Q&A: Other girls

My last post spurred a question from Kitty over at The Submissive Wife:

But, I would like to hear more about this other girls business... not so much the him bringing it up, but the your reaction... If you are interested in sharing.

My reaction: Well, it's never going to happen, and I know that on the deepest level, but he says these things once in a while to see/hear/feel my reaction. My surface feelings are the ones that respond, not the ones underneath that know he is mine and I am his. It usually gets a shudder, a moan, and a promise from me to do anything, but he already has that. I think he just likes to hear it, likes to know that I crave not only his attention, but his undivided attention.

If he disagrees, he's welcome to chime in. (Hi, love!)

It's a hot idea to be teased with. It's definitely something my brain catches on when he does it, like a thread being snagged by a ragged bit of metal. Sometimes it puts a hot image in my mind that turns me on more and makes me move differently, more urgently. He's suggested before when I had a cold sore that maybe he should find another girl who would be able to suck his cock for him, and it's humiliating in that context, deliciously so.

We've talked about it, and neither of us are interested in messing with our dynamic by complicating it with a third person, but he feels perfectly at ease tossing the idea into a scene to watch me squirm over it. So much of what goes on between us is the heat of words, and this just gives him another weapon in his arsenal of buttons to press.

Taking

Practicing knots and ties, my husband bound my hands in front of me before bed.

He slipped into bed behind me, positioning himself to press his freezing feet on my warm inner thighs.

"Ooof, those are like ice," I said, squeezing my legs around them. 

"Mmhmm, just the way you like them," he responded.

"I don't know about that.. I just like you to take things from me."

"Is that so? What kinds of things?"

Fleeting glimpses

Memory's a bit haywire, but I had to try.

He started with a long session of floggers, capped off by the wooden spoon. I remember kicking, screaming, biting my pillow. Five strokes only with that horrible thing, but I could barely bear it.

"You took that really well, poor girl," he told me, stroking my burning ass.

Stroking, sucking, twisting, hurting my nipples.

"I'm gonna make you suck my cock. Because I can. Because that's what you're for. Isn't that right?"

On top of me, forcing his cock into my mouth.

He rolled off, got the ramp, leaned back on it. "Get back to sucking," he ordered firmly.

He watched. I sucked his cock for a time, until he pulled it away. In response to my bereft whimpers he said "You can suck my balls though," and so I did, my position affording me an amazing view of his body, from his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, all the way up. When he pulled those away from me as well, I sank even lower and let my tongue lick one long lick from his anus, over his balls, all the way up his cock and back down, then starting the whole thing over.

He made very pleased noises indicating he liked what he saw, what he felt. I did it again, and again, and again, finally ending the upstroke by taking his cock all the way in my mouth and as far down as I could. Back to his ass, back over his balls, a hungry moan and devouring his cock, sucking hard for a moment, then back again to repeat the entire process, over and over and over and over, for a long, long time. I was enjoying myself immensely and he was too - but a few times he asked me to stop.

"Do you want me to stop?" I asked raggedly, my voice unsteady with desire.

"Well, not really, but there's your poor tongue to worry about."

"Mmmmmm, my tongue's fine," I responded, proving it by continuing what I'd been doing.

He let me go on and on even longer, until finally, he patted the bed next to him. "Come on up here, let me fuck your pussy."

On my back, him atop me, holding my legs up and open for him, rocking into him as he slowly fucked me and talked to me, burning me with the heat of his words. My legs began to tremble and I slowly put them down.

"Are you worn out?" he asked me, pushing just the head of his cock into me over and over, waiting for a response.

"Mmmm, nuh-uh."

"Good. My cock's not done with you yet," he said, then told me to turn over. Then, kneeling behind me with his legs outside mine and his hands on my ass and lower back for leverage, caging me in as he slid his way inside my dripping pussy.

"My good little fuckhole," he whispered, and this stood out among the many many things he said, "my fuckholeS," as he worked a lubed finger into my ass, still thrusting his cock inside me.

"Oh my God, oh my GOD," I kept screaming into the pillow, as he urged me to take it, as his voice kept pouring over my ears, and his cock and his fingers moved inside of me, all my senses completely absorbed with him.

Then being rolled onto my side, his fingers lubing my ass, his cock forcing its way in, screaming, pounding the bed at the intrusion, trying to struggle away. His hand on my hip held me steady, his other hand fisted in my hair. "Go on, let me hear it, say it," he said.

