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

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 042017
 

Mr. Texas hit me so hard I cried. I don’t know if I’ve cried before from pain, though to be fair I more teared up than sobbed.

What was even more striking is that I wore a soft supple leather blindfold at the time and the duration of time I wore it I smelled wet leather.

Previously, he was exhausted and told he wasn’t in the mood to beat me – not that I requested it but we talked about it throughout the day, the way someone may talk about what was for dessert after dinner.

When he walked me to bed, I thought it was simply to tuck me in, but he instructed I hand him my blindfold – an easy enough task considering I had just taken it off him mere hours earlier and the reason he cited for being exhausted. My view was obstructed with leather fabric; there is something about being visually cut off from the world, from him, that allows me to focus more intensively on myself, on my other senses, hear my heartbeat and breath drawn in and out, hear his footsteps approaching or his fingers picking up or placing down an implement.

Hands gripped my upper arms and steered me to the end of the bed, positioned me halfway leaning over the footboard, so that he could flog me. A new one for him and he had two to choose from, preferring the longer one as he felt more in control. He went gently but the leather tips would occasionally sting and I squirmed in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

What I liked most was that he warmed up my skin and kept a rhythmic pace that made my body relaxed and hypnotized my mind on what he was doing. Eventually he guided me into the bathroom, where he bent me over and the flogger striked with a bit more force, though nowhere near painful.

From flogger to crop, where the warm up was extensive and settled my mind and body even more deeply to where he could strike surprisingly hard, so much so that he commented on how much I was taking. But eventually the crop stung too much and too many places on me were unappreciative of that sensation.

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.

The other cheek received the same treatment of arm pulled back and force release with every area of his stingy hand.

“Yellow,” I cried out and the first cheek was thwacked entirely too hard again; he took my coloring to change cheeks, but the force was far more than I could handle so soon. Tears sprang to my eyes, “yellow,” my voice weaker, almost timid from being a bit watered down, and the second cheek was hit again. He kept a hand on my mid back and the other hand reached down between my thighs so he could finger me to an orgasm, an excellent proposal to distract me from the torment.

Though my cheeks felt on fire despite the fact that I drenched his fingers.

After my orgasm, he stroked my reddened bottom and then punched. After all the sting, I had little tolerance for it and it wasn’t long before I called yellow and he switched it up to fingering me again.

While the tears abated, as I was pressed face down into my arms on the unforgiving bathroom counter, I began to smell the wet leather. It was so strong a smell that it quite possessed all my other senses for a moment and it was all I could focus on. It smelled like sex and ache, or perhaps my desires permeated the leather; it was clean, crisp, masculine, woodsy.

I didn’t need to see him to know that he was there, suffering at his hands because he loved me enough to take me into this small, safe space where my brain could reorient itself onto what was important: my body and senses, our love, being present in the moment.

The story continues here.

*Sometimes the lack of eye contact can help my head space. Click the rainbow to read other stories about eye contact.Wicked Wednesday

Masturbation Monday badge - small *And what other stories overwhelm senses on Masturbation Monday

 

Aug 242017
 

It’s arousing when he uses my mouth for the sake of using it – no reason: he isn’t searching for a kiss, his cock will not replace his fingers. Mr. Texas will occasionally slip a thumb or a finger(s) in my mouth, sometimes it’s just to slide it gently against my tongue, to pry open my mouth, or to hit the back of my throat. Whatever the reason, it instantly flips a switch with me; I find it hot.

And when his fingers are more forceful in my mouth for no reason, it’s all the hotter to me. For a reason I don’t quite understand yet, I love being used, I love his fingers in an intimate place forcing it wider, or fingertips going deeper and almost making me choke…for no reason other than he wants to.*

I get off on that he is using a part of my body in an unusual manner, I get off on the power dynamic that he does what he wants with me how he wants to. If he’s being rougher, if I’m choking or gasping around fingers who do not appreciate the sacrifice like cock does, it just switches me to a more wanton being.

I want his fingers between my legs, being forceful and sliding against the wetness of my desire and not my saliva. I want the tip of his head to hit my throat, for my lips and tongue to explore the hardness of his shaft. I am being denied; he is being denied; he is creating this denial that benefits neither of us and that’s an incredible shift of power for me.

It’s so sexy.

 

*(Sure, he’ll tell you the reason is because he realizes it makes me wild and I obviously like it, and he loves that reaction).

Wicked Wednesday** I didn’t follow the prompt for Wicked Wednesday, but still felt inspired to write. Click on the circle to see what people find sexy about flying.

Aug 222017
 

1. For you, can sex be separated from love?

Absolutely it can, actually it usually is. 
2. Can sex be separated from caring?

I don’t know about this one, but my one night stand experiences would lend credence to this. I didn’t care much for someone I had just met, but likewise I wasn’t uncaring. I wanted a mutually beneficial physical good time. 
3. Men: Does sex seem to be something that you can never get enough of and are constantly seeking or thinking about?

