I follow along with the words, my eyes skimming the page. Now and then, I feel a twinge of familiarity, a phrase of singular penetration that strikes at the heart. And I cringe. My own nature twists below the facade of so-called normality. If they only knew who I really am. All of them, yet none of them do. Would they be appalled? Excited? I dare not find out.
Greed, sloth, anger, gluttony, envy, pride. The course of any other of the deadly sins is easier to chart than that of lust. For lust is as a mirror to your soul. Until you know who you are, you cannot know whom you will desire.
-- Poison
Monday, December 15, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
One ring to rule them all
“What’s this?” He pulled at my waist, drawing me close to scrutinize the round, orange rubber ring resting innocuously on the bench at the end of my bed.
“Why I just don’t know,” I replied with mock amazement. “Calamari?”
He smiled at my joviality. “Have you ever used a cock ring before?”
“No.”
“You’ll love it, I promise. It makes my cock nice and hard for your tight little pussy.”
“Oooh, yummy! You know what a big fan I am of your cock already.”
He laughed and pulled me roughly onto the bed, kissing me deep. We made short work of stripping the layers of clothes and his fingers immediately sought a wet purchase between my thighs.
Later, standing at the side of the bed while I lay with my head off the edge, his rammed his very stiff cock –- as promised -- down my throat, leaning over me to flick my clit with his tongue. I writhed and sucked, tonguing the rubber addition at the base.
On my back, on my knees or my knees behind my ears, his cock drove home his point again and again, much to my ever-growing delight. To the last stroke, when he pulled his dick dripping of me to my lips to taste, he was stiff and proud.
Afterward, lying among the debris of my panties, his tie and all the pillows, I noticed he was still ready.
“Are you still hard?” I sounded a little disbelieving.
“Yeah. The ring keeps it hard for a while.”
“Mmmmmm…” I rolled on top of him, sliding down slow and easy. He gave a little shudder. I rocked onto him, circling around and around. It was not the biggest orgasm I’ve ever had but it was deep and wide, pushing up from my hot, wet center to spread warm, relaxing tendrils into my legs, arms, chest and cheeks.
I rolled off and curled against his side. He pulled off his ring and immediately his cock grew soft and pliable in his hand.
“Oh. No more then?”
“God, woman. How many orgasms do you need?”
“Just one more? Pretty please?” I smiled my most charming smile.
Apparently a girl can still get more of what she wants by fluttering her eye lashes … sometimes even a few more.
“Why I just don’t know,” I replied with mock amazement. “Calamari?”
He smiled at my joviality. “Have you ever used a cock ring before?”
“No.”
“You’ll love it, I promise. It makes my cock nice and hard for your tight little pussy.”
“Oooh, yummy! You know what a big fan I am of your cock already.”
He laughed and pulled me roughly onto the bed, kissing me deep. We made short work of stripping the layers of clothes and his fingers immediately sought a wet purchase between my thighs.
Later, standing at the side of the bed while I lay with my head off the edge, his rammed his very stiff cock –- as promised -- down my throat, leaning over me to flick my clit with his tongue. I writhed and sucked, tonguing the rubber addition at the base.
On my back, on my knees or my knees behind my ears, his cock drove home his point again and again, much to my ever-growing delight. To the last stroke, when he pulled his dick dripping of me to my lips to taste, he was stiff and proud.
Afterward, lying among the debris of my panties, his tie and all the pillows, I noticed he was still ready.
“Are you still hard?” I sounded a little disbelieving.
“Yeah. The ring keeps it hard for a while.”
“Mmmmmm…” I rolled on top of him, sliding down slow and easy. He gave a little shudder. I rocked onto him, circling around and around. It was not the biggest orgasm I’ve ever had but it was deep and wide, pushing up from my hot, wet center to spread warm, relaxing tendrils into my legs, arms, chest and cheeks.
I rolled off and curled against his side. He pulled off his ring and immediately his cock grew soft and pliable in his hand.
“Oh. No more then?”
“God, woman. How many orgasms do you need?”
“Just one more? Pretty please?” I smiled my most charming smile.
Apparently a girl can still get more of what she wants by fluttering her eye lashes … sometimes even a few more.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Blip
I periodically try to be good. I give up my favorite boys. I stow away all my sexual overflow or redirect it toward places closer to home. I try and inevitably fail.
The fact is, I am 34-years old. I cannot always have this fuck-filled life. It cannot last forever. Someday, heads will not turn when I walk into a room. I know that day is coming. I try to prepare. And then I have an opportunity that re-sparks my naughty ways and I realize that I should also accept who I am. I am a woman who loves men: naked, hard, ready men. I want to touch, taste and fuck as many of them as possible.
I’d rather not end this saga divorced but I should stop denying who I am because it only makes me crazed. No one is happy with me.
I’m sex addict. Which one of you is my next drug?
The fact is, I am 34-years old. I cannot always have this fuck-filled life. It cannot last forever. Someday, heads will not turn when I walk into a room. I know that day is coming. I try to prepare. And then I have an opportunity that re-sparks my naughty ways and I realize that I should also accept who I am. I am a woman who loves men: naked, hard, ready men. I want to touch, taste and fuck as many of them as possible.
I’d rather not end this saga divorced but I should stop denying who I am because it only makes me crazed. No one is happy with me.
I’m sex addict. Which one of you is my next drug?
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Sensation
I’ve always been entranced by the glide of fingertips on my skin. The tingle of nerve endings as the heat transfers from one body to another is an aphrodisiac for me. Just touching me softly on the arm, the back of my neck or across my legs is enough to blush my cheeks and set a fire burning in my clit.
When I met my favorite lawyer at his place, I was expecting high-energy sex, territorial vying to please the most, twisted sheets and a nice sheen of sweat. What I was not expecting was how much he enjoyed running his fingers over my body.
Round and round from the curve of my shoulder to the jut of a hipbone, his hand trailed a light and steady path as we shared the post-coital chatter of friends who had known each other for a while, but wanted each other from the beginning.
He teased me about my liberal tendencies – I am a writer, after all – while his thumb brushed a lazy staccato over my lower lips. I bit the pad in warning.
We analyzed the history of lending institution bailouts as his palm warmly cupped my breasts, taunting my nipples with a flick. I wrapped my leg around his hip, the warnings were over.
His knuckles grazed my chin and I couldn’t wait any longer. I grabbed his wandering hand and wrapped it firmly around my still-heated and very damp pussy, pushing his fingers inside.
“If you don’t stop touching me, you will have to fuck me again.” I wiggled my bottom against his fingers to prove my threat was not hollow.
“Oh.” He sounded a bit surprised. “I had every intention of fucking you again. I just like the feel your body.”
He smiled and shoved his hand all the way in, rimming my still-bumpy g-spot. I sighed, letting my legs fall open and gave him a hazy, half-lidded expression. He laughed and rubbed hard, arching my back and making me shudder as the ever-ready orgasm ripped through me.
I panted as his hand withdrew, leaving me empty with damp thighs. He rolled on another condom and parted my knees with his own. He was inside me in one sharp thrust.
Through the next 40 minutes he contorted my body for his pleasure as much as my own, but I was acutely aware of his hands. Even with my legs over his shoulders, his cock buried ball deep in my cunt, his fingers glided. His lips kissed the soft skin on the inside of my thighs. He nuzzled the hollow of my throat, the small space between my breasts. He touched me a thousand different ways even during the most intimate moments.
When the evening was over, I knew I wanted him to invite me back. But I also know he probably won’t. Unfortunately, my favorite lawyer is also single and wants very much to have someone that is for him alone. I cannot be that girl and I know he will displace me for her when he finds her, which will probably be very soon.
It’s funny, in hindsight, how I love to be touched, but no one had touched me like that before. I’ve always been so focused on lust, desire and satisfaction that somewhere I lost the simple enjoyment of my skin.
It was nice to find it again.
When I met my favorite lawyer at his place, I was expecting high-energy sex, territorial vying to please the most, twisted sheets and a nice sheen of sweat. What I was not expecting was how much he enjoyed running his fingers over my body.
Round and round from the curve of my shoulder to the jut of a hipbone, his hand trailed a light and steady path as we shared the post-coital chatter of friends who had known each other for a while, but wanted each other from the beginning.
He teased me about my liberal tendencies – I am a writer, after all – while his thumb brushed a lazy staccato over my lower lips. I bit the pad in warning.
We analyzed the history of lending institution bailouts as his palm warmly cupped my breasts, taunting my nipples with a flick. I wrapped my leg around his hip, the warnings were over.
His knuckles grazed my chin and I couldn’t wait any longer. I grabbed his wandering hand and wrapped it firmly around my still-heated and very damp pussy, pushing his fingers inside.
“If you don’t stop touching me, you will have to fuck me again.” I wiggled my bottom against his fingers to prove my threat was not hollow.
“Oh.” He sounded a bit surprised. “I had every intention of fucking you again. I just like the feel your body.”
He smiled and shoved his hand all the way in, rimming my still-bumpy g-spot. I sighed, letting my legs fall open and gave him a hazy, half-lidded expression. He laughed and rubbed hard, arching my back and making me shudder as the ever-ready orgasm ripped through me.
I panted as his hand withdrew, leaving me empty with damp thighs. He rolled on another condom and parted my knees with his own. He was inside me in one sharp thrust.
Through the next 40 minutes he contorted my body for his pleasure as much as my own, but I was acutely aware of his hands. Even with my legs over his shoulders, his cock buried ball deep in my cunt, his fingers glided. His lips kissed the soft skin on the inside of my thighs. He nuzzled the hollow of my throat, the small space between my breasts. He touched me a thousand different ways even during the most intimate moments.
When the evening was over, I knew I wanted him to invite me back. But I also know he probably won’t. Unfortunately, my favorite lawyer is also single and wants very much to have someone that is for him alone. I cannot be that girl and I know he will displace me for her when he finds her, which will probably be very soon.
It’s funny, in hindsight, how I love to be touched, but no one had touched me like that before. I’ve always been so focused on lust, desire and satisfaction that somewhere I lost the simple enjoyment of my skin.
It was nice to find it again.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Diversion
I have opted out, taken a hiatus, fucking and I were on a break. My job changes and ongoing dissatisfaction had left me uninterested. I gave up.
But my body was yearning for something. All week, I've been battling a level of horniness that was threatening to drive me mad.
I was not just horny for sex, I craved that mindless copulation that you can only get with a lover who is not your own. That tangible desire to rip, pull, bit and cum. I knew I would be satisfied at home, but not completely. I needed someone else.
So I made a call. "I need you," I breathed when he answered the phoned.