"Oh God," I panted, still struggling, my body still trying to get away, "oh, oh, fuck me, oh God," as I slapped the bed in a vain attempt to release the incredible amount of pressure being exerted on my rear.

Eventually I adapted and the intensity became bearable, delicious, wonderful.

He came, pulled me closer, his fingers finding my pussy again and bringing me an orgasm, or possibly two... I melted bonelessly into his arms, words of praise and thanks spilling from me, until we slept.

Glorious.

Endless orgasms

It was chilly Monday night. I went to bed first, curled under the blankets, reading my book, gathering warmth against the chill of the night. He crawled into bed behind me and his foot brushed against my leg. Instinctively I curled away from him, a little surprised yelp escaping me. "Damn, those are cold feet!" I exclaimed.

"Is that a problem?" he asked softly, his tone curling fingers of heat in the pit of my stomach. "Warm them for me," he commanded.

Heat flooded my entire body as I opened my legs to let his frozen feet warm themselves between my thighs. "Oooh, that feels good," he said in his sexy, soft, powerful tone. "Good girl."

Seriously, just this sent so much heat through me that my eyes closed and I couldn't think or focus on my book. I pretended to, but I'm not sure he bought it. He read too for just a few minutes, his cold feet firmly pressed between my warm thighs, moving to warmer spots as he used up all the warmth.

"Good girl," he said again as he removed his warmed feet from me, stroking his hand down my side. "Thank you for warming my feet." He pushed up my night shirt and started kissing my side.

"Can I help you?" I asked him, still pretending to focus on my book. I hadn't flipped a page since he started touching me.

"I love you!" he said.

"Mmm, I love you too," I responded, putting my Nook away, turning over and curling into his arms. I wriggled out of my night shirt to better feel his skin as he wrapped his arms around me.

I thought perhaps we'd just cuddle like that and fall asleep, but he started stroking me gently, from my shoulder to my thigh and back up again, over and over. His fingers eventually found my breast and he started lightly stroking over it too, gently rolling the nipple, whispering words of love to me. Soft sounds of pleasure came from me, and I was just starting to think "Mmm, vanilla really isn't bad at all," when he drew his hand back and slapped my breast hard. I inhaled sharply.

"Weren't expecting that, were you?" he asked as he did it again. "Mine," he said firmly, slapping my breast once more and then tugging on my nipple, eliciting a different kind of gasp from me.

His hand moved down, nudging my thighs apart and finding me soaked. He slipped some fingers inside me, pressed against my g-spot, which felt incredible and made me arch against him. He kept alternating pressing against my g-spot with rubbing my clit, and I just clung to him and panted.

He brought me to orgasm, then again, and again, as the spasms overtook me in the curve of his arm. I was practically screaming, and he kept saying things about enjoying watching me squirm for him, make noises for him, that he'd stop when he was ready and I wasn't going to get away from him, whenever I tried to pull away a little, to recover from the intensity.

I lost count of the orgasms, but one made my leg vibrate next to his, and he pulled me even closer. "Oh yeah. I like my vibrating sex toy," he whispered directly into my ear as I shook and cried out in his arms.

Brain on fire. Nothing else registered except waves and waves of pleasure.

When he finally let me go, I provided him his own release with my mouth.

It's such a shame I can't give him endless orgasms.

Slow, sensual Sunday

Sunday was something really special, in the all-day sense of special.

We woke up, as always, in love. His arms were wrapped around me and we were stroking each other for some time. I felt his erection pressing against me, and I wanted it. He let me suck him off, but we didn't have long to linger, as we could hear our little one playing in the next room.

Afterward, he drew me up and held me against his chest, gently stroking my hair, my arms, my back. I could feel all the love and reverence he feels for me in his touch.

"I'm really turned on right now," I told him.

"I know you are," he responded, squeezing me close. "I know what turns you on," he paused for a time, here, "and that was one of the things."

But alas, we had things to do and places to be. We got up, had a family breakfast of tofu scramble and homemade hash browns. Every time we passed each other he touched me gently. His hand stroked my leg under the table while we ate.

We had somewhere to be - a fun event. He went to shave and I followed him. "What are you doing?" he turned to ask me, smiling.

"Following you like a puppy," I responded as his arms enfolded me in a warm hug, his hand coming up to stroke my hair and press my head against his chest. "Love you so much," I whispered into his shirt.

