Grafting

My husband and I are that couple.

You know, the ones always lingering near each other, with their hands reaching, their arms around each other, the ones who stop and kiss on the sidewalk for no apparent reason.

Often, when a suggestion is made that involves one of us not being with the other for any extended period of time (like an entire night), we panic, get depressed, then make a solution to fix it. "You go with me," he says, or "We go together."

He was wrapping his arms around me last night and he said that. "We go together."

"Do we?" I asked. "Do we 'go' together, or did we 'grow' together? You know, like the tree that ate the bicycle."

A visual aid for my readers. I know, I'm awesome.

"Maybe a little of both," he said.

"But that's not quite right, is it?" I asked thoughtfully. "Because that's a growing thing that carried a static thing along with it. We're both growing things."

"Mmhmm. Like two trees that fall into each other?" he said, trying not to fall asleep.

I thought about it for a moment, thought over our history, and then it came to me.

I'm a gardener. I would pore over the plant and seed catalogs all winter, dreaming of sunshine and dirt under my fingernails. One thing that I learned was that many fruit trees are not all the same plant. One plant is bred for its roots, and one for its fruit. The fruit of the root plant won't be as nice as the fruit of the fruit plant, and it's likely the roots of the fruit plant wouldn't be as strong or hardy as the roots of the root plant.

The root tree has the top of the fruit tree grafted onto it, and they grow into each other until, if it's done correctly, you'll never know it was two different plants. The original shoots of the root plant are then cut off, and the roots provide nutrients to the top of the new tree, which will be planted in its final destination or shipped off to a nursery.


If you're interested in learning more about the process:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grafting

Before my husband and I were a couple, he was drifting. Aimless, anchorless, like a hot air balloon with no pilot. Nice guy, but he wasn't really headed anywhere. Admittedly, he was quite young.

Before we were a couple, I was casting about for something as well. I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen in my life, I was lonely and didn't see the point in working or being alive. I, too, was quite young.

We came together, and suddenly we were both motivated and things started happening in our lives. From our union came joy, and from that came the confidence to do wonderful things.

I'm the roots - I spread out beneath the surface and nourish us.

He's the flowers and the fruit. He is magnificent - a rock star - brilliant. He shines and has a confidence that has really taken him places - even if a great deal of the time he's just "faking it."

Because we grew together.

Without me, he'd shrivel up and die, and without him, I'd have nothing to live for.

We still have separate facebook profiles, though. Tsk, people.

Masochist, part 2

First part is here.

"Poor, complex girl," he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing my cheek. "Good thing for you I know how to be gentle," he murmured as his hand wandered between my legs.

He does know how. His touch was soft and so so light. I purred softly as he stroked my clit with the slightest of pressure from his fingertip. . . but then his finger stopped moving, just resting against my clitoris.

He was asleep.

I groaned, moving my hips slightly against his fingertip, but it wasn't the same. I sighed loudly and turned onto my side, feeling the frustration that had already been inside me start to bubble over dangerously.

My movement woke him. "I wish I could be as good to you as you are to me," he said softly, his hand on my hip.

"You could be," I answered, a bit snappishly. "I'm not difficult. I just require you to be present." By "present," of course, I mean there with me and not drifting off elsewhere to sleep or think about Doctor Who, rather than just his physical presence. I'm right there stumped by many of Doctor Who's mysteries along with him, but I'm not thinking about it during sex.

He pulled me back toward him, his fingers finding my clit again.

"No," I whispered. "You're bored. That's not sexy. Boredom is not sexy. I'd rather not."

"That's not boredom, silly girl. That's orgasm putting me to sleep. Brain chemicals. Not boredom." And he rose to the challenge, his fingertip gliding delicately across my clit as he held me down, his leg keeping my legs open.

He was persistent, but I was having a really hard time breaking the orgasm barrier. Until he started talking. He talked about the sex we'd just had, about his cock hurting me, and then he was telling me to come for him.

"I can't," I whispered. I wasn't there.

He didn't care though, he just kept talking, and what seemed like an eternity later, I was vibrating, screaming with my arm clutching his head. But he didn't stop.