He knew exactly what I wanted. We met in the parking garage, I motioned him into my car and drove a little further until we were alone. We climbed into the back seat, where I immediately stripped out of my pants, my pussy was dripping. He smiled, somewhat surprised at my eagerness. I'm not shy, but this was still unusal for me. I didn't kiss him, no warm up, I grabbed his hand and brought it home.
He was already hard by my enthusiasm and dove in with two fingers, making me cum immediately. My body shakes when I cum, quivers from the toes up. I squirted in the palm of his hand with the force of my orgasm. He laughed out loud, "Damn, baby, you are horny!"
In response, I pulled out my right breast and grabbed his head, bringing him close. I whispered in his ear, "When I cum next time, bite down on my nipple." He didn't respond, his mouth full with my soft round flesh. I came again and again, two fingers grew to three.
After multiple orgasms, I ordered him out of his pants. His withdrawn fingers left a trailing string of pussy cum down my thigh.
He pulled out his cock and I slide down onto him. No condom. This is a good, very good friend. A special friend for a long time so I knew I could enjoy the bare, hot pulse of cum in my tender pussy.
I buried my fingers in his hair and ground down against him. He let me fuck him until I was heaving for breath, the count of orgasms lost. When the haze cleared my eyes, he was looking up at me, smiling. "Is it ok if I cum now?" I laughed, "Of course."
I started moving again, but much slower, in circles feeling his cock head running around the inside of my cunt. He relaxed, letting his muscles go and concentrated on the sensation. Instead of the up and down motion, I start to slide forward and backward, taking him all the way in. It didn't take him long. He bounces his leg before he cums, so when his jiggling started, I sped up. He buried his face in my tits, both hands gripping my ass and came with a loud, "aaaahhhhhh!"
After we were both dressed again, I kissed him well, dropped him off at his car and left without a glance, my mind already clear and onto the tasks lined up for the afternoon. It was the perfect diversion.
But my body was yearning for something. All week, I've been battling a level of horniness that was threatening to drive me mad.
I was not just horny for sex, I craved that mindless copulation that you can only get with a lover who is not your own. That tangible desire to rip, pull, bit and cum. I knew I would be satisfied at home, but not completely. I needed someone else.
So I made a call. "I need you," I breathed when he answered the phoned.
He knew exactly what I wanted. We met in the parking garage, I motioned him into my car and drove a little further until we were alone. We climbed into the back seat, where I immediately stripped out of my pants, my pussy was dripping. He smiled, somewhat surprised at my eagerness. I'm not shy, but this was still unusal for me. I didn't kiss him, no warm up, I grabbed his hand and brought it home.
He was already hard by my enthusiasm and dove in with two fingers, making me cum immediately. My body shakes when I cum, quivers from the toes up. I squirted in the palm of his hand with the force of my orgasm. He laughed out loud, "Damn, baby, you are horny!"
In response, I pulled out my right breast and grabbed his head, bringing him close. I whispered in his ear, "When I cum next time, bite down on my nipple." He didn't respond, his mouth full with my soft round flesh. I came again and again, two fingers grew to three.
After multiple orgasms, I ordered him out of his pants. His withdrawn fingers left a trailing string of pussy cum down my thigh.
He pulled out his cock and I slide down onto him. No condom. This is a good, very good friend. A special friend for a long time so I knew I could enjoy the bare, hot pulse of cum in my tender pussy.
I buried my fingers in his hair and ground down against him. He let me fuck him until I was heaving for breath, the count of orgasms lost. When the haze cleared my eyes, he was looking up at me, smiling. "Is it ok if I cum now?" I laughed, "Of course."
I started moving again, but much slower, in circles feeling his cock head running around the inside of my cunt. He relaxed, letting his muscles go and concentrated on the sensation. Instead of the up and down motion, I start to slide forward and backward, taking him all the way in. It didn't take him long. He bounces his leg before he cums, so when his jiggling started, I sped up. He buried his face in my tits, both hands gripping my ass and came with a loud, "aaaahhhhhh!"
After we were both dressed again, I kissed him well, dropped him off at his car and left without a glance, my mind already clear and onto the tasks lined up for the afternoon. It was the perfect diversion.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Blurred lines
As there is no honor among thieves, there is no reality for lovers. This is a fantasy. Even when your fingertips glide across my skin, we are not real. Your cock in my mouth is simply a dream come true. We live for this moment, this sensation, this encounter. Reality is your home, your wife, your kids, your job. I'm suspended from those ties. I am for you alone.
It is still fantasy when you're twisted up between my legs, with your hands in my hair, your tongue in my mouth and your dick in my cunt, I'm not your girl. I'm your lover. And being lovers is about fulfilling your deepest fantasy, answering the most urgent calls of your body. Doing all those things that haunt your dreams and send you to the bathroom alone again and again to spend your lust into nothing.
In our fantastic version of reality, you will say, "Mistress will you ..." and I will say, "Yes." You'll leave imprints of yourself on my skin, but after you're gone, they will fade. I'll burn images onto your brain that you can't share with anyone else but me, but after you leave me sore and exposed in bed, you might not experience them again for a long time.
Then our short reality will turn into simply fantasy again. You'll imagine the next time we're together. You'll relive all the intimate moments we shared. You'll dream about the taste of my skin, the smell of perfume in my hair. You'll smile longingly at girls that resemble me. But you won't have me to yourself -- for yourself -- for a while.
It is still fantasy when you're twisted up between my legs, with your hands in my hair, your tongue in my mouth and your dick in my cunt, I'm not your girl. I'm your lover. And being lovers is about fulfilling your deepest fantasy, answering the most urgent calls of your body. Doing all those things that haunt your dreams and send you to the bathroom alone again and again to spend your lust into nothing.
In our fantastic version of reality, you will say, "Mistress will you ..." and I will say, "Yes." You'll leave imprints of yourself on my skin, but after you're gone, they will fade. I'll burn images onto your brain that you can't share with anyone else but me, but after you leave me sore and exposed in bed, you might not experience them again for a long time.
Then our short reality will turn into simply fantasy again. You'll imagine the next time we're together. You'll relive all the intimate moments we shared. You'll dream about the taste of my skin, the smell of perfume in my hair. You'll smile longingly at girls that resemble me. But you won't have me to yourself -- for yourself -- for a while.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Low
He twisted his hands in my curls, pulling back slightly as he bit down on my lip. "I want you," I whispered through clenched teeth. "I want you soo bad.."
He pushed me down on the bed and began the painstakingly slow process of stripping my clothes. I kicked at my jeans, shimmying them over my hips. I didn't bother with the thong -- he had picked it out after all. The first thrust is always my favorite, the swell of a plump cock gliding into slick heat.
We fucked steady and with speed. I knew his pace, he knows mine. We've done this many times before. Later he pushed me into a hotel chair, crouched backward, arms gripping the back while he took me roughly from behind, my dripping pussy squelching with each thrust.
When he was finished, he folded me in a crook against his side, one finger languidly wrapping and unwrapping the tightly wound curl at my neck, the other hand idly spinning my wedding ring around my finger.
I remember when we picked this out, he said softly.
I do too, I replied, equally sotto voce. For the first time in a long time, guilt coiled low in my belly, wrapping itself around my spine and up to my throat. I said nothing more.
He pushed me down on the bed and began the painstakingly slow process of stripping my clothes. I kicked at my jeans, shimmying them over my hips. I didn't bother with the thong -- he had picked it out after all. The first thrust is always my favorite, the swell of a plump cock gliding into slick heat.
We fucked steady and with speed. I knew his pace, he knows mine. We've done this many times before. Later he pushed me into a hotel chair, crouched backward, arms gripping the back while he took me roughly from behind, my dripping pussy squelching with each thrust.
When he was finished, he folded me in a crook against his side, one finger languidly wrapping and unwrapping the tightly wound curl at my neck, the other hand idly spinning my wedding ring around my finger.
I remember when we picked this out, he said softly.
I do too, I replied, equally sotto voce. For the first time in a long time, guilt coiled low in my belly, wrapping itself around my spine and up to my throat. I said nothing more.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Delightfully torn
One lover introduced me to another, a pretty boy with a wide smile, golden dimples and a ever-ready cock.
"Let's mix it up," says my lover. "Three in one big bed."
I fucked the pretty boy a few times first, to try him on for size. He fits suprisingly well, just a few adjustments to get things rolling exactly as I like. I'm easy to please, as he soon finds out.
"What if we skip the threesome," says my pretty boy. "And we spend more time together?"
The siren song of more -- and then more still -- calls again.
"Let's mix it up," says my lover. "Three in one big bed."
I fucked the pretty boy a few times first, to try him on for size. He fits suprisingly well, just a few adjustments to get things rolling exactly as I like. I'm easy to please, as he soon finds out.
"What if we skip the threesome," says my pretty boy. "And we spend more time together?"
The siren song of more -- and then more still -- calls again.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Contemplative
I sit and analyze.
I'm faced with some job changes that could signify the end of my favorite hobby. I don't think it would be a permanent end, but an end nonetheless. As I am still searching for that perfect balance of "fun to chat with" and "fun to fuck," it wouldn't be too difficult to put that search on hold. These changes would greatly affect my free time. My fucking time. My play time.
Oddly, I'm not too sad about that. I'm dissatisfied still. Unfinished. Orgasms given but attention still at a deficit. At odds with myself.
I had a man who ravaged my body and blew my mind. He's been gone for a while, but in his place is a new model that has yet to be filled. Maybe I just expect too much. Maybe the time away from the hunt would refresh my attitude. Or maybe I'll never be that satisfied again.
I'm faced with some job changes that could signify the end of my favorite hobby. I don't think it would be a permanent end, but an end nonetheless. As I am still searching for that perfect balance of "fun to chat with" and "fun to fuck," it wouldn't be too difficult to put that search on hold. These changes would greatly affect my free time. My fucking time. My play time.
Oddly, I'm not too sad about that. I'm dissatisfied still. Unfinished. Orgasms given but attention still at a deficit. At odds with myself.
I had a man who ravaged my body and blew my mind. He's been gone for a while, but in his place is a new model that has yet to be filled. Maybe I just expect too much. Maybe the time away from the hunt would refresh my attitude. Or maybe I'll never be that satisfied again.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Lunch meetings
His blonde eyes rivaled my own in intensity and his dimples curved like commas around his bright, white smile. This boy was too pretty for me.
So how did I find myself sitting across the booth of a local brew pub, sipping my water with lemon while he finished a raspberry wheat? Potential.
Our meeting was unconventional but my desire to mar that pretty blonde hair with my wet, pussy-slick fingers was purely animal.