"Mmmm, love you too," he said, tugging slightly on my hair, "but I was coming to shave."

"You can shave!" I told him. I wasn't there to bother him. He proceeded to the vanity right outside the bathroom and I followed him there, sinking to my knees and kneeling behind him, running my hands over his legs. He finished shaving and turned around, stroking my head as I wrapped my arms around him and gazed up at him. It felt so good, so right, there, just to be like that.

Little boy came along and wanted to join in the hug; on my knees, I'm about his height. Spell momentarily broken, but that's okay, just replaced by a giggling family hug. Fluid.

His hand on my thigh for nearly an hour, in total, while I drove us there and back. The event itself was fun, but heavily crowded and so we spent most of the time apart. In a crowd, it's far easier to move if you're not attached to anyone.

A takeout lunch at home - his hand on my leg under the table again. I didn't even know if he was conscious of just how much he was touching me this day. Our little one played and we went to read in bed, snuggled up together. After a while I ditched my Nook and just enjoying being there, my head on his chest, while he continued reading on his phone, his free hand stroking my hair. I was very near to falling asleep like that.

Each time he touched me I felt adored. His love poured into my skin from his fingertips.

Dinner. Sundays zoom by so quickly, don't they?

I went in to the bedroom quite early, to make a new flogger. I'm limiting myself to one a week. After he got the little one settled, he came to join me. When we finally curled into the bed together, he cupped my face and kissed me, a long, slow kiss that spoke of devotion and reverence and adoration. His other hand roamed my skin with that same gentleness, and then he spoke. "I'm thinking I might be too tired to make love to you tonight," he said.

I nuzzled close to him. "You already are making love to me," I told him. He had been making love to me all day.

We kept touching each other, slow lazy loving strokes that set my nerve endings to tingling. His cock sprang to life. I gently stroked it, too. "Are you too tired for a blow job?" I asked him.

"Mmm, no... I think I might like that."

I turned around to kneel next to his head and I took his cock into my mouth. Deeper, deeper, into my throat. I love giving head when he's tired because I don't gag nearly as quickly if he doesn't move. His hands kept loving on me as I sucked. Each time I drew back for a long, shuddering, shaky breath I got more turned on. Taking him so deeply makes my eyes and nose run though, after a time, no matter what I do. I had the best intentions of keeping on like that until he came, but my nose had other ideas. I hadn't considered that him not moving so much also increases his ability to hold out.

I curled next to him after blowing my nose, and he slid his cock inside me from behind. "I guess it's not just the holes in my head that leak when I do that," I commented.

Slowly, half-asleep already, he took his pleasure with me. Which was all I'd wanted, to give him pleasure.

Afterward, before he fell asleep, I asked if he had enough energy to plug my ass, and if he minded if I played with myself.

He didn't mind, on either count.

So he worked the plug into my ass, pressing it all the way in while I whimpered, whispering into my ear for me to take it. He pressed against it even after it was in, for good measure, and then he let his hands roam tiredly over my body while I gave myself two orgasms with the Pure Wand, which was quite intense with the plug already in.

Finally as exhausted as him, I snuggled into his welcoming, mostly asleep embrace.

Sometimes I wish I was a poet, that a lyrical sort of writing came as easily to me as prose does. How I do love him.

Husband knows best

My husband has been taking his MacBook Pro into the bedroom and using it there when he works from home. It's generally a no-go, but our apartment is small, so he goes in there and spends the day with his computer, in our bedroom where we have a rule about not using computers or watching TV, or doing most things that aren't focusing us on each other or sleeping. That's for the improvement of both the sex and the sleep.

It hurt me a tiny bit, honestly. Rebelliously, I started using my netbook in there too.

"Should you be doing that?" he asked me as he was getting ready for bed and I was reading a blog post, sitting on the bed.

"You do it!" I responded.

"For work. That's different," he said, furrowing his brow at me.

"It's still using a computer in our bedroom," I responded. It is! I still hold that it is.

"I see it as an entirely different situation, and I only do it during those hours," he said, slipping under the sheets next to me. He pushed on my shoulder. "Lie down."

"I don't bend that way," I protested.

"Well, lie down whatever way you do bend."

I put my computer down and did as I was told. I love doing what I'm told. I curled up on my side, facing away from him.

"You didn't have to stop what you were doing, you just needed to lie down," he informed me, as he delivered the first blow of a flogger to my back from his position behind me on his knees.

