his orgasm. It was a magnificent sight; it was verbally decadent to hear his sounds; it was incredible to create and be a part of.

I finished the scene for him with a warm wash cloth, cleaned the beautiful white streaks and hardened candle wax off his skin, had him sit up for a drink of water before rolling over so I could wipe off the excess of lube between his cheeks. I had a candle going of massage wax the whole time and poured enough over his broad expanse of back, rubbing his muscles and feeling any residue tension leave his body, before using another warm wash cloth to remove any oil that didn’t soak into his skin. I covered him with a blanket as he laid so peacefully and heard him snore before I even left the room to clean up our toys. Masturbation Monday badge - small

 

 

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.

“No.”

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.

Apr 262016
 

Vacant would be a good adjective for my next two men, for my A to Z Challenge. There was a lot absent in the experience with both of them – one an entire memory, the other was just a self centered jerk who I still continued with because I was desperate to stop the hurting. I ended up far more hurt than I could have imagined.

photo credit: via photopin (license)

photo credit: via photopin (license)

The ginger I was unconscious for.

I have no recollection of what he looked like, neither his body nor face, though the dating app shows pictures of him. I found two condoms in the trash can the next morning.

That doesn’t make him a bad guy – he was probably unaware of my mind state. That night, after so many nights of crying but still not sleeping, my sister gave me an Ambien, where I apparently had what is known as an Ambien blackout. I probably started messaging him first, regardless of what I did next to unconscious, I gave him my address somehow during this blackout.

I don’t remember him leaving either, but thank goodness he did, because that would have freaked me out – to wake up with a strange man in my bed.

There are just a few moments that I remember, it would all amount to a total of five minutes perhaps, but it was was at different parts.

I answered the door in a flannel.

I remember going down on him and nothing else on a physical level – I don’t remember actually wrapping my mouth around him, just leaning down to do it.

He repeatedly asked: “where have you been the three years I’ve been here?” and I remember thinking he repeated that question a lot.

And compliment after compliment from him.

Thank goodness he messaged me the next day, otherwise I would have been clueless who I slept with during the night. He kept the conversations very focused to things like his free time over the weekend and how he wanted to see me during them.  He was sweet and kept messaging, telling me his work schedule and asking about what I was doing so that he could see me again. Neither of our schedules worked out – I didn’t see him again* and I really wanted to – just to know who he was that I had slept with. It is odd to me to sleep with someone I don’t know/remember.

>>>>>>>>>>Another Night, another guy<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Pull Out Get Out, seriously if I could name a guy (which I can on my blog) it would be that. The dude was gorgeous (slutfest was mostly about female votes on who was the hottest as a deciding factor for my one night stands), but he didn’t ask a single question about me and then left immediately afterwards… seriously he pulled out of my body, rolled off of the bed, stood up, dressed, and muttered about going to smoke as he shut the door…and didn’t return.

He was also the only man during slutfest that I was set up with, a friend of a friend who immediately came over when he heard I just wanted sex and then talked a lot about himself as an awkward getting-to-know you, but wasn’t curious in the slightest about who I was. I knew nothing about him outside of his work (his only topic).

I was tired that night and almost skipped a night of hit-it-and-quit-its and by the time he left me, really wished I would’ve stuck to that instinct.

It wasn’t all bad: he made the sexiest grunting noises, but zero foreplay outside of what I did to him. It was all about him, just like the conversation.

It also felt like he was splitting me in two; he was far too big especially with my body not thoroughly prepped but still he pressed in, pressed on.

Him on top, me on top, doggy style for some stupid reason even though that made him bigger.

He hurt my cunt to mirror my heart, perhaps that’s why I allowed it.

I felt terrible about being with this man, would rather have been a guy of my choosing – which it didn’t feel like it was, this meeting of a friend already negotiated for sex.

However brief  the conversations and connections, at least on the dating apps I saw them first, they engaged with me, messaged at least a bit to get a feel of something.

I was so emotional when I knew he truly left (I had to check because he didn’t say anything); I didn’t quit crying that entire night.

A terrible end to what I thought of as slut fest, the one that spotlight shined the desperation in it.

I was a hole, and no matter how many cocks slid into my hole, it was there incomplete, wounded, gaping, exposed. Disgusting. Unworthy.

…Unloved

*He texts me still, constantly for awhile. Apparently, I was amazing at giving him head and being on top. He wanted to know when I would come back to the state so that we could hook up again, and I gave him that chance when I visited again about a month and half later. I believe that I wrote about that second encounter as well, this man that I had slept with but was meeting for the first time. He was/is nice.