"Oooh, girl's gonna come again. Gooood fuck hole," he whispered, my world hinging on the motions of his fingertip. I flew away. The second orgasm overshadowed the first by miles.

"Oh my GOD," I screamed as I came, my body arching up and vibrating helplessly.

Still, he didn't stop. The third orgasm was heaven itself unleashed upon my brain. Screams poured from me and my fingers clutched at him, at nothing, at the bed, at whatever they could grab. I broke out into a fine sweat and I was so, so sensitive that every few seconds another orgasm was crashing over me, each one just as good as the third.

"Look at you, fuck toy," he whispered.

"I can't, I can't, I can't come anymore," I panted, just getting over another one.

"Don't give me that!" he growled. "Come for me!" he said, and I did, because his finger just kept touching me in that magic, delicate way that makes me crazy.

"Oh God, Oh, fuck, oh my GOD oh fuck," I kept panting, helpless, tossing my head, trying everything just for another breath of air.

I could feel his cock, hard against me again.

"I have this hard cock here," he said, his finger still creating waves of sensation and setting fire to my brain. "I could stick it in you, but it might hurt you. You want that? You want me to hurt you with my cock again?"

Oh my God. He really just asked me that, while my insides still burned and ached. And I did. I wanted him to fuck me again.

"Fuck, yes," I panted. "Hurt me with your cock, hurt me with your cock. Hurt me with your cock."

He managed to push me over onto my side and slide his cock inside me without taking his finger off my clit - or if he did, I didn't notice it. The burning pain I felt as he entered me was dampened by the intense joy I felt of having him inside me again so soon - and then the pain was GONE. My top leg was over his hip, and his finger just kept delivering the goodness, and he was huge and hard inside me and I screamed with the joy of it - and then he made me come again, pressing his cock as deeply as possible into me. I felt him hot and hard inside me as I spasmed, and I screamed even louder.

"So fucking good," I gasped, disbelief warring with the extreme pleasure I was feeling.

The floodgates on my own verbosity had lifted and I screamed and talked just as dirty as I could have ever asked him to. "So so good to come all over your fucking cock," I gasped out after he held me down through another orgasm.

My brain exploded somewhere around here - I'm not entirely sure what happened. But it was amazing and splendorous and the entire night made me remember why I adore this man so very much.

I do remember, after he had pulled me into his arms, that I whispered in a joking rebuke: "You didn't hurt me with your cock at all."

"I noticed," he responded, somewhat smugly.

He has a right to be smug.

Masochist, part 1

Oh, I wanted him. He'd made me want him and I was already in deficit mode so it really wouldn't have taken as much effort as he'd given it to make me beg. Then he was on top of me and his cock entered me - just a little at first, as I shrieked. Not even halfway in and it was already too big.

It was hurting. His cock was too big - either it had grown during our days without vaginal sex or my vagina had shrunk. At first it was a pleasant, stretchy sort of pain, but as he continued fucking me for what seemed like forever, it became the dull throbbing pain of being punched internally over and over. My insides felt swollen and he kept fucking.

"It's too big," I kept saying as I cried out. "It hurts," I would beg.

"Is my cock too big for you? Does it hurt you when I fuck you? Like this?" he would ask, driving his hips down, his cock forcing all of itself inside of me, making me scream.

There's a little problem with being a masochist.

If my husband is hurting me to gain his own pleasure, I like it.

Even when I don't like it. Even when it's actual pain, I like it. I like it because it's for him, because he's enjoying himself, because I "don't have a choice." I revel in the pain while he is causing it. Afterward, though, I feel broken, achy, unhappy.

I was begging, close to sobbing, before he stopped. "Too big, too big, too big," I groaned, wriggling my hips, trying to roll to my side. He finally relented, rolled off me, stroked my body while I panted for air. My pussy throbbed and felt bruised.

"Had enough of a break yet?" he asked while I gasped for air. "Ready for me to fuck you again?"

I was speechless. I was not ready for such a thing. Under normal circumstances I would have begged to suck his cock, but with the incredible mass of blisters on my lip we couldn't even kiss, much less put his cock near those horrible things. Not that I could open my mouth that far anyway.