It was a nice flogger, though I'm not certain which one it was. One of the softer ones, for sure. He stopped just as it started to hurt.

"You know what that was for?" he asked me, sliding up behind me and pulling me against him.

"Nuh-uh," I responded softly.

"Can you guess?" he was amused.

"Mmmm, because you like me?"

"I DO like you," he said, kissing my neck, "but that was for using your computer here. I want your attention focused on me. You understand?" he punctuated the question with several hard, lingering swats on my backside that hurt worse than the flogger had dared to.

"I understand."

His hand stroked my from my hip to my neck, a long caress that sent tingles up and down my spine. "Would you like to suck my cock now?" he asked.

"Oh yes."

So I slid down his body, stopped near his stomach, stroked his chest, kissed his stomach. I must have lingered too long, for he fisted his hand in my hair and forced my head lower, onto his cock. I love that particular expression of intent.

I drew him inside my mouth, swirled my tongue and sucked until my neck ached from the angle, then laid on my side and pulled him onto his so I could suck for longer. "How do you think we can make this more sustainable?" he asked me as I moved on him. "You want me on top of you? You want to get on the ramp?"

I answered each question with a heavily muffled nuh-uh. On our sides with his leg tossed over my neck is plenty sustainable for me. Yum. His hands wandered, tugging my hair, pulling and pinching on my nipple. I love being there, pleasuring him. I can easily lose all track of time.

He told me to stop, pulled away a bit. "Get on top of me, now."

"But I want to suck it!"

"I know you want to suck it... you can suck it some more later, okay?" He blocked my head from bending back toward his bobbing erection, and tugged me upward. "You do what I tell you, isn't that right? C'mon, up here you go."

I got on top of him, slid down onto his hard cock, and rocked slowly, slowly. So good.

When he sensed I was tiring, we rolled over. We almost, almost rolled right off the bed. I giggled, but it was cut short by him sliding back inside of me.

I pulled my legs up, up, up, holding my feet in my hands, bending myself in half. He likes that a lot. "Mmmm, you really make me want to come in you," he said as he ground against me, "but I think I promised you you could suck cock some more." My thighs began to tremble from the effort after some minutes, and, feeling it, he whispered in my ear "Don't hurt yourself... that's my job, remember?"

When I eventually tired and let my legs fall, he said "By the way, that thing you do with your legs? That is really fucking hot." He moved inside me slowly as I panted, trying to catch my breath. "I'll give you a little break," he said.

I moved with him. Minutes ticked by. "Just let me know when you're ready to suck this cock. You know, when you're finished taking a break."

"Is that what I'm doing?" I asked breathlessly, pressing up against him with a dreamy sort of slowness.

"Mmmhmm," he said in a low, sexy growl as he ground against me in slow circles, "doesn't it feel like a break?"

"It feels lovely," I said, before I lifted my legs back up, grabbing my feet again.

"Ooooh, did you find something you like better than sucking cock?" he teased me as he thrust with renewed vigor.

"Nuh-uh," I panted.

"Mmmmmmm, you just like to make me happy, huh?"

"Mmmhmm..."

"You like to open yourself up to me, to say, 'Here's my pussy, come and fuck it, that's what it's for. You can't. fucking. miss it.' Isn't that right?" Each pause was matched to a deep, grinding thrust, and the heat of his words built my passion to a fever pitch. I could do nothing but moan my agreement and try to lift myself higher, higher, to meet his thrusts.

He spilled his orgasm into me, and slowly withdrew as I brought my legs down to rest. He turned me over, his fingers replaced his cock, and he brought the butt plug out and plugged my ass, to a chorus of my moans. "I love using you for my pleasure," he said as he slid far too many fingers inside me, "whether that's letting you suck my cock, or fucking you, or shoving things inside you. I love you so much," he whispered against my hair. I was rocking, moaning, lost in the full sensations and the feeling of him pressing into my g-spot. "That's right, girl, squirm for me... moan for me. Come for me."

It only took another minute or so for me to comply.

Honestly? I would have thought the expectation would shut me off and make orgasm unobtainable for the forseeable future.

He knew better.

Yes, dear.

Asshattery abounds

Every winter solstice, a good friend of ours has a party. It's an outdoor party, with bonfires, all different kinds of beer, hotdogs for roasting over the fires, and assorted other snacks brought by attendees. Sometimes, it rains, but the party still goes on, and we huddle ourselves around the fires with just as much cheer - only not quite so many of us.