I had worn a dress, anticipating we'd meet at his place. He lives near by. But last minute change in plans forced us to improvise. He met my steady gaze with his own, only dropping his eyes a few times to glimpse my ample cleavage. I had dressed to impress, after all.
"You are so damn sexy. Want to get out of here?" I just nodded.
He paid his tab, placed a protective hand on the small of my back and led me to his car. He smelled fantastic -- cologne, soap and lust.
In his car, my skirt rode up around my thighs as we chatted about nothing, eyes looking for a secluded place to park. He stroked my knee, the top of my thigh. I grabbed his hand, spread my legs and invited him in further. He actually gasped out loud when his fingers brushed my nakedness. He slipped his finger into the wet slit, rubbing softly up and down as he drove.
"God, you're so wet already."
I positioned his finger a pinch higher, added pressure with my own fingers and rubbed until I came with a shudder. He pulled over.
He dragged me into the back seat, hands on my tits, ass, back, roaming, feeling, getting to know me. His fingers found me wetter still and curved up toward my favorite spot, bringing me to another shuddering climax.
"You cum so easy. That's so fucking hot!"
I thanked him with broad strokes from my tongue on his beautiful, shaved cock. Are pretty boys usually pretty every where? He had a flat, taut stomach. Tight ass. Strong arms. He was gorgeous. Much to pretty to smear with sweat and cum in the middle of the day. Or maybe not.
I straddled him, clenching my thighs as I rode him hard and fast. I sank into my orgasms with a moan, sometimes a little giggle. He buried his face in my tits, sucking, biting and pulling.
When he couldn't hold back any more, he flipped me over, shoved against the door, pushed my knees to my ears and found how deep he could go. I urged him to fuck me harder, deeper, please! He didn't make any noise when he came. That's something I'll have to change for next time. I like to hear my man groan.
He drove me back to my car. Kissed me goodbye and left to meet someone else for a lunch that would probably involve actual food.
Later that afternoon, he sent me an message: "When can I see you again?"
I smiled: "Soon."
So how did I find myself sitting across the booth of a local brew pub, sipping my water with lemon while he finished a raspberry wheat? Potential.
Our meeting was unconventional but my desire to mar that pretty blonde hair with my wet, pussy-slick fingers was purely animal.
I had worn a dress, anticipating we'd meet at his place. He lives near by. But last minute change in plans forced us to improvise. He met my steady gaze with his own, only dropping his eyes a few times to glimpse my ample cleavage. I had dressed to impress, after all.
"You are so damn sexy. Want to get out of here?" I just nodded.
He paid his tab, placed a protective hand on the small of my back and led me to his car. He smelled fantastic -- cologne, soap and lust.
In his car, my skirt rode up around my thighs as we chatted about nothing, eyes looking for a secluded place to park. He stroked my knee, the top of my thigh. I grabbed his hand, spread my legs and invited him in further. He actually gasped out loud when his fingers brushed my nakedness. He slipped his finger into the wet slit, rubbing softly up and down as he drove.
"God, you're so wet already."
I positioned his finger a pinch higher, added pressure with my own fingers and rubbed until I came with a shudder. He pulled over.
He dragged me into the back seat, hands on my tits, ass, back, roaming, feeling, getting to know me. His fingers found me wetter still and curved up toward my favorite spot, bringing me to another shuddering climax.
"You cum so easy. That's so fucking hot!"
I thanked him with broad strokes from my tongue on his beautiful, shaved cock. Are pretty boys usually pretty every where? He had a flat, taut stomach. Tight ass. Strong arms. He was gorgeous. Much to pretty to smear with sweat and cum in the middle of the day. Or maybe not.
I straddled him, clenching my thighs as I rode him hard and fast. I sank into my orgasms with a moan, sometimes a little giggle. He buried his face in my tits, sucking, biting and pulling.
When he couldn't hold back any more, he flipped me over, shoved against the door, pushed my knees to my ears and found how deep he could go. I urged him to fuck me harder, deeper, please! He didn't make any noise when he came. That's something I'll have to change for next time. I like to hear my man groan.
He drove me back to my car. Kissed me goodbye and left to meet someone else for a lunch that would probably involve actual food.
Later that afternoon, he sent me an message: "When can I see you again?"
I smiled: "Soon."
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
End before we begin
I'm a lucky girl. I've had some great lovers. It's been a smooth, wet transition into this lifestyle. It's easy to enjoy the lover who worships your body, begs for your mouth and cums with a shudder and a gasp.
Lately, my luck has not been so good. My brown-eyed Irish boy could care less if he ever saw me again. Occassionally he'll e-mail, tell me he misses my pussy. I just stopped writing back.
My long-distance lover pulled the curtain on our meeting the day before I boarded a plane. While he had a valid excuse, I can't help but feel like the dupe. Was he as in to me as I am into him? I guess I'll never know.
And then there's the boy I'm seeing now. Eager, voracious appetite, works close by but is never satisfied. Now before you open your mouth in surprise, I always leave my man satisfied. But this man isn't happy with just me. He wants to try something new, exciting, different every time. Let's add a guy, he suggests. Or maybe a girl. What about double penetration? We could swing with another couple.
All of those are exciting, fun things I'm eager to have, but not on my lunch hour when I have a lovely planning meeting at 1. He never seems happy to just meet me for some quick but thorough sex at the local park. I feel like I'm failing before we even start.
The pragmatic me shakes her head, and reminds me that I should be thankful to have these chances at all. To be thankful that men look at my freckled nose and looping curls and want to bury their hands between my thighs. But there's that other little voice, the one that wants something more. Something that I haven't had for a while.
I am a sure thing, but I still want to be seduced. Maybe it's time to look for someone else again.
Lately, my luck has not been so good. My brown-eyed Irish boy could care less if he ever saw me again. Occassionally he'll e-mail, tell me he misses my pussy. I just stopped writing back.
My long-distance lover pulled the curtain on our meeting the day before I boarded a plane. While he had a valid excuse, I can't help but feel like the dupe. Was he as in to me as I am into him? I guess I'll never know.
And then there's the boy I'm seeing now. Eager, voracious appetite, works close by but is never satisfied. Now before you open your mouth in surprise, I always leave my man satisfied. But this man isn't happy with just me. He wants to try something new, exciting, different every time. Let's add a guy, he suggests. Or maybe a girl. What about double penetration? We could swing with another couple.
All of those are exciting, fun things I'm eager to have, but not on my lunch hour when I have a lovely planning meeting at 1. He never seems happy to just meet me for some quick but thorough sex at the local park. I feel like I'm failing before we even start.
The pragmatic me shakes her head, and reminds me that I should be thankful to have these chances at all. To be thankful that men look at my freckled nose and looping curls and want to bury their hands between my thighs. But there's that other little voice, the one that wants something more. Something that I haven't had for a while.
I am a sure thing, but I still want to be seduced. Maybe it's time to look for someone else again.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
I liked it
This weekend, I went dancing with a very good friend, a blonde beauty who towers over me in her heels, with a soft laugh and a great smile.
I love to dance, as does she. But this time, I skipped the bump and grind with boys too young and watched her wiggle. She's much too good of a friend, for far too long, to initiate any kind of physical relationship but that didn't stop me from feeling her body twist and turn under my hands.
I also stole a taste of her sweaty skin from her bare shoulder. I could barely discern the bitter flavor of the alcohol from her martini seeping through as she danced with abandon, willing herself to give up the role of wife, mother of three boys and hard-working lawyer.
Under the low lighting, she glistened.
I love to dance, as does she. But this time, I skipped the bump and grind with boys too young and watched her wiggle. She's much too good of a friend, for far too long, to initiate any kind of physical relationship but that didn't stop me from feeling her body twist and turn under my hands.
I also stole a taste of her sweaty skin from her bare shoulder. I could barely discern the bitter flavor of the alcohol from her martini seeping through as she danced with abandon, willing herself to give up the role of wife, mother of three boys and hard-working lawyer.
Under the low lighting, she glistened.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
For the love of boys
How many lovers is too many?
I find myself in a precarious situation. My lovers before were solo adventures. Just me and he, exploring the depths of human sexuality and depravity. One tongue, one set of fingers, one stiffening cock confined by my lips.
When did things get so busy?
I started this blog as a catharsis for discussing my need for male attention without actually discussing it with any one. It's my outlet. I am a writer both in this life and in my straight life. It's only natural for me to keep a diary, or accounting of my sexual adventures.
I've met some really fantastic gorgeous men in my life. Through this blog, I've met a few others. But how many is enough?
For a while I thought the next lover would be the last. I've given up that dream. I can't see a point where I'll stop. I know that's dangerous, always looking for the next. But it's become a part of who I am, the mistress I've become.
I love boys. Bald, thin, chubby, tall, short, muscular or a little soft in the middle. I crave them, like the sugar I don't eat. They are the sweetness on my tongue.
I've met a new boy. He's much younger than I, still a 20-something. I tend to prefer them older, wiser, experienced. This one, however, intrigues me. He smells so damn good, he must taste like honey. But he's a little shy and requires that I brush off my skills to seduce him. He's never been a toy. He's not sure how to respond. I should just let him go. Pass me by. Find someone his own age to fall in love with. Except, now I want him for my own.
Maybe just one more. Just one more.
I find myself in a precarious situation. My lovers before were solo adventures. Just me and he, exploring the depths of human sexuality and depravity. One tongue, one set of fingers, one stiffening cock confined by my lips.
When did things get so busy?
I started this blog as a catharsis for discussing my need for male attention without actually discussing it with any one. It's my outlet. I am a writer both in this life and in my straight life. It's only natural for me to keep a diary, or accounting of my sexual adventures.
I've met some really fantastic gorgeous men in my life. Through this blog, I've met a few others. But how many is enough?
For a while I thought the next lover would be the last. I've given up that dream. I can't see a point where I'll stop. I know that's dangerous, always looking for the next. But it's become a part of who I am, the mistress I've become.
I love boys. Bald, thin, chubby, tall, short, muscular or a little soft in the middle. I crave them, like the sugar I don't eat. They are the sweetness on my tongue.
I've met a new boy. He's much younger than I, still a 20-something. I tend to prefer them older, wiser, experienced. This one, however, intrigues me. He smells so damn good, he must taste like honey. But he's a little shy and requires that I brush off my skills to seduce him. He's never been a toy. He's not sure how to respond. I should just let him go. Pass me by. Find someone his own age to fall in love with. Except, now I want him for my own.
Maybe just one more. Just one more.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Listen
My cell phone buzzes and for an instant, I'm frozen. I was anticipating the call, but it still gives me a thrill to see his number on the screen.