He interrupted my train of thought: "Of course you are! Turn over." His hand pushed me over onto my side, and his cock nudged at my opening. He penetrated me and I squealed and pulled away.

"Oh, does that hurt? Do you think I care? Give it here, I want to fuck it," he growled.

I obeyed, and the entire exchange burned itself into my memory. My favorite part. The part I would replay over and over in my head, as I held still while he invaded my bruised insides, as I squealed while he delivered pain with his enormous cock.

I couldn't handle it docilely for long. I was trying to pull away, but his hands kept our midsections locked together, even as I tried to escape. "Where do you think you're going, girl? I'm fucking you here."

I have a safeword.

I didn't want it. The pain was consuming me, but his dominance was like a drug. I would endure anything for him. Give it here, I want to fuck it, he growled in my memory.

"Good fuck hole," he growled in my ear, and I shuddered. "I'm gonna come inside you. You want that?"

"I... I don't know," I answered honestly. Sometimes it burns terribly, and I was afraid this would be one of those times since I was already suffering quite a lot down there.

"I guess you'll let your master decide then, huh?" he asked, and I heard the soft groans of his orgasm. "There you go," he said, slowly pumping his spent cock inside me.

I buried my face in the bed, and there were tears. I was still terribly turned on but didn't see how anything could come of the mass of pain between my legs. The tears were more in frustration than anything. He was dismayed by the tears. "Why didn't you safeword?" he asked.

"That's the problem. I didn't want to."

"Poor, complex girl," he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing my cheek. "Good thing for you I know how to be gentle," he murmured as his hand wandered between my legs.

To be continued. . .

Misery

I am so ready to be over it.

I have some stress problems. An extended period of in-laws in our tiny apartment with us have exacerbated them to an almost unbearable level. I have a cold sore cluster on my lip so enormous that I look like a plague victim and am afraid to go out in public.

Now they're finally, finally gone. Finally. But the cold sores will stay a while, hurting and making me miserable for even longer, a legacy from their visit.

Within minutes of them walking out the door, I fired up my netbook and told my husband I was going to start a new blog - on misery.

Instead, he dragged me into the bedroom and had his way with me - thoroughly. It had been over a week since we'd had sex of ANY kind, and even then it was a blow job, so my vaginal walls had tightened to the point that his erect cock felt almost unbearably enormous.

"Too big," I complained, squirming as if to get away as he penetrated me from behind, spooning me.

"I don't care how fucking big it feels to you," he growled, clutching me tighter, his leg over mine forcing me tighter against him, forcing another millimeter of his cock deeper into me, making me scream with the nearly unbearable pleasure of being stretched anew for him.

I lay panting in his arms afterwards as he stroked me gently. I'd forgotten how amazing sex could be, forgotten the magic his fingers cause when they touch my bare skin. My mind was blown. I wanted to stay there with him for the rest of the day. We dozed.

"I think we needed this," he murmured as we shook ourselves awake to tend to the needs of our child who'd been left to his own devices for maybe a smidgen too long.

I laughed.

If only the fact of my need wasn't written so clearly in ugly, painful blisters that cover my upper lip from my nose down. . .

Here's to happiness!

It's the little things

"My child's a food hole and my husband's a key hole," I vented to a friend recently. She knows a little bit about our dynamic but not all of it. I stopped short of saying "...and I'm a fuck hole."

No need. She filled in for me. "Isn't being a hole kind of your job?"

Friends. When they're good, they're really really good, and when they are bad they are horrid.

Vulnerable

He's pulled me close to him and my face is buried against his chest. His fingers encircle my wrist, pull my arm up over my head, and with his other hand he touches the areas left exposed by this position - my sensitive armpit, the inner part of my upper arm. I gasp with pleasure, every breath I take a shuddery one as he traces tingles into my flesh.

"So sensitive," he whispers as he touches me, as his fingers glide gently over these areas that rarely get touched.

"So delicate. So vulnerable," he says, making my breath catch.

He hears my breath catch, draws the moment out as he draws his fingers down my skin. "There's a part of me," he says, his voice even lower, close to a growl, "that wants to beat you here."

I gasp. I don't think he's ever said something so inherently sadistic. I feel my entire body sort of melt against him.