I do not identify as a man, but this seems to apply more directly to me than the other question for women. I used to be more like this, honestly my drive is finally calming down (some times, last night would be a poor example as I kept poor Mr. Texas up all night with my demands). 
4. Women: Is sex secondary to intimacy, physical closeness, and commitment?

Sex seems to come first for me, and the other things mentioned just sort of fall together around our sex life. Although with my friends, physical closeness may come before sex.
5. Who is more discriminating in choosing sexual partners–you or your significant other?

For Mr. Texas: for sure he is more discriminating. We actually had a discussion recently where I bemoaned the fact that he was so particular. 

I am unsure of The Wanderer’s preferences and discriminating factors. For him perhaps it’s more of a matter of time and convenience, though I think he would be somewhat discriminating.

Bonus: Who is more likely to take on additional sexual partners, you or your significant other?

As with the above, I am far more likely to take on additional partners, in comparison to my significant others, at least if I were to look at the past and present as indicators. 

————

How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!

Apr 122017
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mar 272017
 

“Aren’t you afraid it will happen all over again?” Mr. Texas asked me as we drove back from a BDSM speed dating event. I thought it would be good for him to get out and talk to other people, perhaps find a play partner or two besides me. “Your husband got into another relationship and then left you.”

I winced, though I hoped it wasn’t obvious in the darkness of the car. “No,” I stated, though that was only slightly true. I was concerned Mr. Texas might leave me, but not because he found someone else. He might leave me because I want an open relationship and he doesn’t, or because we’re incompatible, or because I can’t be who I was when he met me, or because I tell him to get the fuck out of my life.  He may find someone else and leave me because she is more perfect for him than I am; that could happen even if we were monogamous. It could happen, and she’d be lucky to have him.

I could tie him to the bed when I’m gone and release him when I’m at home to keep an eye on him, could have sex all day long every day, could be the most fantastic lover, provide the most stimulating conversations and entertainment, drop weight or gain weight to be his ideal body, dye my hair blonde (his favorite), and still he could leave me.

But it wouldn’t happen because he met someone else more… it would happen because we aren’t that compatible in the long term scheme of things.

…Unless he goes through a midlife crisis, like my ex husband did. He’s also transitioning out of the military, like my ex husband did before he left me.

But still, it wouldn’t happen because he met someone.

So yes, I’m concerned it could happen all over again.
Wicked Wednesday

Mar 222017
 

Don’t come empty handed, I’m a handful.

I am not an autopilot woman. You cannot let do my thing without some involvement. If you leave me, if you neglect me, if you do not provide the things that I need to run a course that we have set together, I will run in a different direction – it is just who I am.

I don’t require a lot, depending on the level of intimacy you want with me.

A one night stand: be attractive to me physically, and show some skill and a little consideration in the bedroom, brings condoms – you know what fits you best and what you prefer.

Play Partners: show aftercare – even if it’s just checking in the day after; show you know my interests and levels and try to meet me halfway towards your own, respect my boundaries.

Long Term Play Partner: show thoughtfulness and communication that is somewhat consistent (not daily, but perhaps weekly?), share the desires and fantasies so that I maintain a clue about wants. Create a safe space to share without judgment. Do all the things that a play partner would do.

A lover: show skill in the bedroom, be generous with orgasms, know what makes me hot, allow me to please you, talk to me on intimate matters, stay in contact a bit more than weekly, share desires. Do all the things that a one night stand would do.

A relationship: know what makes me tick, believe me when I tell you what I need (I don’t expect anyone to mind read), respect my need for independence is just as strong as my need to be supported, listen, daily communication, share dreams, goals, desires, fantasies, get along with my kids, introduce me to your family, understand that I won’t always be around and I will also respect your need to get away with friends and space and hobbies. Do all the things that every single one of these roles would do (perhaps minus the condoms if we’re fluid bonded).
Wicked Wednesday

Mar 052017
 

It had been months, and I was emotional. Yet, to see The Wanderer’s smile, I was smiling and felt myself relaxing (later irony considering how tense he made me that night).

He was on a conference call, his standing figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the city lights in the large window (what is up with him and large windows in his hotel rooms?). Airplane shadows in the sky, colorful cars nonstop – my eyes were only on him, though I did appreciate how the background represented him so perfectly – always a traveler.

On my stomach, I stretched out on the bed, muscles appreciative after the drive to meet him. He came over to perch on the edge, my dress allowed me to feel the light tracing of his fingers from toes to calves to thighs, up over the curve of my bottom, lingered there with soft circles, followed the sensitive hollow of my lower back, up my spine, across my shoulders, brushed my hair back to smile down at me. I smiled back at him.

He muted the call for a minute. “It’s good to see you smile.” The concern was in his voice and I appreciated it – him caring.