 Posted by at 8:54 am
Dec 152015
 

*We have a whole large chest of toys, but my favorite toy is simply my husband. He’s an inventive toy. This was written when he slapped my sex for the first time (2 years ago). 

I folded laundry on our bed while he organized the sex toy chest. He went to get something and returned, approached behind me and cupped my breast with one hand, the other lifted my hair and kissed the back of neck, whispered how sexy I was.

“You should get me off,” I said as he walked away, back to the chest.

“I will,” but he didn’t seem in any hurry, so I went back to folding laundry, put it away, hoped he’d hurry with the chest so he could get to me. He stood up again, went to the door, locked it. I smiled and stripped out my clothes, knew what that meant. “Are we having sex?” he queried.

“I don’t know, but can I get naked while you please me?”

“Want me naked too?” He slowly took off his shirt, already knew my answer. I laid down in the middle of the bed, and he kissed me, sucked on a nipple, and his fingers slid between my folds. “Wet already. Somehow I knew you’d be.”

His finger teased in and out, spread my juices around, rubbed my gspot, almost got me there, and then withdrew completely. I whined. “Oh I’m not done, girl. I know what toy I want to use.” He already had my Lelo in the other hand and slowly inserted it. I came, and came again. He fingered me, in that insistent and harsh way that makes me squirt, and I knew he wouldn’t give up until I did. He positioned himself between my legs. “Of course we’re having sex, you knew that was going to happen when you demanded I please you,” he said, slid in effortlessly. I was so wet that when I wrapped my legs around his hips I could feel my juices on my thighs. We had amazing sex, and I orgasmed several more times before he switched positions and came as well.

We cuddled, and his fingers wandered around the curves of my body. As they skimmed my thighs and nipples, I caught my breath, moaned a little. He smiled, a smile I recognize when he realizes that I am so sensitive and is going to play some more because of my reactions. He kissed me, gently nudged me onto my back, and his finger slipped so easily into my body. I moaned and raised my hips. His finger slid out and up to clit, circled a few times. And then he slapped my lips. I yelped, more from surprise.

He had never done that before. He did it again, and I moaned and raised my hips. “Did you cum?” he asked after a few more times of stinging drumming on my wet lips, going back to just holding me.

“No, but I could,” I honestly admitted, and there was his hand back there, palm and fingers slapped my sex.

“Hurts so good?”

“Yes,” I panted, “hurt me, please, I want you to.” And he increased the tempo and force, his mouth sucked and nibbled and even bit on my nipple, and I came.

He sat up against the headboard and hauled me up and around so that I was using him as a backrest. His legs moved on top of mine and spread them. His hands stroked up and down my body, sometimes his barely-there nails dug into my skin and scratched somehow, other times he gripped my skin so tightly it hurt.  His hands gripped and squeezed my breasts, pinched hard on my nipples as his mouth kissed the side of my neck, squeezed, and the fingers went back to their relentless pinching. I came, not knowing whether to arch into his fingers or try to escape them.

One hand went around my throat and gripped tighter than normal. The other hand went to my throbbing clit and strummed until I came.

He pushed me off of his chest, grabbed me and threw me face down on the bed. “You wanted me to hurt you,” he said, leaned down to get something out of our toy chest and then straddled my thighs. I felt the unmistakable sting of the misery stick on my ass and when I started whimpering from one cheek, he moved to the other. I squirmed, it stung, and then his palm came down a few times, almost soothing in comparison to the stick.

He grabbed my hips and raised my ass up, so my knees were underneath me. He entered me and began pounding into me; I had to grip the sheets to keep myself from sliding. A hand grabbed my hair and raised my chest up as he continued thrusting in, and the other hand went around my throat. I came, I screamed.

He pushed my head back into the bed, the hands still around me. My knees would no longer support me, and laying down, he continued to hammer into me. “Fucking cum,” he growled in my ear, his hand around my throat tightened at the same time as he pulled harder on my hair. I did. “Stay there,” he ordered, and though I was on a declining orgasm, I clenched and tried and did. “Don’t you fucking come down.” I muttered a complaint of some sort, denied the ability to stay, but my body managed. “Use my thumb to keep you quiet. Bite if you need,” the hand around my throat offered his thumb in my mouth, and I did bite down. “Only focus on me inside you.” I was incapable of anything else anyhow. He slammed into me as far as possible, kept a fast pace, and I heard his harsh breathing in my ear, and the tensing of his body as he finally found his own orgasm.