"Now why would I want a thing like that?" he asks. His fingers are still stroking me, skimming over my armpit. "When I can just stroke you gently here and make you shiver?"

"Because you're a sadist," I whisper, and even my whisper trembles.

"Hmm, I suppose I am," he says. "You know I'm not just doing this to make you feel good, right?" he says as his touch elicits a sigh of pleasure from me. "Why do you think I'm doing this?"

"You can do anything you want," I answer.

"Mmm... I believe that's the answer I was looking for. Because I fucking can," he says, and draws his hand back slightly. I brace for the impact but it doesn't come, and he resumes stroking me. "You afraid of me, girl?" he asks.

"No sir," I whisper. There's fear of what it might feel like, when he succumbs to his desire. But not fear of him.

"Maybe you should be," he says. He's still stroking my delicate skin. "This is to show you who's in control here. Who's in control here, my girl?"

"You are," I breathe out. I am so wet that as I shiver against him, I feel the moisture between my legs.

"Good girl," he says. "I'm going to beat you here, you know." His fingers leave goosebumps behind. It's impossible to imagine the slender, loving fingers that are making me feel so good dealing out the kind of pain he's talking about. He strokes until he finds the most sensitive part of my arm, the place that really makes me tremble. "Right here," he says, stroking that spot, so I know. "I'm going to beat you. Right. Here."

He draws his hand back and slaps my most sensitive spot, just above my armpit. I squeal - it stings unbelievably. It hurts so much. I jerk, but he's got my wrist. I'm trapped there, open, vulnerable, helpless. His slave. At the end of my squeal, I kiss his chest - an unexpected, unplanned reaction to the pain. He slaps me, I kiss him.

He slaps me again, higher, on the inner part of my upper arm. That hurts even more. I writhe against him, pull at my wrist, but he keeps it in place. I scream as low as I can manage, and again, my lips kiss him. Gratitude for his gift.

"This is all well and good, this touching you and beating you, but I think I'm missing something. Do you know what that could be?" I can feel his cock, hard and insistent against the hand that he doesn't have trapped.

"No sir," I murmur.

He leans down and kisses me, his lips soft and tender, my head having to lean way back to meet his lips. It's erotic. He slaps my breast while we're kissing, right on the nipple. I yelp against his lips, and find the entire thing even more erotic. I am so ready for fucking. He slaps my inner arm again and it feels like someone set off fireworks in it. Oh, it hurts. I kiss down his chest to his cock.

"Oh, that's right," he says as I lick the head of his cock. "I can touch you," and he takes his cock in his hand and rubs it over my lips. "I can beat you," and he uses his cock to slap my face, twice. "And I can fuck you," he finishes, shoving his cock between my lips.

His other hand still holds my wrist captive, and as he fucks into my face, he slaps my armpit again. "Keep sucking that cock, girl," he says, and slaps my arm and my armpit until it all feels raw and open. I am squealing with pain, but I keep sucking. "Good girl," he says, "good girl. You keep sucking."

His fingers stroke my flesh delicately and even that gentle touch makes me whimper. "Oh, does it hurt, girl?" he says. I manage to make a positive noise. He slaps my breast now instead, still fucking into my face. "Just keep sucking, girl."

I do, oh, I do. My armpit and upper arm are on fire, my breast feels stung, but I suck as if my life depended on it, even when I am struggling for breath to deal with the pain.

He rolls on top of me, his knees on either side of my head, my hand still up above my head. I can see the tiny broken blood vessels and bruises on my upper arm. My head swims with pain and desire. I am so wet.

"Your pussy might like to be fucked," he says, sliding his cock back into my mouth. I suck for all I am worth. My legs spread themselves wide, but I keep sucking his cock. It's hard to give up fucking in one place - a reality - for the idea of fucking in another. My pussy wants him, but my mouth doesn't want to give him up. He fucks my face, and my free arm wraps around him, pulling him into me. He hasn't hit me in a while, but my armpit still burns.

