I could do this all day.

January 17, 2012 at 10:46 am (Real Life, Sex) (, , , )

He said this with his fingers between my lips, stroking and searching for the perfect touch.

I could do this all day.

I’ve wondered ever since – what exactly about that moment could he do all day? What gave him the kind of contented, comfortable feeling that would make you want to stay in that moment all day?

Maybe he loves the exploration – trying to find the right angle, the right spot, the delicacy of stroking tiny ridges and curves of the most sensitive flesh, looking for the ones that quicken my breathing, that draw my wetness.

Maybe it’s watching my face, when my eyes close, when I start to soften, when I start to tense, when I have to breathe heavily with mouth open, when I lick my lips and turn my head to nuzzle against his beard and seek out his lips.

Maybe it’s what he senses through his fingers, how wet he makes me, how the soft flesh closes around him, how the point hardens and swells, and what these things tell him about how I feel and what his touch does to me.

Maybe it’s listening to my breath, to the rhythm he creates, the catch and gasp as his fingers move to different spots, dip inside to thrust and pull out the moisture, then return to circling, probing, seeking again. Maybe it’s a longing to hear that most tell-tale of signs, the rapid increase and heightening pitch of whimpers that mean he is going to achieve what he set out to accomplish.

I could do this all day.

I loved hearing him say it. I love knowing it. But I didn’t know the right thing to say in return, so I said what was probably the wrong thing: That’s good, because sometimes it takes all day.

He didn’t get what he was seeking that day, not on his own. My fingers joined his, mine above and his inside, and we brought it out together, the rise of breath, the swelling, the tightening, my hips rising as the heat spreads and I open and break and cry out and finish. Still wonderful release, together.

*Note, this was originally posted on my Tumblr on Saturday, 14 January 2012.

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Sweet Little Fantasies

October 24, 2011 at 10:03 am (Sex) (, , , , , )

Perhaps it’s due to the change of the seasons and the onset of cooler weather, when I start feeling more domestic. The nesting instinct kicking in. Trying to settle the chaos in the house down to a dull roar and fewer piles, wearing more layers, deliberating when to turn on the heat. My erotic imagination turns to more tranquil scenes, sweeter intimacies.

A few days ago I woke up with the specific longing to spend the day in kneesocks and a cardigan, alternating between reading and fucking. This is rooted in an experience from over ten years ago, when the boyfriend of the time took me home with him for the weekend to his cozy little house in a small Ohio town. He undressed me upon arrival, and I never bothered to re-dress until it was time to leave. He was working, I was reading, curled up on the sofa or across from him at the table, and periodically he would reach for me. He liked the way the sweater covered my breasts but let the curve of my ass peek out, and he liked having only that simple piece of clothing to remove when he wanted more. I enjoyed keeping him company in this way, free to do what I wished with no responsibilities over my head, just the assumption of willingness to open my legs to him when he wanted. And he wanted often, burrowing into me in a nest of quilts spread on the living room floor, or guiding me to my knees as he leaned back in his chair. There was no question of denying that wanting when it arose, and it was a luscious weekend of comfortable silence and warm, friendly desire.

A hot shower also triggered another fantasy, also based in reality, of being bathed and pampered. I imagine a large, deep tub full of bubbles, and being scrubbed all over with a rough cloth until I am red from heat and friction. I would be rinsed, wrapped in towels and patted dry, then stroked all over again with lotion until soft and sweet. Taken to bed, I would be heated through with desire as this imaginary lover focused first on my breasts, sucking and biting my nipples, licking and caressing them like the objects of his deepest lusts. Fingers would then find my center and the hot, throbbing point, followed by lips and tongue, followed by hard cock and our bodies pressed together, and the enveloping heat of orgasm.

Such sweet, simple fantasies, yet so unlikely to ever be experienced. It interests me that in both, I’m rather objectified – an adored and desired thing, but one that serves a purpose of pleasure above all else. Cared for and caressed, but with no expectations or burdens. This speaks to a deeper, more difficult desire to escape a little from the daily weight of obligations and responsibilities, a longing to be a receiver rather than a caregiver. A need much harder to fill. But perhaps one that really needs to be heard.

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This is how to do it.

July 4, 2011 at 2:57 pm (Real Life, Sex) (, , , )

Cuff me, hands together, over my head.

Put all your focus on my breasts. Stroking and squeezing, teasing lightly around my nipples. Then pinching, twisting, fierce and hungry sucking.  Caress them as my gift to you; abuse them as worthless things.

Kiss me after a while, and I’ll keep stretching up to you for more, wanting to drink from you, wanting to take you in through your lips and tongue.

All the while my hips are grinding, thighs clenched together, trying to generate just a little pressure, just a bit, to relieve that throbbing point.

Until finally, you reach down, slide your fingers in, soaked with wetness, and stroke just right, just so, and it takes me over and claims me, hips arching up, up, reaching for it, then expanding, contracting, flowing heat finish.

I knew we would figure this out eventually.

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The go-to image.

June 28, 2011 at 6:08 pm (Sex) (, , , )

You know… those moments from past sexual encounters that stand out in your memory, the ones you can return to in fantasy over and over and never tire of, the ones you can pull out of your pocket when an orgasm needs some extra encouragement to deliver. Those go-to images that are tucked away, always ready.

They might not have been with anyone special; or they could have been with someone you passionately loved. The entire experience may not have been memorable, but there was this one thing, this one moment, that has always remained. A single image of something unbelievably sexy.

These are what I like to write about, but some are just too brief to stand on their own. But they’re gorgeous to me, and I want to share them somehow.

Like the man I was curled up beside, during an interlude, and I noticed a small bead of pre-come on the tip of his cock; I wiped it up with the edge of my thumb, then brought it to my lips and licked it off… how he made an approving sound and told me it was the sexiest thing I had ever done.

Or when I was bent over the side of my bed, pressed face-down into the mattress, being fucked roughly from behind by a man who was willing to do, without questioning, whatever I asked him to do.

Or the conversation that slowly turned to play, when I pressed him between my breasts and he came so quickly, and was so surprised that I wanted nothing in return, that I was happy to have pleased him.

Or when I lay with my head over the side of the bed, better to nuzzle his balls and lick him from base to tip, while he fondled my breasts and twisted my nipples just enough to make me whimper against his thighs.

Or when he finished, and slipped out of me, and slid his tongue gently between my lips and over my clit, as if in thanks.

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