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?

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.