I talk to people at this party that I don't get to see that often, and people attend who I probably wouldn't ordinarily talk to at all, but I would not, ever, miss it. That party makes my whole holiday season. We're usually the first ones there to help and the last ones to leave, just before sunrise, when we can still get ourselves home safely but only just. We don't ever get drunk, but plenty of people do.

It's not a lifestyle party, but my friend always says clothing is optional. No one's ever gotten naked yet, although we did hear some wild sex stories last time.

A man/boy has come the last two years, and he was just of legal age when he started. We know this boy from elsewhere, but don't see him that often anymore, although I see him on facebook. He has a few physical things wrong with him, and he often, often complains (read whines) that he can't get a girlfriend because of it.

I am here to tell you it's not because of that.

I'll call him Luke, because that's the kind of whining he does about girls. ("But I was going to go into Toshi station to pick up some power converters!")

At the party, Luke had had a few, and was whining to another young man, who we'll call Dave, about how he can never get a girlfriend.

Dave says: "You need to lower your standards. You only want the 10s and you could get some 5s or 6s."
Luke: "That's not true, I could go for a 5 or a 6."
Dave: "What's your definition of a 5 or a 6?" Here he named some girls they both knew, one of whom I knew, as being 5s and 6s.
Luke: "Oh, no, ewww, those are 2s."

Okay, here's my first problem. What the hell kind of conversation is this, where you debate about someone's physical characteristics as if that defines their personhood? Is this a thing guys DO? It must be. It's not something I ever experienced in my real life, I only saw shit like that on dumb TV shows.

Since he was doing it, I went ahead and took the trouble of rating Luke on my own personal scale of hotness, which is not something I tend to do.... but if y'all really wanna know, Luke's pushing it to rate a 4, even if he had all his bits. He kind of resembles Mark Hamill (as he looks now), but smaller and shorter and not saggy.

Dave reasoned it out that his and all sane people's version of "obtainable" levels of hotness were insanely low on Luke's scale, and what most people he knew would rate a 10 Luke would only pass at a 6 or so. "No wonder you can't get a date if you're calling the 10s 6s!" He said something about Luke needing to widen his dating pool, and then Luke... Luke. Gods, the boy can't have been this drunk? He didn't sound that drunk...

Luke said: "I'm a fatophobe. I can also only date white girls, because I could never date a girl that didn't have pink nipples."

The top of my head about blew off, readers. No lie. I know my mouth was hanging open in shock, and I was still processing all the previous parts of this conversation.

I am a white girl. My nipples are not pink, unless it's possible they change color just after being abused a bit. They're sort of a pale brown.

Not my nipple, but the color is about right

Like that, right? Maybe a little darker than that. One day maybe I'll take a photo. This photo, btw, came right from the bloody wikipedia "nipple" page.

So this asshat, this guy says he can only date hot slender white girls with pink nipples? What. The. Fuck. What's he going to do, get all the thin white girls who are clamoring for the coveted position of his girlfriend to line up and flash him their tits? Not bloody likely. Or, say a girl starts to like him because she's taken in by his everyday nice demeanor, asks him to go out for coffee with her. What's he gonna do? Say "show me your nipples first, biatch?" That won't earn him much but a slap across the face. If he's lucky she won't steal his leg while he's not looking.

This asshole would be lucky to ever get to see any girl's nipple, whether it be pink or brown or black or green.

Having a grocery list of physical characteristics for a mate is never going to get you very far in a relationship, even if you start out from a position of privilege-by-your-own-hotness.

My husband says that Luke'll learn, that he's young yet.

My husband and I were married by the time we were this kid's age.

If I had an inkling that my husband had ever had such a conversation? I don't know that I would ever have been comfortable with him.

There's a reason girls have body image issues, have trouble accepting themselves. Ugly little vicious assholes are living inside guys who seem to be perfectly nice in any everyday encounter.

Women are people too, asshat.

Giving my head

Brooke linked here, and I read the post right before we went to bed. I wanted that. I wanted it badly.

I didn't say anything. He'd had a rough day, so we went to bed and curled up together. He left the lights on and we talked for a while, about life, and stupid things, and something I'll get my rant on about a little later. I ranted for a while as we both laughed, said I'd make a blog post about it tomorrow, then apologized for going on.