His weight came down on me more fully, but he quickly rolled up over, spooned, gently caressed my body a few more times. I sighed, “I’ll leave you alone, let your body come fully down,” he promised and left the bed. “I have to go in order to not mess with you,” he admitted, throwing on clothes.

I smiled, not able to fully open my eyes, not wanting to move. Sweat clung to my skin, plastered the back of my hair to my neck. My muscles were sore from being so tense. I was aware of my hurt throat, both from his hold and from screaming. I drifted to sleep before he even closed the door.

Even when he woke me, some time later, my mind was quiet the rest of the night, my body was content to just do nothing.

Wicked Wednesday*Also written for Christmas Erotica Prompt to the song of Little Drummer Boy.

 Posted by at 7:01 am
Oct 062015
 

*Wicked Wednesday’s prompt matched the Sinful Sunday’s picture so perfectly, I almost used it twice! But I know I’ve written a lot about waking up early – I always get an early start on my day and try to push my limit with my husband’s kindness with early morning sex. I use this topic so much that I have a category “waking”. Luckily, even though my husband and I are currently separated again, in drafts I have this small moment I wrote awhile ago on how amazing he is to an early riser/insomniac like me.  

I haven’t slept for hours, it is from nothing specific. I get up and when I come back to bed to try again, I hear his sleepy murmurings.

“You okay?” Gruff and drowsy, syllables stumbling and sliding into each other.

“I can’t sleep. I need sex,” I whine softly, crawling against his warm form under the covers.

“Okay, give me a moment. My arm is asleep,” he rolls over onto his back and I reach down and stroke his hardness, marveling at his already aroused state. “I need a moment,” he repeats, as if unsure he even said it the first time.

“I know, and thank you. You’re so my dream man,” I place soft kisses on his chest and continue stroking him.

“I try.” I place my head on his chest. “What’re we doing?” he is obviously confused, still so sleepy.

“I’m snuggling, hold me,” I direct him and shift to lay my cheek even more firmly on his chest. He is so unbelievably hard.

“Okay, I can do that.” His arm comes around and holds me close. We whisper of vague, everyday things as he slowly sheds sleep, my hand continues stimulating him, as if I am afraid that if I stop, so will his erection. Perhaps it will, we’ve been here far more than people would give him credit for – and many would not welcome sex so early (not that he always does, nor is he actually welcoming – more accommodating). “I have to wake up in an hour,” he stated once he opened his eyes, turning to the side to begin fingering me, his mouth gently at my nipple.

“Plenty of time for you to go back to sleep,” I reassure him, kiss him as he enters me. We both know he won’t find his own pleasure, and how tired he is depends on how many orgasms he’ll grant me before separating and drifting back to sleep. I’ve always been envious of his ability to fall asleep so magnificently.

How lucky I am to have him!

Wicked Wednesday

 Posted by at 6:25 am
Sep 232015
 

“Remember, I was the vanilla one. I look at it like I’m along for the ride on this Sim’s (game) roller coaster. Hanging on for the twists and turns, the ups and downs, with you right beside me, but you’re also the one in the control panel.” – My husband

We had a talk last night, after he read “Hurtful Scene“. He feels as though he is portrayed negatively, though acknowledging that of course people only see my view because I can only write from my view. Fortunately, there’s been some distance since that posted conversation – it was written awhile ago and waited to be posted until after the conflict was (somewhat) resolved.

We snuggled as we talked in the middle of the night, me still sleepy from being woken but knowing he needed to sort through and discuss his feelings on the matter.

“I hope you can fall back asleep,” he said by way of apology for waking me, us both knowing that I probably wouldn’t, that I would drag through a long day at work as a consequence. “How about I give you sex?”

He doesn’t initiate all that often, I am the partner pushing for sex. Of course I said yes.

He chuckled, “how often do people have a serious conversation, hurt feelings, and still come together for sex?” He fingers softly caressed me. “We aren’t perfect-”

“I don’t want to be. I want us to be us, to explore, and be crazy, and make mistakes and learn, and love each other. That’s pretty close to perfect to me,” I interrupted, stroking him.

We came together in the quiet hours before the new day.

 Posted by at 5:51 am
Sep 072015
 

A light sleeper, I woke up looking for him and discovered he wasn’t there. I looked at the time, realized how late it was, and rolled out of bed, looking for him. He wasn’t far – on the other side of the bedroom wall playing video games in our living room.  He saw me, said, “coming,” before I could utter a sound, so I spun around and retreated back between the warmth of the covers.

A few minutes later, my eyes shut and body cozy, I heard him moving around the room quietly. The bed dipped and his cold body was beside me.