I answer and once again, marvel at the affect his voice has on my nerve endings. Tingling from head to toe, I respond a little breathless.
"I'm all alone in the house."
"Oh really?"
"Yes."
He instructs me to strip my pants and thong, lie on the bed spread and softly rub my swelling clit.
"What would you do, if you walked into my room and saw me like this. Spread on the bed, fingers in my pussy?"
"I'd watch you."
His voice urges me along toward the inevitable with promises of kisses, fingers, dick and fucking. I pant and moan in his ear. When I'm close to the edge, balancing, I ask to cum.
"Can I cum, please?"
"Do you want to? Do you need it?"
"Yes."
"Cum now. Now, kitten!"
My voice fills his ear with moans, squeaks and sighs as I shudder and cum on my fingers and palm.
"God, I love the sound of a woman having an orgasm."
I answer and once again, marvel at the affect his voice has on my nerve endings. Tingling from head to toe, I respond a little breathless.
"I'm all alone in the house."
"Oh really?"
"Yes."
He instructs me to strip my pants and thong, lie on the bed spread and softly rub my swelling clit.
"What would you do, if you walked into my room and saw me like this. Spread on the bed, fingers in my pussy?"
"I'd watch you."
His voice urges me along toward the inevitable with promises of kisses, fingers, dick and fucking. I pant and moan in his ear. When I'm close to the edge, balancing, I ask to cum.
"Can I cum, please?"
"Do you want to? Do you need it?"
"Yes."
"Cum now. Now, kitten!"
My voice fills his ear with moans, squeaks and sighs as I shudder and cum on my fingers and palm.
"God, I love the sound of a woman having an orgasm."
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Bedtime stories
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
That's all I really need to hear!
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
That's all I really need to hear!
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Shopping trip
I've made some plans. This will be a first for me. In this lifestyle, there aren't many "firsts" left.
This is the first time I met and pursued a man online. The first time I booked a ticket to meet him in another city. The first time I carefully picked out dresses, skirts and high heels specifically to please him.
I'm counting the days until I see those brown eyes and hear that rich, deep voice in person. But until then, I have a few more things to arrange. I've made a little list to make sure I get everything I need.
Black garters with matching stockings
The prettiest new anal dildo. My lover has never put his cock in a woman's ass. I promised to be his first.
Red leather collar, jewels or studs optional
I know my prepartions are largely unnecessary. If this man and I connect physcially as we do virtually, all we really need is plenty of room to explore each other.
I'll still finish my list. Much of these relationships are about fantasy. I know I'll probably never leave my home, and neither will he. I know that "future" is couched in phrases of "if only we'd met.." or "maybe next time we can ..."
But fantasy has its own rewards. It's the opportunity to try those things never before allowed. The opportunity to be lovers in a strange city, kissing in public, fondling at dinner, experiencing wet blow jobs in the cab on the way to our hotel. The opportunity to fuck with abandon and joy, without the worry of phone calls in the morning or arcane dating rituals designed to kill intimacy.
And above all, it's the opportunity for orgasms...lots and lots of orgasms.
This is the first time I met and pursued a man online. The first time I booked a ticket to meet him in another city. The first time I carefully picked out dresses, skirts and high heels specifically to please him.
I'm counting the days until I see those brown eyes and hear that rich, deep voice in person. But until then, I have a few more things to arrange. I've made a little list to make sure I get everything I need.
Black garters with matching stockings
The prettiest new anal dildo. My lover has never put his cock in a woman's ass. I promised to be his first.
Red leather collar, jewels or studs optional
I know my prepartions are largely unnecessary. If this man and I connect physcially as we do virtually, all we really need is plenty of room to explore each other.
I'll still finish my list. Much of these relationships are about fantasy. I know I'll probably never leave my home, and neither will he. I know that "future" is couched in phrases of "if only we'd met.." or "maybe next time we can ..."
But fantasy has its own rewards. It's the opportunity to try those things never before allowed. The opportunity to be lovers in a strange city, kissing in public, fondling at dinner, experiencing wet blow jobs in the cab on the way to our hotel. The opportunity to fuck with abandon and joy, without the worry of phone calls in the morning or arcane dating rituals designed to kill intimacy.
And above all, it's the opportunity for orgasms...lots and lots of orgasms.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Vixen, I am
I was never this girl before.
I was not the popular girl in school, the one who's name was forever mentioned in conjunction with prom queen, homecoming queen or court-warming princess. The popular boys paid me scant attention. Blonde and statuesque passed me by.
I'm used to being ignored, passed over, assumptions drawn. I'm 34 but could pass for 25. I have freckles. I'm diminutive. My curls are flouncy, my complexion palid.
Yet, I'm the girl in the backseat writhing under twisting fingers, face flushed, breathing erractic, cresting the third of many orgasms. I'm the one tied to the bed, a dark-headed hedonist between my legs sucking and grinding my clit as I fight my bonds with the urge to bury my fingers in his hair and pull.
In the office, I am bold, assertive, battling those assumptions that have haunted me for many years. I'm usually not the prettiest girl in the board room. But in the hotel room later, it's the dark-eyed C.O.O. that forces me to my knees to suck his cock.
My breasts are my own. My dimpled thighs are testament to my love of chocolate. The faded striae on my sides are a reminder of the child I carried. They are part of the bigger picture of me -- the girl who became the closet porn star, who attracts the lacivious looks from married men with one flounce of that ridiculously curly hair. That same girl who barely gets a glance from others is the same who likes a dick in the ass, three fingers in her cunt and a sharp twist on her nipples.
And where are those other girls now? The prom queen? The court-warming princess? At home, alone, waiting for their husband who is working late -- or rather, the husband who is working my g-spot with dripping fingers to stroke one last fluttering orgasm before he has to wash away my scent and speed back to her.
I don't know how I became this girl, this lust-filled vixen who consumes fucking like air. But I hope she stays for a while longer. Or at least long enough to get my fill of memories to carry me through those long nights when the desire fades.
I was not the popular girl in school, the one who's name was forever mentioned in conjunction with prom queen, homecoming queen or court-warming princess. The popular boys paid me scant attention. Blonde and statuesque passed me by.
I'm used to being ignored, passed over, assumptions drawn. I'm 34 but could pass for 25. I have freckles. I'm diminutive. My curls are flouncy, my complexion palid.
Yet, I'm the girl in the backseat writhing under twisting fingers, face flushed, breathing erractic, cresting the third of many orgasms. I'm the one tied to the bed, a dark-headed hedonist between my legs sucking and grinding my clit as I fight my bonds with the urge to bury my fingers in his hair and pull.
In the office, I am bold, assertive, battling those assumptions that have haunted me for many years. I'm usually not the prettiest girl in the board room. But in the hotel room later, it's the dark-eyed C.O.O. that forces me to my knees to suck his cock.
My breasts are my own. My dimpled thighs are testament to my love of chocolate. The faded striae on my sides are a reminder of the child I carried. They are part of the bigger picture of me -- the girl who became the closet porn star, who attracts the lacivious looks from married men with one flounce of that ridiculously curly hair. That same girl who barely gets a glance from others is the same who likes a dick in the ass, three fingers in her cunt and a sharp twist on her nipples.
And where are those other girls now? The prom queen? The court-warming princess? At home, alone, waiting for their husband who is working late -- or rather, the husband who is working my g-spot with dripping fingers to stroke one last fluttering orgasm before he has to wash away my scent and speed back to her.
I don't know how I became this girl, this lust-filled vixen who consumes fucking like air. But I hope she stays for a while longer. Or at least long enough to get my fill of memories to carry me through those long nights when the desire fades.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Pre-occupation
His voice slides like liquid erotica in my ear. He purrs, calls me his kitten. He laughs low, amazingly sexy. I want him badly. He lives hundreds of miles away.
We've been chatting online, what he likes, what I like. We have very similar opinions on dress up, positions, technique. I want to be touched, when I see him the first time. I don't want shy, getting-to-know you handshakes. I want his hands on me, sliding up my skirt, grabbing my ass or just at the small of my back leading me through the hall.
I crave his tongue, that same honey tongue that rolls from my headset down my spine to my wet pussy. I close my eyes, slide my fingers into that wetness and imagine him there. He has never heard me cum for him even though I've done it many times.
When I'm out in the brightness of the real world, away from the siren ping of his IM or the patient wait for his phone call, I wonder if others can feel my desire. I'm so turned on, it's palpable. I'm vibrating with want.
At the deli, dark hair and dark eyes watch me from the table in the corner. He nods in my direction, I wink in response. Does he sense my need? As I place my order, he slides up behind me, brushing my arm as he leans around to grab napkins. He's close enough to smell my perfume, whispers "excuse me."
I could if I wanted, turn around, grab his gaze to hold him there. Strike up a converstion that could lead to many other things. I've done it before. It's worked in the past.
But my mind is preoccupied by his accent, how he says my name and when I'll hear him say it again.
We've been chatting online, what he likes, what I like. We have very similar opinions on dress up, positions, technique. I want to be touched, when I see him the first time. I don't want shy, getting-to-know you handshakes. I want his hands on me, sliding up my skirt, grabbing my ass or just at the small of my back leading me through the hall.
I crave his tongue, that same honey tongue that rolls from my headset down my spine to my wet pussy. I close my eyes, slide my fingers into that wetness and imagine him there. He has never heard me cum for him even though I've done it many times.
When I'm out in the brightness of the real world, away from the siren ping of his IM or the patient wait for his phone call, I wonder if others can feel my desire. I'm so turned on, it's palpable. I'm vibrating with want.
At the deli, dark hair and dark eyes watch me from the table in the corner. He nods in my direction, I wink in response. Does he sense my need? As I place my order, he slides up behind me, brushing my arm as he leans around to grab napkins. He's close enough to smell my perfume, whispers "excuse me."
I could if I wanted, turn around, grab his gaze to hold him there. Strike up a converstion that could lead to many other things. I've done it before. It's worked in the past.
But my mind is preoccupied by his accent, how he says my name and when I'll hear him say it again.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Limits
He's pushing my limits, testing me. He likes many of the same things I do -- being watched, pleasure mixed with pain, messy, wet encounters in the backseat of the car.
He takes these ideals one step further.
"Would you let someone watch us, in the same room?"
"Someone like who, exactly? It's not like your wife is up for a viewing."
"What if I could find someone? What if I already have?"
I admit my intrigue.
"For example...?"
"Well," he says, "Maybe I already know of some guys in this area who work from home and would be willing to let us use his bed for the price of watching."