Earlier in the evening, as my mom, our son, my husband and I watched TV, I'd pulled away from him for a moment to tend to our son. I sat back up straight, and my husband looked at me and extended his hand in my direction, cupped as if to the back of my head, and flexed his fingers. I put my head right into his hand and he massaged my scalp, tugging hard on my hair every few minutes.

"I really liked it when you made me give you my head," I told him now, in bed.

"You liked what?" he asked, perhaps not having understood what I meant.

"Earlier, when you made me give you my head? I really liked that."

"Ohhhh, you did, huh?" he pressed against me, his erection plain to feel against my hip. "I think I'd like it if you'd give me your head again."

Giggling at the clever turn of phrase, I turned eagerly to face him and slid down his body, stroking and kissing. "You're wearing all these clothes!" I gushed happily as I tugged his boxers off. I lifted his leg and moved under it, positioning myself between his thighs, gazing up at him. He pulled my pillow over to him and propped himself up so he could watch. I wrapped my arms around his thighs, letting my palms flatten on his belly, my fingers running through his pubic hair.

I licked up along his shaft, torturing the both of us, building my own desire for him. With a whimper of longing, I lifted myself up to take him inside my mouth, then slid down, burying as much as I could of him in that position. I nudged his legs to my back, and he rested his feet on my ass. I squeezed his thighs, and he took the hint and pressed them together around my head, trapping me there while he fucked up into my mouth, entering my throat as much as he could, pumping, pumping... oh, the pressure, on my head, in my throat. He pulled my hair while he thrust into me, holding my head still from that direction too.

He let me go and I pulled away to the very tip of his cock, taking a long breath through my nose, then sinking back down and squeezing his legs tight around me again, repeated it all over and over until my nose started to run, taking small breaks in between to gaze up at him, letting him see how much I was enjoying it all. He talked to me too, when I could hear him, told me what a good cocksucker I am, how wonderful I felt, what a good cockhungry little cockslut I am. "If you don't stop soon you're going to have to stop anyway, with a mouthful of cum," he finally said. I pulled away, going back to licking and kissing along the shaft, pressing my face against it and rubbing. He humped against my face, and I began to whimper again. "You want to suck it more, don't you, baby?"

"Oh yes," I purred, licking from the base to the tip, lingering there with my mouth open.

"You can suck it more," he relented, pushing into my open mouth. I moaned and resumed my previous activity. I couldn't get enough of that feeling, his legs clamped around my head, my mouth and throat full, and the power of his hips driving his cock more and more into me. I honestly never wanted it to end.

Eventually it did, though, when he told me to stop again, a long, long time later. I pulled my mouth off of him with a reluctant plop and started sucking on his balls while looking up at him, letting my hands stroke his hard cock.

"Mmm, good girl. Good girl," he said, clearly enjoying my attentions enough to repeat himself, "come on, get up here so I can fuck your pussy."

I slid under his leg and climbed up next to him, facing away from him and snuggling myself back against him.

"You want me, don't you?" he asked as he arranged his arms, one on the back of my neck and one pulling me to him tightly.

"I do," I responded as I wriggled back against him, leaning forward to open myself more.

"Let's see how much this pussy wants me," he said, pressing his cock between my wet folds and inside me, a long moan leaving me as he entered.

We moved together, slow movements that would become brief flurries of thrusting while he held me tightly, immobile in his arms. I started reaching my hand back between us to feel his cock moving in and out of me, feel my own wetness there, and I may have growled with the heat and desire between us. I eased myself off of him once, twice, three, four times, between periods of slow, delicious, languid fucking... the fourth time he asked the question I'd been hoping for: "You want that cock in your ass, don't you? Is that what you're trying to get at?"

Mmm. I would have gotten around to asking eventually, but this was so much easier. "Yes, please."

He got the lube. "Do you think your ass can take me, baby?" he asked as he lubed me and his cock. I nodded. "I guess we'll find out," he whispered, as he pressed the head of his cock against my tiny opening. It spread slowly around him, and surprisingly, there was no pain at all as he pressed inside me. Just wonderful pressure, fullness, and the stroking of sensitive nerve endings. He paused, the head of his cock lodged about halfway inside me, that moment of maximum stretch. "Tell me you want it," he whispered.

"Oh, God, I want it, I want it," I panted, trying to press back onto him.

"What do you want?" He wouldn't let me move.

"God, I want it to fuck me!"