He pulls his cock out, rubs it against my face, moves up so I can suck his balls. He's looking down at me. "Good fuck hole," he murmurs as my mouth gently wraps around and sucks his balls. He moves again, to slide his cock back down into my face. His hand is on the back of my head, holding me up even higher than I can on my own to allow for greater penetration. "Your pussy gets wet for a reason, you know," he whispers down at me. I am grunting, growling, moaning around his cock. It's so huge and hard and it feels amazing right now, fucking my face. My pussy is spread and wanting, but my mouth doesn't care.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck ohfuckohfuck," he says, and he is coming into my face, spurts sliding easily down my throat. I swallow it all.

I keep sucking and licking. His cock stays impossibly hard for a long time, and I lick, suck, and stroke it the entire time. He acts as though he wants to move. "I'll stop any time you want me to," I remind him, my voice husky from the use my throat has just received.

"It's hard," he says.

"No it's not," I laugh, because by now it has softened a little.

He rolls over next to me. "You broke me," I whisper, speaking of the broken blood vessels in my arm.

He looks at it, sees the red splotches and the bruises. "Is that all it takes to break you now?"

I thrill inside. "You're a sadist," I murmur.  His fingers slide between my folds, and at his first touch, somewhere between my opening and my clit, I moan, a deep, pleased moan. His fingers slide around a little, and I keep groaning. I am so so sensitive, all the places he touches me feel incredible.

"Is that pain?" he asks, as I keep moaning.

"No sir," I answer.

"Good girl. Such a little slut," he says.

"Nuh-uh, I'm yours."

"You are a slut. Did you see yourself with my cock?"

"I'm yours," I groan. His fingers make it hard to have this conversation.

"Mmm, so you're not a slut, you're my own personal fuck hole?" he asks.

"ohhh yes sir," and now his words are thrilling me as much as his fingertips. I roll my hips into his touch, and I groan.

"Just for me to fuck wherever I like," he continues in my ear. "Anytime, any way, any how."

He makes me come, and again, and again. I am helpless, and sweaty, and his. He's amazing.

He holds me close and whispers, "You're amazing. How did I get so lucky?"

I'm amazing, he says.

We're both pretty fucking lucky.

Anger & Love: Q&A

From Elisa, whose blog is private right now for some reason I'm not aware of since I've been out of it for a while: My question is this - can you define in the worst of times, why you love your husband? Or: When you are the most angry, what keeps you anchored in your love for him?

My husband is kind of a miracle of a person. We do have some "worst of times," but they're usually completely external to us. Like, the both of us in a craptastic situation, not either of our faults but that we must get through together. So, during those times, it's easy enough to say why I love him - he's my lifeboat. A sort of oasis of calm while I freak out. He doesn't really have lows or highs. He's a generally happy person who just sort of stays even... so when I am miserable, he can hold me and some of his calm imparts itself to me. He loves me, and I can feel that, and so that's what makes me love him. I know that's a little difficult to understand as it's a recursive loop, but love is not programming.

As far as anger... I don't really ever get truly angry at him. Sometimes there's a bit of exasperation on my part with some trait of his that makes no sense to me (bad, bad sense of direction, horrible memory). His parents (mostly his dad) have been the source of much anger and frustration for both of us, but my mom has occasionally been the source of some of that as well. 

I sometimes get intensely sad in my husband's general direction. He tries so hard, but sometimes the very trying triggers the sadness. Just that I'm something he has to expend so much effort toward can upset me. 

Right now, I'm in one of the lower places. When I'm up a bit higher all I can see is the miracle of him, but sometimes I do feel a bit unnecessary and like I'm just in his way. So, from this vantage point beneath the clouds, I can say what keeps me anchored in my love for him is how we are together and how he tries to maintain that regardless of the situation.

We don't go to bed alone. 

If I say "Good night, husband," when we're in bed together, and he's not wrapped around me, he says "Don't 'good night, husband,' me. You're not in a proper snuggling position."

He always comes and kisses me goodbye before work.

He always lets me know where he is.

He works so hard to provide for us. That's a thing I keep reminding myself, too. That the work that sometimes seems to consume him is for all of us. 

Sometimes I just want him though, and wouldn't mind being poor again for all the extra time with him.

Hope that answer was helpful. Thank you for the amazing question, Elisa.

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It's still March! Any more questions?