Normally I shy away from cold bodies – I take forever to warm up myself and am a bit overly protective when I am not feeling cold. But I was grateful he was beside me, so with us both laying on our backs I positioned myself slanted, with my ass up on the edge on one hip of his, one leg going between his legs, only reaching halfway down due to our height difference, and the other leg hooking around his opposite hip. One of my hands settled on my hip. I still wasn’t willing to commit my torso to his chilly self, but I was willing to warm up the lower half of him.

He has this uncanny ability to fall asleep instantly, the minute his head hits the pillow, so when he didn’t respond to me sharing warmth, I was a bit envious of this ability, assuming he was asleep.

My fingertips touched my wiry pubic hair and I toyed with the edges, pretty soon seeing if I could run my fingers through it, discovering it wasn’t quite long enough for that but it was getting there.

“I need to trim,” I stated softly, and heard an answering grunt. So he wasn’t quite asleep yet, but not far off. I pulled at the tips of some of the hair to see how long it was, then stroked through it again. I felt the heat difference of my warm fingertips as they curved to between my thighs, the difference also of his warm sleepy member slumbering between my legs. I hadn’t realized I positioned us quite like this. My clit seemed to tingle a bit in anticipation, or maybe just responding to the heat, but I wanted to sleep, so I just stroked softly the tips of the wiry hair protecting my sensitive skin from myself.  My palm curved down, and that was quite a heat difference. I felt my nipples harden and an ache begin between my legs.

I would just check my body’s reaction, I thought to myself, and softly slid a fingertip at my entrance. I was damp. I traced a bit of moisture to my clit, unhurriedly, and found my nub hard. I circled it slowly, traced it down the middle with a bit more pressure, and found myself wanting to arch into the motion.

My other hand went to my breasts, and stroked and gently pinched the hardened tips. My other hand dipped a finger in a bit more, hearing a slight sound as I penetrated my wet entrance, and smeared the fluid around, fingernail lightly circled my labia and teased at my own entrance. I slowly dipped in my finger again, heard the quiet noise of welcome, my body rejoicing in the exquisite invasion, and nerve endings spreading pleasure from my entrance back, deeper inside of me. I crooked my finger and rubbed at a delicious spot, felt my hips rotate for a better position, and became aware of the man slightly under me.

I lifted myself off him. If he wasn’t going to please me then I would please myself, but I really wanted him buried deep inside of me. “Have sex with me,” I spoke into the silent room.

“Touching yourself?” I heard his sleepy murmur.

I was surprised he knew, surprised he wasn’t asleep yet, though it had just been a brief amount of time. “Yes.”

“Roll over,” and I lay to my side, his now warm arms coming around me, spooning me against his body as he positioned himself at my ready entrance. His thick member parted me, stretched slowly into me, and my nerve endings burst at pleasure at the journey, my body clenching around him. I moaned as he withdrew, the underside of his head brushing past such delicately sensitive zones. He moved unhurriedly, sleepily, a few times in that manner, and then his hand was in the center of my shoulder blades and he pushed me to bent sideways position. He pistoned faster in and out of me, a hand going in my hair and making my back arch. He rubbed against the glorious of spots and I found myself tensing and then my body flooding with an orgasm.

He rotated us around, still inside of me, where I was on my stomach and he was on top of me. His arms took the weight off me as he angled himself up and thrusted in and out with the same force, at one point an arm dipped down and went around my throat, making me arch my back again, making me focus on only him, his harsh breathing and hard cock simultaneously spurring another orgasm. My body gripped him at the crest of my pleasure and I heard his groan. He tightened around my neck, his hips moved a bit slower but held himself deeper, and I dug my nails into his arm.

“I’m cumming.” His voice was that harsh tone, husky timber, a bit breathless, and slightly more coherent than a groan. His words kept me at the peak of my own orgasm, my body quickening with pleasure over his own enjoyment, and we both cried out together.

His arm moved from around my neck, and he rotated us to spooning again, his strong arms holding me tenderly. His breathing wasn’t calm yet and I wondered if he could feel my heart beat against an arm holding me.  I felt him softening inside of me, and the wetness between us and on my thighs.

“Thank you.” I felt so relaxed and cherished.

“Thank you too,” his voice already sounded sleepy again. “Least I can do if I come to bed late.”

Hmm, my mind already started pondering that possibility. If that was the case, then I was due a lot more sex, and would be making sure I collected more often.

When I pulled away from his arms to dry and clean myself, he was already asleep.

 

 Posted by at 7:25 am