"Ooooh. I think I can do that," he said as he pushed the rest of the way inside me, then made short little thrusts deeper. "How's that feel?"

My moan, long and loud, full of delight, served as my only response. "Oh you like that, I think," he said as he began to move with longer strokes, tugging my nipple, squeezing me, his hand wandering down to my pussy to stroke and penetrate me there with his fingers.

Do not know how long we stayed like that, slowly fucking, panting, relishing the closeness. When he came it was loudly, and I grabbed him and pulled him into me as hard as I could. He stayed inside me after and continued fucking me with his fingers, his cock sliding out of my ass as I began to hump his hand in earnest. His other hand grabbed pretty much all of my hair, and when I started bucking off the bed, my head lifting, he tightened his grip on my hair and pulled my head back toward him. "You're not going anywhere, little bitch," he whispered darkly, "you're going to stay right here and take what I give you." Every time my head tried to lift away from him, he pulled it back to him via my hair. I moaned every single time, and the feelings I experienced made my head pull away again, so it was a delicious loop of sexy.

When my orgasm washed over me, it was like someone threw a bucket of relaxation over me. I just suddenly stopped.

Beautiful.

He drew me back into his arms, glancing at the clock. "Whoa, it's late."

"That's what you get for letting me suck your cock for half an hour," I responded gleefully.

So much love.

Out of place

Sometimes I feel out of place, blogging from a place of practically no angst and from within my happy marriage, which is not a complicated relationship at all - just a joyous one.

We're on a fantastic adventure together, but the journey is not just these things we do, it's life. It's full of wonderful things that are not sex - snuggling, long talks, walks around the city holding each other's hand, road trips, watching Doctor Who, playing with and teaching our boy. I can't blog about all of that here, because the sex part is so "scandalous" I can't be identified. As if it even matters what consenting adults do in privacy. It shouldn't, but sadly that's not the world we live in right now.

I read a lot of truly amazing blogs, with deep thoughts reflecting on D/s, on relationships, sex, power, politics, consent, abuse, and love.

I feel a bit like a castoff sock sometimes, growing moldy in the corner as I relate the magnificent sex I had, yet again.

But that's why I started the blog, really. I didn't truly have any issues to sort out - though I have sorted a few minor ones, and had my own share of epiphanies. I started the blog to give me a reason to regularly write about the sex I was having. It's incredibly important to me to get the narratives out there - this is hot to someone.

I told my husband that I regularly feel intellectually dwarfed by the people whose blogs I follow. He raised his brow and said "You?" as if he found that difficult to believe.

Yeah, me.

So if I'm reading your blog, and I don't comment, it's often not because what you had to say wasn't comment-worthy. It's because what you wrote is good enough I feel any comment I could make would just be along the lines of "Hey duuhhhhhh I like it, derp," and you get enough comments already that are more thoughtful that I don't even want to waste your time.

Needy

He teased me in the morning. He snuggled close to me, stroking my body and letting me stroke his, becoming aroused himself and pressing his hardness against me, but he never asked me to suck it. I wanted to, but he never asked, and our precious minutes elapsed and were gone, and he went to work.

All day I wanted him. I could barely focus on anything else. 

Just seeing him come in the door was a major relief, even though hours would have to pass before we could be alone together.

"You need a haircut," I told him after dinner.

He sat in a chair in our kitchen while I cut his hair. I got to touch him, for nearly half an hour while I cut his hair, I got to run my fingers through it, stroke his head, and cut, and no one tried to pull him away from me. It looks pretty awesome now too, if I do say so myself.

Vanilla is the finest of the flavors

I was talking to a friend recently, and he told me that his ex had enjoyed watching Monk with him, but he wasn't sure if she really liked it or if she just liked it because he did.

I told him that it's a greater expression of love to like something because the other person does than to just like it all on your own.

When I said it, I remembered how long I've struggled with my husband's intrinsic vanilla. I longed for him to want kink for himself, on his own, independent of my desire for it. The man will do anything for me, truly, anything. Why on earth did I ever feel the need to sully that?

I like vanilla, it's the finest of the flavors.

It intensifies everything from chocolate to raspberry. I have the biggest bottle of vanilla in my cabinet, because I use it in everything.

My husband is the excellent sort of vanilla that you add to everything to make it more intense. Kinky girl + fine, pure vanilla husband = intensely hot kinky stuff.

