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.
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