I'm quiet for a minute. Still under his gaze.
"I don't know."
"Yes you do." He leans forward, brushing his lips in my ear. "You want him to watch you get fucked like a dirty cum slut. You want him to want you, just as much as I want you. But he can't have you, can he? Because for that time, you'll be mine."
He takes these ideals one step further.
"Would you let someone watch us, in the same room?"
"Someone like who, exactly? It's not like your wife is up for a viewing."
"What if I could find someone? What if I already have?"
I admit my intrigue.
"For example...?"
"Well," he says, "Maybe I already know of some guys in this area who work from home and would be willing to let us use his bed for the price of watching."
I'm quiet for a minute. Still under his gaze.
"I don't know."
"Yes you do." He leans forward, brushing his lips in my ear. "You want him to watch you get fucked like a dirty cum slut. You want him to want you, just as much as I want you. But he can't have you, can he? Because for that time, you'll be mine."
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
You and he, and me
You don't know my name, and I hope you never will. But I know yours, and other things as well.
I know what you like, and don't. I know how often or how little you suck cock. I know you like missionary style and have never had a dick in your ass. I know you won't watch porn, and have no interest in a threesome.
I know, because he told me.
And I know that he likes my loud moans, my heavy breathing, the way I twist under his fingers begging him not to stop. He likes to be in control, contort me to fit his whims, test my flexibility and endurance, not to mention my carefully-controlled gag reflex. He likes to meet me in public, knowing that I'm not wearing any panties under my skirt.
He's fucked me in his car, in the same seat you sit on when you go to the store. He's fucked me on your couch where you watch your favorite shows. He's fucked me on the stairs you walk up at night, on the kitchen counter where you made dinner the night before.
He loves a wet pussy -- the smell, taste, slickness on his fingers, the grip on his cock. He worships pussy, will do anything to make it quiver and clench with orgasms. He has tasted me so many times, he can summon the flavor at will.
He's taken me to lunch, fingered me under the table while the other diners sit obliviously carrying on their dull conversations about nothing. He made me cum into his cupped hand and then wiped my wetness against his napkin. He used those same finger to feed me crackers dipped in something sweet.
He has rented low-class hotel rooms with cash so he could fuck me all afternoon, ignoring your calls on his cell phone. Sometimes he answers, his fingers still firmly entrenched in my cunt, or my mouth swallowing his dick like a greedy whore. While you chatted about baseball practice and dinner options, I sucked him with long, slow strokes, bringing him closer to orgasm. He hangs up, throws the phone on the floor to grab handfuls of my hair and fuck my mouth, spurting all that pent up sex down my throat.
In many ways, I know him better than you. I know him in that intimate way that only lovers enjoy. I don't think of you often, if ever. I have no interest in you, only him. I should feel guilty, but those feelings have past. I know he doesn't love me, and if given a choice, you are the one he would pick. I don't feel guilty because if it wasn't me, it would be someone else with him. Someone else fucking him the way you never do. You had the opportunity to be this girl and you've gone another way.
But deep down, he wishes you were more like me. In fact, if you were, he wouldn't be here at all. It would be someone else's husband sucking my clit, smelling like me when he comes home. And your husband would be fucking you.
Except you're not like me. You're somebody else. And tonight, I'm going to fuck him until he doesn't think about the difference between you and me any more.
I know what you like, and don't. I know how often or how little you suck cock. I know you like missionary style and have never had a dick in your ass. I know you won't watch porn, and have no interest in a threesome.
I know, because he told me.
And I know that he likes my loud moans, my heavy breathing, the way I twist under his fingers begging him not to stop. He likes to be in control, contort me to fit his whims, test my flexibility and endurance, not to mention my carefully-controlled gag reflex. He likes to meet me in public, knowing that I'm not wearing any panties under my skirt.
He's fucked me in his car, in the same seat you sit on when you go to the store. He's fucked me on your couch where you watch your favorite shows. He's fucked me on the stairs you walk up at night, on the kitchen counter where you made dinner the night before.
He loves a wet pussy -- the smell, taste, slickness on his fingers, the grip on his cock. He worships pussy, will do anything to make it quiver and clench with orgasms. He has tasted me so many times, he can summon the flavor at will.
He's taken me to lunch, fingered me under the table while the other diners sit obliviously carrying on their dull conversations about nothing. He made me cum into his cupped hand and then wiped my wetness against his napkin. He used those same finger to feed me crackers dipped in something sweet.
He has rented low-class hotel rooms with cash so he could fuck me all afternoon, ignoring your calls on his cell phone. Sometimes he answers, his fingers still firmly entrenched in my cunt, or my mouth swallowing his dick like a greedy whore. While you chatted about baseball practice and dinner options, I sucked him with long, slow strokes, bringing him closer to orgasm. He hangs up, throws the phone on the floor to grab handfuls of my hair and fuck my mouth, spurting all that pent up sex down my throat.
In many ways, I know him better than you. I know him in that intimate way that only lovers enjoy. I don't think of you often, if ever. I have no interest in you, only him. I should feel guilty, but those feelings have past. I know he doesn't love me, and if given a choice, you are the one he would pick. I don't feel guilty because if it wasn't me, it would be someone else with him. Someone else fucking him the way you never do. You had the opportunity to be this girl and you've gone another way.
But deep down, he wishes you were more like me. In fact, if you were, he wouldn't be here at all. It would be someone else's husband sucking my clit, smelling like me when he comes home. And your husband would be fucking you.
Except you're not like me. You're somebody else. And tonight, I'm going to fuck him until he doesn't think about the difference between you and me any more.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Query
A small missive in my e-mail box. I found it while I was away visiting family:
M,
Are you home yet?
D
Mein Docktor is a busy fellow. I haven't seen him in months, many months, although we've chatted occassionally. His schedule is nearly impossible. One near miss resulted in deep kissing and some heavy petting before I was ushered out the door with soaked panties and a deep need for more.
I replied today,
D,
I'm home. When are we fucking?
M
Just now,
M,
Tomorrow. 5:30. Be prepared to be on your knees.
D.
My pussy will be so grateful!
M,
Are you home yet?
D
Mein Docktor is a busy fellow. I haven't seen him in months, many months, although we've chatted occassionally. His schedule is nearly impossible. One near miss resulted in deep kissing and some heavy petting before I was ushered out the door with soaked panties and a deep need for more.
I replied today,
D,
I'm home. When are we fucking?
M
Just now,
M,
Tomorrow. 5:30. Be prepared to be on your knees.
D.
My pussy will be so grateful!
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
The difference between you and me
There lies a subtle difference between women who like sex, and women like me.
I don't like sex. I relish it. I've been known to lie for it, beg for it. I'll wear ill-fitting lingerie, apply spicy hot lotion to my nipples, search for the perfect pink dog collar and subject myself to face-down denegration in the happy pursuit of the almighty fuck.
I had this discussion with a long-distance lover today. I tried to explain why someone like me takes extreme pleasure in sex when so many women don't. I'm built the same way, the same triggers and turn ons. The same plump clit and stiff nipples. But for me, sex is transcendental in a way that other women seem to miss. My pleasure is really secondary to my lovers. I think that's the key, I get off the more he gets off.
I like to do anything that turns you on. Your excitement will amp my excitement. The more turned on you get, the more turned on I get. I want you to be nearly drooling with desire. That's my idea of good foreplay. If it takes a dog collar to get you there, then I'm in. I want you to want me sooo bad, you can barely contain yourself.
I think that's the real difference between women like me and others. I am invested in the sexual experience. I want you to cum, I want your excitement, your lust, your perverted thoughts. I want you to look at me like I'm a bowl of ice cream that you can't wait to lick and suck. I want to see that in your face.
Other women look at sex like a chore. They might it enjoy it a little, but it's more about filling your needs than theirs so they are not fully invested. Well I need and you need, and I want you to need ME!
I don't like sex. I relish it. I've been known to lie for it, beg for it. I'll wear ill-fitting lingerie, apply spicy hot lotion to my nipples, search for the perfect pink dog collar and subject myself to face-down denegration in the happy pursuit of the almighty fuck.
I had this discussion with a long-distance lover today. I tried to explain why someone like me takes extreme pleasure in sex when so many women don't. I'm built the same way, the same triggers and turn ons. The same plump clit and stiff nipples. But for me, sex is transcendental in a way that other women seem to miss. My pleasure is really secondary to my lovers. I think that's the key, I get off the more he gets off.
I like to do anything that turns you on. Your excitement will amp my excitement. The more turned on you get, the more turned on I get. I want you to be nearly drooling with desire. That's my idea of good foreplay. If it takes a dog collar to get you there, then I'm in. I want you to want me sooo bad, you can barely contain yourself.
I think that's the real difference between women like me and others. I am invested in the sexual experience. I want you to cum, I want your excitement, your lust, your perverted thoughts. I want you to look at me like I'm a bowl of ice cream that you can't wait to lick and suck. I want to see that in your face.
Other women look at sex like a chore. They might it enjoy it a little, but it's more about filling your needs than theirs so they are not fully invested. Well I need and you need, and I want you to need ME!
I think that about sums it up.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Mirror, Mirror
I've never met you, but I have a dream of you. It's a misty dream, something wavery and undefined, like a reflection in water. I can almost see your face, feel your body, your breath on my throat but you're always just a grasp away. How desperately I want to feel.
In my dream, we meet in the lobby. I recognize you across the polished parquet, my heart beats a little faster. We don't have time to waste on civility, no mating rituals, just need. I need you. I need your heat and attention. You take my hand and lead me to the elevator. You look at me as we ride up, not really saying anything, but keeping a firm grip on my fingers.
The ding of our floor breaks the quiet and you lead me to the door, slide your card and pull me inside. Here you stop. Push me back, kiss me softly. I wrap my arms around you, pulling you this time. We mold together -- fitted, flushed, fevered. Our kisses becoming wet and tense. My hands pull at your shirt, wanting to slide it off. You are exploring the edge of my stocking on my thigh. Slide up further, my sweet and you'll find nothing between us.
The chanting starts in my brain, a soft keening ... bed, fuck, bed, fuck, bed, fuck. You must hear it too because we struggle to remove clothes and move bodies into the room. You're impatient, I spy a bathroom sink with my lusting eye.
You push me onto the sink, sliding my ass back against the mirror. I hear the jingle of your belt as you drop pants to the floor. You don't -- or can't -- wait, leaning into me, sliding into my wetness. I sigh into your neck. I love that moment of penetration, the first time you feel the fullness of a lover in an empty wanting space, now filled with purpose.