I wanted it to be about him, because I wanted to submit to him, yes. He does get off on dominating me, even though it may be more about how much it turns me on. But what does it matter why it gets him off? It just does, and that's enough. It's more than enough, and lately it's become even better to me, because he gets off on dominating me because it excites me. I'm not a submissive woman he's chosen because he needs a kinky girl to match his own kink. He chose me for me. My submission was a part of that all along, but it wasn't a deal-breaker one way or the other. I am his submissive woman, and he knows he can have me do anything he wants. Mostly he just wants me to be happy. Why would I struggle with that? Silly, silly submissive girl. What the man really, truly wants is for you to be happy. Submit, already!

I struggled because it didn't feel like submitting, to just be happy, to enjoy him, us, the way we are together. To just offer myself to him, with no fight, no rules, to present myself for spanking, or flogging, or sex. To even take over in bed sometimes, to lavish affection all over his body with my hands and mouth, show him just how much I adore him, how much I desire him even if he doesn't lift a finger, even if he doesn't hurt me, didn't feel like submitting, but it is. I know he could change what I'm doing at any time, make me stop, tie me up, spank me, anything. That's how he's still in control.

Is that what submission looks like? That's what mine looks like, and it's good. We're blissfully happy.

Some switch in my head flipped (yeah, another switch), and I'm softer to him, more submissive, more compliant to pretty much any whim of his. You want some chocolate, love? I think I can get you some chocolate.

He wrote me this, among some other things, in a letter he sent me for my birthday last month (quoted with his permission):

I really dig your devotion to me... I suspect it may potentially be inflating my ego on occasion, but it feels really, really special to be loved and desired so much. I may feel a tad bit awkward reading your blog about our activities, but I can't deny it's incredibly hot and flattering as well. On that note, I really love pushing your buttons and am delighted we have the wonderful sex life that we have. 

Did I mention you rock and I am very much in love with you? Being without you always has a sense of loneliness attached to it. The only way I feel completely at peace is with my body pressed against yours. Makes everything better. As you know I'm a big fan of our morning snuggle moments and feel sad when we miss out on them.

[...]

I love you and I hope you enjoy your birthday my beautiful, thank you so much for being mine and being so good to me.

 Yours forever,

 husband

Writing doesn't come easily to him, so I can only imagine it took him some time to write that, along with everything else he put into that letter. But he did it for me, because he knows how much I value the words. I write for the joy of writing - he writes for the joy the words will bring me.

He serves me by letting me serve him, by doing delicious, incredible things with our bodies, by pushing all the right buttons at all the right times. His ability to press those buttons, to take me to those places, just makes me love him more, be more devoted to him, trust him with every fiber of my being, and want him forever. He brings that trust and that love into every single thing we do together, whether it be making dinner or writhing in ecstasy or building a house. He is present, he is mine, and I am his.

And that, by jove, that, is way, way better for me than if he had come dominant, if that was just the way he started. He's dominant because that's what I need. Like the empathic metamorph Kamala, he became my perfect mate. What's not to like?

---

Apparently March is question and answer month in the great realm of the blogosphere. I'm compelled to answer any questions you want to put to me, right out here in public.

Unless it puts me at risk of outing myself, of course.

Intent

Drawing me close in bed, his arm a band of wiry strength around my shoulders, my husband whispered "I enjoyed you a lot this morning. I fully intend to enjoy you right now too." His fingertips glided up my bare side, sending tingles all over me.

Snuggling close to him, I purred. "Intent is sexy."

He chucked, amused, as his fingers found my nipple and tugged at it gently. I arched into his touch, and that's when he drew his hand back and slapped my breast, right across the nipple. I inhaled sharply, the heat of the blow radiating outward from my stunned and tingling nipple.

He hit me several more times there, until I began to curl upwards in an involuntary attempt to protect myself. Oh, it burned. He switched breasts, striking the other one with the same intensity. I cried out softly with each blow, arching upward, twisting in his grasp. He stopped, and stroked his fingertips gently over my abused flesh, making me shiver and moan. He murmured "Oh you poor, sensitive thing," as he moved his face over my breast and rubbed his bristly chin against my nipple. "Does that hurt?" he asked as I drew a deep, shaky breath.

I got laid!

Squee! After days of sick kid and not enough sleep, we had hot, kinky, delicious sex last night.

And a bonus morning blowjob!

Hands tangled in and tugging on my hair, hot hard male flesh filling my mouth... oh, yeah.

One happy girl right now.