I rubbed his thigh through his denim, had the urge to undo his pants and take him into my mouth. Resisted and listened instead to the timber of his voice as he talked. He threw down his phone, having the device in his ear, and began massaging my feet, took a moment to look at the design I had painted on from the last pedicure and commented it was cute. His hands rubbed and massaged up calves and thighs, became a bit rougher at my rounded cheeks.

His spanking kink is obvious, though this trip he was almost as enamored with my breasts.

I had the urge to take him into my mouth again, whispered I was going down to the bar so that I didn’t distract from his call. He gestured five more minutes, handed me a room key, and we parted ways.

Once he joined me at the bar, mere minutes later as promised, conversation between us was casual, though it would have been odd for me if it didn’t contain some flirtation – so of course there were a few remarks. I spoke softly of my urges in the room and he mentioned that the call would have been a lot more pleasant if I had given in to the urge. A man sitting near us would occasionally give a sidelong glance, a smile, and perhaps he heard a few things I shared.

We had a drink, a meal, then opted for nothing else but the rest of the evening in the room. Our time is few and far between for too many practicals and not enough fun.

The Wanderer allowed me to push him down  sitting on the bed as we kissed; I straddled his lap while tasting his lips, used my body to press his further down into the mattress, my hips ground down in promise as my lips and tongue tasted from his mouth, moved onto skin.

Having excellent control and never getting too far carried away, he stopped me, though the regret was still evident in his body language. Still, with a devilish smile, he told me to get up and unpack the items I brought. I moved over to the large suitcase, complaining that toys took up a lot of space. In part, I was a bit defensive – he’s an expert traveler and will be away from home far longer periods and dressed spotlessly yet I always use larger luggage.

Days before, he had instructed that I bring a few items:

  • 3 impact implements (I only had two, he reassured me he brought 3 belts just in case, well isn’t that considerate?)
  • 3 insertables (which really brought up the fact that I need a dildo)
  • My violet wand kit (a huge amount of space needed just for this)
  • Rope

As I took out the gorgeous paddle, he swatted me with it, told me to be grateful he kept on the clothes after I whined. It wasn’t much of a warm up with the force – a sign of what was to come. Next, the crop kissed me through far too thin fabric and my noise signaled complaint…and apparently a please-hurt-me-more if his reaction was any indication.

Grabbed, spun around, and pulled over his lap on the nearby bed before I could catch my balance, his large hands caressed my dress up, he seemed delighted and slightly distracted at my polka-dot panties just briefly before slapping until I’m sure my cheeks were a pinkened hue.

Got it…don’t complain or he’ll give me something to complain; on the other hand I also stored the message to complain so I no longer have to anxiously unpack torturous devices: I’m a flexible learner that way.

He pulled me up and undressed me slowly from behind, sensually his hands caressed,  his mouth kissed up and down, his body pressed against my back and ground his desire against my cheeks. My own hands reached back to fondle his growing erection and in my impatience I undid the buckle of his belt. He must’ve felt it as his hands gripped my wrists between our hot bodies.

“Oh you want my belt, do you?” He whispered menacingly against my ear, or perhaps I heard the menace in the meaning.

“No.” I certainly didn’t want his belt but I tightened in anticipation anyhow.

Regardless, he threw me down on the bed and his belt licked painfully at my rear. It stung and felt like it sliced, my skin not warmed up enough for the force.

Yep, I was totally justified in hearing a threat with the belt.

He stood me back up and told me to put back on his belt. I took my time – partly because I had never put on a man’s belt, usually just the opposite, but also to take advantage of slowly touching him even though I had just been punished for trying to take advantage.

I may be a flexible learner, but I also apparently don’t learn the lesson the first go round.

Next, I was ordered to roll up his sleeves and I joked of how boding. Apparently I’m dense as a rock because while I joked, I didn’t foresee the threat that was to come.

He moved a chair into the center of the floor and had me bend over, grabbed a larger, thicker belt and went to work on my ass, not gentle but harsh and painful. I cried out my dismay and pain, trying to escape. Normally at this much distress signs, he would have slowed or gone softer, however this time he simply wrapped an arm around my waist to hold me down and continued his onslaught.*

As if the belt wasn’t enough, he spanked over the belt marks’ welts. Perhaps he wanted to lower the racket I was making with crying out in pain, or perhaps he wanted the racket to be one of pleasure, but he promised me an orgasm as he picked me up to lay me down in the center of the bed. I laid on reddened fire as his fingers delved into my wetness, his words speaking of how I clearly didn’t dislike the belt as much as noises indicated. My body betrayed me.

*This was after my sister died and the weeks in between I had told him that I needed a rough beating to penetrate through the haze and just feel something. He gave me what I asked for – and to date this is probably the hardest I’ve had an implement strike me. 

***To see a picture, click here

***To read his account of this scene, click here

Wicked Wednesday

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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