Breath hot against my neck, you start slow, acclimating to the feel and slickness of my pussy. How long have you waited to feel me like this? Have you dreamt about it too? Did you grow hard when you imagined this moment? Did you stroke your cock in anticipation of fucking me?
Locked in a stare, I watch you watch me, feel you feeling me. I bite your lip, my tonuge rushes to find yours. In the mirror, you pull up my skirt to see the smushed globes of my ass clinging to the glass. Watch your cock slide in and out of the girl in the reflection.
I wrap my legs around you to pull you closer, tilt my hips just so and the head of your dick rocks against my g-spot. It doesn't take long before I'm gushing onto you, the smell of my lust filling the small room. I'm loud when I cum. Have I warned you? Did I tell you how I moan? Whisper dirty things in your ear about fucking my cunt?
I feel your nails digging into my sides as you push deep again and again. The bell head of your cock is swelling in anticipation, of a longing to cum. When you can't hold back any longer, you wrap your fingers in my hair, leaning your weight into me, shuddering with release. Say my name, lover. Just once, please, before we finally make it to that bed to start again.
In my dream, we meet in the lobby. I recognize you across the polished parquet, my heart beats a little faster. We don't have time to waste on civility, no mating rituals, just need. I need you. I need your heat and attention. You take my hand and lead me to the elevator. You look at me as we ride up, not really saying anything, but keeping a firm grip on my fingers.
The ding of our floor breaks the quiet and you lead me to the door, slide your card and pull me inside. Here you stop. Push me back, kiss me softly. I wrap my arms around you, pulling you this time. We mold together -- fitted, flushed, fevered. Our kisses becoming wet and tense. My hands pull at your shirt, wanting to slide it off. You are exploring the edge of my stocking on my thigh. Slide up further, my sweet and you'll find nothing between us.
The chanting starts in my brain, a soft keening ... bed, fuck, bed, fuck, bed, fuck. You must hear it too because we struggle to remove clothes and move bodies into the room. You're impatient, I spy a bathroom sink with my lusting eye.
You push me onto the sink, sliding my ass back against the mirror. I hear the jingle of your belt as you drop pants to the floor. You don't -- or can't -- wait, leaning into me, sliding into my wetness. I sigh into your neck. I love that moment of penetration, the first time you feel the fullness of a lover in an empty wanting space, now filled with purpose.
Breath hot against my neck, you start slow, acclimating to the feel and slickness of my pussy. How long have you waited to feel me like this? Have you dreamt about it too? Did you grow hard when you imagined this moment? Did you stroke your cock in anticipation of fucking me?
Locked in a stare, I watch you watch me, feel you feeling me. I bite your lip, my tonuge rushes to find yours. In the mirror, you pull up my skirt to see the smushed globes of my ass clinging to the glass. Watch your cock slide in and out of the girl in the reflection.
I wrap my legs around you to pull you closer, tilt my hips just so and the head of your dick rocks against my g-spot. It doesn't take long before I'm gushing onto you, the smell of my lust filling the small room. I'm loud when I cum. Have I warned you? Did I tell you how I moan? Whisper dirty things in your ear about fucking my cunt?
I feel your nails digging into my sides as you push deep again and again. The bell head of your cock is swelling in anticipation, of a longing to cum. When you can't hold back any longer, you wrap your fingers in my hair, leaning your weight into me, shuddering with release. Say my name, lover. Just once, please, before we finally make it to that bed to start again.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Understanding
We meet in our usual spot, I haven't seen him in more than two weeks so I'm already anticipating very damp panties. He climbs in my car, leans over to give me a hello kiss, his tongue darts in my mouth quick and feverish.
I drive toward a secluded section of a parking garage, my favorite voyueristic getaway for a noon-day fucking. I'm singing softly to myself while I drive. He reaches over, brushes my hair from my neck, "I like it when you sing. I've missed you."
"Really? Cause I've gotta say, Brandon, I wonder sometimes."
"Why's that? I always want to see you when you call."
"I know and don't get me wrong, that's just what I asked for. I'm just spoiled by married guys. They pursue much harder than you do."
"I didn't think I had that option. You were pretty adament about no feelings, this is not a relationship."
I suddenly feel needy and whiny. I need to reassert myself, remember that the parameters of my affairs are usually set by me. "Of course, you're right. I don't want a relationship, I'm not looking for that. Like I said, I've been spoiled."
"I see why they would want to spoil you. You are so damn sweet."
He leans in to kiss me again, I feel the tug on my belt. His fingers find my wet slit, slides upward and the veil slips down again as I sigh, fall into my first of many orgasms.
It's an amazing trick he likes to pull, he's fast and accurate with my g-spot, and right as my orgasm starts to peak, he clamps his teeth on my nipple causing simultaneous pain and amazing pleasure. My cunt gushes in appreciation and my whole body quivers, making him to laugh softly and apply more pressure.
When I can't take anymore I spell my sticky thighs and drop my mouth over his cock, his hand pressing on my head urging me faster.
Twenty minutes later, as he pulled me to him for that goodbye kiss, I could smell my lusty appreciation on his fingers. I slipped them in my mouth. He leaned forward, resting his forhead on mine.
"I do like you. And I like our non-relationship-relationship. I just want you to know that."
I nodded in response, fingers still firmly entwined in my tongue. I gave a hard tug with my mouth and a quick wink to let him know that we have an understanding.
I drive toward a secluded section of a parking garage, my favorite voyueristic getaway for a noon-day fucking. I'm singing softly to myself while I drive. He reaches over, brushes my hair from my neck, "I like it when you sing. I've missed you."
"Really? Cause I've gotta say, Brandon, I wonder sometimes."
"Why's that? I always want to see you when you call."
"I know and don't get me wrong, that's just what I asked for. I'm just spoiled by married guys. They pursue much harder than you do."
"I didn't think I had that option. You were pretty adament about no feelings, this is not a relationship."
I suddenly feel needy and whiny. I need to reassert myself, remember that the parameters of my affairs are usually set by me. "Of course, you're right. I don't want a relationship, I'm not looking for that. Like I said, I've been spoiled."
"I see why they would want to spoil you. You are so damn sweet."
He leans in to kiss me again, I feel the tug on my belt. His fingers find my wet slit, slides upward and the veil slips down again as I sigh, fall into my first of many orgasms.
It's an amazing trick he likes to pull, he's fast and accurate with my g-spot, and right as my orgasm starts to peak, he clamps his teeth on my nipple causing simultaneous pain and amazing pleasure. My cunt gushes in appreciation and my whole body quivers, making him to laugh softly and apply more pressure.
When I can't take anymore I spell my sticky thighs and drop my mouth over his cock, his hand pressing on my head urging me faster.
Twenty minutes later, as he pulled me to him for that goodbye kiss, I could smell my lusty appreciation on his fingers. I slipped them in my mouth. He leaned forward, resting his forhead on mine.
"I do like you. And I like our non-relationship-relationship. I just want you to know that."
I nodded in response, fingers still firmly entwined in my tongue. I gave a hard tug with my mouth and a quick wink to let him know that we have an understanding.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Sea salt
A friend today was asking me about my love of women. Yes, I love women.
I have had limited experience with them, but I clearly remember that is was a woman who first introduced me to how truly passionate sex can be for two -- or in this case, three -- people.
I was in college the first time I tasted a girl. I'd had my fair share of kissing and tribbing in high school. Shy forays into fondling. I already knew I liked the full, heavy feeling of a breast in my hand. Girls are a little more adventurous when they are in the swing of hormones.
In college I had a study partner who was sexy in that goth, pierced-lip, dirty girl kinda way. I am a punk rock chick, but I am also a pale, freckle-faced, curly-headed creature. It's very rare that someone looks at me and sees the dirty side shining through. But she did. She knew somehow that a hand on my thigh, or a kiss on my neck would cause a response.
She and her girlfriend ushered me into the world of pussy from a whole new angle. I loved to fuck, loved cock, loved men already, but girls are soft. They smell so sweet. They writhe and twist with pleasure. They pour their juice out on your hand or tongue. They are perfect.
Her girlfriend was the first girl I ever tasted. I don't remember her body, but I'll never forget her scent -- crisp, like quicksilver. She struck a memory of the ocean, how you can smell it before you see it, how you suck in that salty tang like it's life itself. That's how she tasted.
When I licked her clit, she arched her back, pushing my face down into her crease. I was tentative, trying to be gentle, but her grinding hips begged for more force. I was so turned on by her reaction that I shoved my fingers home and brought her around quick. She was a moaner. I was hooked.
A few months later, I graduated from college. A few months after that I was married and settled into easy monogomy until five years later, my No. 1 reminded me that sex is passionate. That it is appropriate to expend massive amounts of energy purely for pleasure. Once again, I was hooked. That addiction reigns today.
I'm still very attracted to women, especially those dark, curvy, spanish beauties. But they are harder to entice than men. I've yet to have another girl for a lover. Although I think about it more and more. And I dream about it often: tight rosebud nipples in my teeth, soft curly hair tickling my nose, and the ocean.
I have had limited experience with them, but I clearly remember that is was a woman who first introduced me to how truly passionate sex can be for two -- or in this case, three -- people.
I was in college the first time I tasted a girl. I'd had my fair share of kissing and tribbing in high school. Shy forays into fondling. I already knew I liked the full, heavy feeling of a breast in my hand. Girls are a little more adventurous when they are in the swing of hormones.
In college I had a study partner who was sexy in that goth, pierced-lip, dirty girl kinda way. I am a punk rock chick, but I am also a pale, freckle-faced, curly-headed creature. It's very rare that someone looks at me and sees the dirty side shining through. But she did. She knew somehow that a hand on my thigh, or a kiss on my neck would cause a response.
She and her girlfriend ushered me into the world of pussy from a whole new angle. I loved to fuck, loved cock, loved men already, but girls are soft. They smell so sweet. They writhe and twist with pleasure. They pour their juice out on your hand or tongue. They are perfect.
Her girlfriend was the first girl I ever tasted. I don't remember her body, but I'll never forget her scent -- crisp, like quicksilver. She struck a memory of the ocean, how you can smell it before you see it, how you suck in that salty tang like it's life itself. That's how she tasted.
When I licked her clit, she arched her back, pushing my face down into her crease. I was tentative, trying to be gentle, but her grinding hips begged for more force. I was so turned on by her reaction that I shoved my fingers home and brought her around quick. She was a moaner. I was hooked.
A few months later, I graduated from college. A few months after that I was married and settled into easy monogomy until five years later, my No. 1 reminded me that sex is passionate. That it is appropriate to expend massive amounts of energy purely for pleasure. Once again, I was hooked. That addiction reigns today.
I'm still very attracted to women, especially those dark, curvy, spanish beauties. But they are harder to entice than men. I've yet to have another girl for a lover. Although I think about it more and more. And I dream about it often: tight rosebud nipples in my teeth, soft curly hair tickling my nose, and the ocean.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Truth in lyrics
Love
love is an angel that smokes cigarettes
she's trying to kill me
I can only say yes
take me to your bedroom, send me to my death
you can't help being what you are
Can you be attracted to someone who's face you've never seen? Lust for someone who's words are enough? Long to touch someone who lives hundreds of miles away?
It's a new sweet form of torment.
love is an angel that smokes cigarettes
she's trying to kill me
I can only say yes
take me to your bedroom, send me to my death
you can't help being what you are
Can you be attracted to someone who's face you've never seen? Lust for someone who's words are enough? Long to touch someone who lives hundreds of miles away?
It's a new sweet form of torment.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Reprieve
I came to the conclusion that things were not going to work with my lover and I. He is an enigma. I honestly don't know if he cares that I'm around. I know he likes fucking me. He's always eager. He's also single and looking for another to meet. So why should I care if he cares? Hmm... the dance of attention. He gives some, but not enough. I get a little but crave more.
So I start to look as well. At a concert on Friday night. Which one, maybe him?
Today my brown-eye Irish boy missed the way I taste. I relented, gave him an hour to renew my interest.
He met me with a smile and a deep lingering kiss, takes me straight to bed, whispering "Take off your clothes. I want to see your beautiful body."
Eager and generous, he sends me careening again and again before he finally spews his lust on my tits, which I generously rub all over us both.
He curls into a comma against my back, pinning me with his arm and cupping my breast in his hand -- breathes in my perfume at the back of my neck. We lay still for a while, enjoying the lull of post-coital bliss. His fingers trail a path from my hips to shoulder, lightly but consistent. He grabs my ass, pulls me against his rigid dick. Ready for round two?
Fingers dip into my wetness again and again, teasing my attentive clitoris, promising me more but pulling away before I go too far. I'm reduced to whispered begging, "Please, please make me cum. Please fuck me again. Please, baby, please.."
Finally he relents first with his fingers, brown eyes intent on my blue watching me ride each orgasm with my body and dialated pupils, then with his body covering mine and his dick buried deep.
He has earned his reprieve.
So I start to look as well. At a concert on Friday night. Which one, maybe him?
Today my brown-eye Irish boy missed the way I taste. I relented, gave him an hour to renew my interest.
He met me with a smile and a deep lingering kiss, takes me straight to bed, whispering "Take off your clothes. I want to see your beautiful body."
Eager and generous, he sends me careening again and again before he finally spews his lust on my tits, which I generously rub all over us both.
He curls into a comma against my back, pinning me with his arm and cupping my breast in his hand -- breathes in my perfume at the back of my neck. We lay still for a while, enjoying the lull of post-coital bliss. His fingers trail a path from my hips to shoulder, lightly but consistent. He grabs my ass, pulls me against his rigid dick. Ready for round two?
Fingers dip into my wetness again and again, teasing my attentive clitoris, promising me more but pulling away before I go too far. I'm reduced to whispered begging, "Please, please make me cum. Please fuck me again. Please, baby, please.."
Finally he relents first with his fingers, brown eyes intent on my blue watching me ride each orgasm with my body and dialated pupils, then with his body covering mine and his dick buried deep.
He has earned his reprieve.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Hunting
A friend who wants to be more e-mailed me today about his visit to my area. I was unable to make my schedule work with his, so once again we missed using his quaint inexpensive hotel room for hours of sweaty debauchery.
Next time, my friend, I promise.
We were discussing serial adultery. I think I've reached the point where I can call myself such a predator. I am always looking for the next one.
He asked what I used to seek out my intended prey. I can admit, I don't really have a system. I know what I like when I see it. I'm smitten by the taste and smell of men. I adore the quizically raised eyebrow, the unspoken invitation. I relish strong arms and the rough scrape of an unshaven chin. I know what I like.
I have taken my skills to a new level in the past year. Before I let them approach me, but lately I've become much more aggressive. I can look at a group of guys and know exactly which one will respond best. It's all about eye contact. Can you look an attractive woman in the eye for longer than a second? Can you hold my gaze, smile in return? Or will you slide by me, see me for an instant and move on?
That's the trick for me. I'm bold, are you? If so, then you are the one I want. And it will be well worth the hunt.
Next time, my friend, I promise.
We were discussing serial adultery. I think I've reached the point where I can call myself such a predator. I am always looking for the next one.
He asked what I used to seek out my intended prey. I can admit, I don't really have a system. I know what I like when I see it. I'm smitten by the taste and smell of men. I adore the quizically raised eyebrow, the unspoken invitation. I relish strong arms and the rough scrape of an unshaven chin. I know what I like.
I have taken my skills to a new level in the past year. Before I let them approach me, but lately I've become much more aggressive. I can look at a group of guys and know exactly which one will respond best. It's all about eye contact. Can you look an attractive woman in the eye for longer than a second? Can you hold my gaze, smile in return? Or will you slide by me, see me for an instant and move on?
That's the trick for me. I'm bold, are you? If so, then you are the one I want. And it will be well worth the hunt.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Unexpected
My lover is out of town this weekend. Not even one little e-mail has followed him home. I sent him a series of instructions for our next meeting, each accompanied with a photo such as a twist of hair, lips wrapped around my finger, the inside of a thigh -- all culminating in a final, very graphic, very wet picture of promise.
I was expecting four or five days of no flirtation. Well, maybe the occassional smile and shy hello with that married guy I run into at the grocery store. Our shopping habits are oddly in sync.
My low expectations were pleasantly aroused with an e-mail from someone new.
It's interesting how quickly fuckery can progress. What started as a friendly hello and appreciation for my storytelling has quickly devolved into erotic repertoire about fantasies, hot wax and remote-controlled vibrators cleverly used at a dinner party.
I've lamented my brown-eyed Irish boy's lack of e-mail flirtation, so to find someone who likes to arouse with words has revived my interest in the delicate art of e-sex. I hope it's the start of something somewhat lasting. It would be a dream to have a lover online, and one in person. It's too bad my new friend lives so far away, otherwise we would try out some of those hot wax and champagne fantasies very soon.
I'm such a greedy little cunt.
I was expecting four or five days of no flirtation. Well, maybe the occassional smile and shy hello with that married guy I run into at the grocery store. Our shopping habits are oddly in sync.
My low expectations were pleasantly aroused with an e-mail from someone new.
It's interesting how quickly fuckery can progress. What started as a friendly hello and appreciation for my storytelling has quickly devolved into erotic repertoire about fantasies, hot wax and remote-controlled vibrators cleverly used at a dinner party.
I've lamented my brown-eyed Irish boy's lack of e-mail flirtation, so to find someone who likes to arouse with words has revived my interest in the delicate art of e-sex. I hope it's the start of something somewhat lasting. It would be a dream to have a lover online, and one in person. It's too bad my new friend lives so far away, otherwise we would try out some of those hot wax and champagne fantasies very soon.
I'm such a greedy little cunt.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Following directions
I opened the door and found him just the way I requested: naked, hard, waiting. I gave an uncustomary squeal of delight. I love to be obeyed.
I crawled on top of him, kissing his neck, cheeks, eyes and finally his mouth. His hands were on me instantly, sliding up my shirt, giving my nipple that eye-watering twist I love so much.
I dropped to my knees and stroked his cock with my tongue, lapping at it. He still tasted of me, from our last fucking at lunch. I sucked him clean. But when he started to pant, I stopped and ordered him to the bed.
I stripped as he climbed in, his sweet ass taunting me, begging to be slapped. I was forced to oblige. I relish the sight of a red hand print on a round cheek. His big brown eyes opened wider, flashed some dimples and pulled me onto him.
To say we fuck hard would be mild. The half-moons from my nails were livid on his sides, the force of me pulling him in deeper. My instructions were issued sharp, one-word: behind, harder, hurt me, down, there! He is an excellent listener.
Forty minutes later, sweaty and heaving, he came with a groan whispering my name in my hair.
I crawled on top of him, kissing his neck, cheeks, eyes and finally his mouth. His hands were on me instantly, sliding up my shirt, giving my nipple that eye-watering twist I love so much.
I dropped to my knees and stroked his cock with my tongue, lapping at it. He still tasted of me, from our last fucking at lunch. I sucked him clean. But when he started to pant, I stopped and ordered him to the bed.
I stripped as he climbed in, his sweet ass taunting me, begging to be slapped. I was forced to oblige. I relish the sight of a red hand print on a round cheek. His big brown eyes opened wider, flashed some dimples and pulled me onto him.
To say we fuck hard would be mild. The half-moons from my nails were livid on his sides, the force of me pulling him in deeper. My instructions were issued sharp, one-word: behind, harder, hurt me, down, there! He is an excellent listener.
Forty minutes later, sweaty and heaving, he came with a groan whispering my name in my hair.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Synopsis
Can I compress one woman into six little words? Can I summarize all my experience into a short phrase? Can I actually follow the rules? One can only hope.
Live. Laugh. Fuck. Write about it.
Live. Laugh. Fuck. Write about it.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Picky, picky
When it comes to choosing a lover, I am pretty amiable. I like men of all shapes and sizes, blonde with blue eyes, dark hair with smoky brown eyes, soft and firm, tall or short -- they all taste so sweet. I usually prefer them married, but my brown-eyed Irish boy is not. He was a welcome addition to my fuck parade after a drought, but in one area, he fails.
Maybe I shouldn't be so picky. Maybe I should be thankful for an ever-ready cock and twisting fingers that so easily find my g-spot. Maybe I shouldn't assume that all men who cheat with a married woman like the same things.
I have a secondary love affair with words, and until now, my lovers have joined me. Stories about dreams, desires -- many posted on this site. Typed promises about next meetings and naked rendevous. E-mailed memos about music, movies and porn.
I was lucky. My previous conquests were voracious e-mailers, seducing me with their virtual attention as well as their honey tongues. My big strong man would often send me three or four messages at a time, and then plead for my quick response with a terse, "What are you doing? Please answer me!"
Part of the thrill of an affair is that extra attention a lover bestows. Lately, I'm not so thrilled.
I'm already contemplating the end of this affair. To end it now without a replacement would only leave a hungry, selfish pussy in the wake. I can fuck him for a while longer.
But my fingers are itching to type those seductive promises to someone new -- someone who loves words as much as orgasms.
Maybe I shouldn't be so picky. Maybe I should be thankful for an ever-ready cock and twisting fingers that so easily find my g-spot. Maybe I shouldn't assume that all men who cheat with a married woman like the same things.
I have a secondary love affair with words, and until now, my lovers have joined me. Stories about dreams, desires -- many posted on this site. Typed promises about next meetings and naked rendevous. E-mailed memos about music, movies and porn.
I was lucky. My previous conquests were voracious e-mailers, seducing me with their virtual attention as well as their honey tongues. My big strong man would often send me three or four messages at a time, and then plead for my quick response with a terse, "What are you doing? Please answer me!"
Part of the thrill of an affair is that extra attention a lover bestows. Lately, I'm not so thrilled.
I'm already contemplating the end of this affair. To end it now without a replacement would only leave a hungry, selfish pussy in the wake. I can fuck him for a while longer.
But my fingers are itching to type those seductive promises to someone new -- someone who loves words as much as orgasms.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Why, my love
How do you answer the question, "why" when you're an adulterer? It's a question I've asked myself many times. A close friend posed that query this week. Why, she asked, do you risk everything important just to fuck someone you don't want to love?
The first time was for love. I fell for him, the sexual intensity was an added benefit to our already kinetic connection.
What about the second, the third, or my current, the sixth? There's something raw and animalistic in taking a lover who is not yours to have. Biting skin that cannot be marked. Dragging nails down his back, making marks he'll have to hide.
The scent of a naked man who wants to fuck you until you cry is intoxicating. It rises from his skin like mist. I want him to hurt me. I want him to invade me. I need him to fill that empty, warm, wet space that is begging for him.
I want that look in his eyes, that look reveals me as an amazing sexual being who only offers pleasure. I want that first time when he slides in and we both sigh. I want to see him cum, shaking and rolling his eyes with intensity. I want to know that it was me that fucked him -- the best he's ever been fucked. I want him to come back for more.
I want to be wanted.
The first time was for love. I fell for him, the sexual intensity was an added benefit to our already kinetic connection.
What about the second, the third, or my current, the sixth? There's something raw and animalistic in taking a lover who is not yours to have. Biting skin that cannot be marked. Dragging nails down his back, making marks he'll have to hide.
The scent of a naked man who wants to fuck you until you cry is intoxicating. It rises from his skin like mist. I want him to hurt me. I want him to invade me. I need him to fill that empty, warm, wet space that is begging for him.
I want that look in his eyes, that look reveals me as an amazing sexual being who only offers pleasure. I want that first time when he slides in and we both sigh. I want to see him cum, shaking and rolling his eyes with intensity. I want to know that it was me that fucked him -- the best he's ever been fucked. I want him to come back for more.
I want to be wanted.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Hand jive
I am a sucker for brown eyes and the perfect dimples. A come-hither grin will win me over every time. But that's just an introduction, the fun part starts with his tongue in my mouth, his breath hot against my skin. Warm palm against my stomach, under my bra, pinching my nipples erect.
The first time is fast, hot, needy. We race to make each other cum, determined to fuck with exciting intensity. He leaves me wanting more.
Today he remembers all my favorite spots, or rather my most favorite spot, that quirky little g-spot that when properly plied will welcome him with a gush.
He makes me cum again and again, wet against his palm. He smiles as I writhe and moan, riding his perfect finger as it twists and pushes. I beg him to stop before it's too much.
Then I do what every nice girl should -- I swallow.
The first time is fast, hot, needy. We race to make each other cum, determined to fuck with exciting intensity. He leaves me wanting more.
Today he remembers all my favorite spots, or rather my most favorite spot, that quirky little g-spot that when properly plied will welcome him with a gush.
He makes me cum again and again, wet against his palm. He smiles as I writhe and moan, riding his perfect finger as it twists and pushes. I beg him to stop before it's too much.
Then I do what every nice girl should -- I swallow.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Am I your fantasy girl?
I should warn you, I like to be the best at everything I do and sex is my favorite challenge. So tell me what you've always wanted to try. Share your fantasy, let me fulfill it for you. I cannot promise you'll know me for very long, but I swear that you will never forget my name.
I can be that girl you've always wanted, but couldn't find: That naughty, slutty girl who wants nothing but a bit of your time, attention and energy. That same girl that leaves as soon as you're done without a backward glance. Don't call me, I don't care ... unless you want more. What would you do to that girl if she shows up to lunch in a skirt?
Would you put your hand on my knee to feel the smooth satiny stocking, run up my thigh to the clasp where the garter meets the lace, further still until you find the round curve of my ass, around to the slip of damp fabric which is all that stands between you and the rest of me?
What will you do then? Are your fingers itching to find out how wet I am? Will you slide in and make me sigh and shudder with the lovely feeling of penetration, then go back to work smelling of me? Or will you back off and wait for the next time when you can have more?
Ask me, I'll give it to you.
I can be that girl you've always wanted, but couldn't find: That naughty, slutty girl who wants nothing but a bit of your time, attention and energy. That same girl that leaves as soon as you're done without a backward glance. Don't call me, I don't care ... unless you want more. What would you do to that girl if she shows up to lunch in a skirt?
Would you put your hand on my knee to feel the smooth satiny stocking, run up my thigh to the clasp where the garter meets the lace, further still until you find the round curve of my ass, around to the slip of damp fabric which is all that stands between you and the rest of me?
What will you do then? Are your fingers itching to find out how wet I am? Will you slide in and make me sigh and shudder with the lovely feeling of penetration, then go back to work smelling of me? Or will you back off and wait for the next time when you can have more?
Ask me, I'll give it to you.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The times, they are a changing
You have changed, my love.
The things that pulled me to you, magnatized my body and mind, are gone. Goodbye to your sense of humor, your aggressive nature, your loving teasing, your arrogant certainty.
I'm left with hesitancy, unwillingness to open up and share, a mean temper. I have memories of your hands buried deep in my hair, your mouth on mine. Today I have bitter comments about my wild curls and presumably outlandish hairstyle.
I have hopes for your crazy desire to possess me. Your drive to find me, no matter where and make me your own. Today I have time waiting in my car for you, time in which I know you are not coming to meet me at all.
I know you loved me once. Now I have no idea what you want.
It seems there's only one solution. I am so unhappy when you're not around, but I'm miserable when you are. Leave me behind, lover. It's the best thing for us both.
The things that pulled me to you, magnatized my body and mind, are gone. Goodbye to your sense of humor, your aggressive nature, your loving teasing, your arrogant certainty.
I'm left with hesitancy, unwillingness to open up and share, a mean temper. I have memories of your hands buried deep in my hair, your mouth on mine. Today I have bitter comments about my wild curls and presumably outlandish hairstyle.
I have hopes for your crazy desire to possess me. Your drive to find me, no matter where and make me your own. Today I have time waiting in my car for you, time in which I know you are not coming to meet me at all.
I know you loved me once. Now I have no idea what you want.
It seems there's only one solution. I am so unhappy when you're not around, but I'm miserable when you are. Leave me behind, lover. It's the best thing for us both.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Anticipating history
Suggestions have been made. Lunch meetings set. I want him so bad. He's the only man who can make me shake with the need to have him.
Our history weighs on me. He cannot be mine. We missed that window of opportunity. He will eventually allow his guilt to overcome desire and he'll leave me behind. History repeats.
In the meantime, I intend to have him again, as many times as possible. To find a bed, time, space, these are my worries today. When, where, how long?
Our history weighs on me. He cannot be mine. We missed that window of opportunity. He will eventually allow his guilt to overcome desire and he'll leave me behind. History repeats.
In the meantime, I intend to have him again, as many times as possible. To find a bed, time, space, these are my worries today. When, where, how long?
Monday, January 14, 2008
The voice on the phone
The phone rings. I feel my heart skip when I recognize the number. I answer, a breathless hello. He answers with a deep, dusky, Hey, it's me, like there was a doubt in my mind who was on the other end of the line.
I'm aloof, angry. He cajoles, kids and I soften. He'll always be that one who can melt the icicles.
He says my name, softly, and the yearning begins again.
I'm aloof, angry. He cajoles, kids and I soften. He'll always be that one who can melt the icicles.
He says my name, softly, and the yearning begins again.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Missing him
It's been a month since he left, abrupt and final. I'm cut off. No recourse. Nothing left but memories -- vivid behind my eyes -- of skin, lips, hands, body, cock and pure pleasure.
And his words.
Its late when I show up, you answer the door still half asleep, hair messed from tossing and turning, wondering if I would stop by. Your eyes light up when you see me, a giggle escapes. You pull me into the room wrapping your
arms, as well as your lips around me. Stepping back you take my hand and lead me to the bed.
As the soft light casts shadows, you slowly undress me, rushing would be much too easy, instead taking your time, kissing every inch of my skin caressing, me with your fingertips.
I stand before you naked wanting waiting and watching as you remove your panties and shirt. Pink full hard nipples brush against my stomach as you lean in to kiss me. Needing to react, I lower you onto the bed kissing you deeper, my hands and lips explore you, finding your wetness. I enter with my finger -- first one then two -- a moan, a gasp escape your lips, I must be inside you. In between your legs I find my destiny, so inviting, so perfect. I never want to leave.
Fast, slow, stopping then starting, deep and shallow. You shudder then moan, again and again. I take my time but I must cum for you. You feel it, as well as see it in my eyes and your movements rise up to meet me until my cock exploding is all that can happen. You call my name I answer with yours.. M--- oh god M---!! You smile, touching my face.
And his words.
Its late when I show up, you answer the door still half asleep, hair messed from tossing and turning, wondering if I would stop by. Your eyes light up when you see me, a giggle escapes. You pull me into the room wrapping your
arms, as well as your lips around me. Stepping back you take my hand and lead me to the bed.
As the soft light casts shadows, you slowly undress me, rushing would be much too easy, instead taking your time, kissing every inch of my skin caressing, me with your fingertips.
I stand before you naked wanting waiting and watching as you remove your panties and shirt. Pink full hard nipples brush against my stomach as you lean in to kiss me. Needing to react, I lower you onto the bed kissing you deeper, my hands and lips explore you, finding your wetness. I enter with my finger -- first one then two -- a moan, a gasp escape your lips, I must be inside you. In between your legs I find my destiny, so inviting, so perfect. I never want to leave.
Fast, slow, stopping then starting, deep and shallow. You shudder then moan, again and again. I take my time but I must cum for you. You feel it, as well as see it in my eyes and your movements rise up to meet me until my cock exploding is all that can happen. You call my name I answer with yours.. M--- oh god M---!! You smile, touching my face.
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