The Cure

I am highly, highly oversexed. I don't like that word because it makes it sound like I have too much sex, when in fact what it means is there is no such thing for me. I think about sex constantly. I may stop thinking about it for a minute or two at a time, but thinking about sex is my general state of being.

It's only natural that when the time allowed me, I'd start writing it too.

Being monogamously married to and owned by a man I adore is wonderful, but it sometimes carries a woeful amount of misunderstandings with it.

I get sad when we are not having some kind of sex at least every day. I'd prefer multiple times. We compromise and I think we're both pretty happy with where things are. Sometimes, though, life gets in the way for a day or two (or God forbid three or four) and it just doesn't happen. Sadness overtakes me then. I'm still thinking about sex all the time, but not having any, and I feel pathetic and undesirable. Things I could normally get through give me difficulty. Lethargy sets in, I feel depressed, I wonder what the point is to anything. Even through the fog of sadness I still read and think about sex, which just fuels the depression but isn't something I can shut off.

So he senses my sadness, or in some cases, he outright sees it. I cry easily and am overwhelmed by parts of life I should have under control. I lie awake well into the early morning, unable to fall asleep. He sees these things and he holds me, comforts me. Herein lies the miscommunication. He sees his girl sad and laden with woe and, not being turned on by sadness, he holds her through yet another sexless night. I feel even more worthless because the one thing I want is being retarded by my very reaction to not getting it. I despair, sunk deep in the self-digging hole.

I tell him this, trying to shine a tiny light of knowledge up at him from the bottom of my pit. I tell him that the words he once spoke to me years ago echo in my head, making me keep my silence. "It's hard to want a girl who's sad all the time."

By some miracle, he gets it. Not immediately, but quickly, after I choke back a sob to tell him that that's a self-digging hole. I start to say something else, but his palm is pressing on my face, pressing against my nose, covering my mouth. I moan. His hand moves, pressing against the other side of my nose, squeezing my face. "You were going to say, girl?" he asks, and his voice has changed. The solicitousness is gone, and in its place is a rough, dark rasp. His legs are none too gentle with mine as he yanks them apart.

His feet dig into my calf as he pulls my legs open, and it hurts. "Ouch!" I say, but my thoughts are already captured in the present moment as he climbs between my legs. There is no room for sadness in the suddenly electric atmosphere he has created. If he's acting, he's very good at it.

"You were going to say, girl?" he asks again, his hand pressing all over my face, tangling in my hair, tugging it until I gasp with the sheer joy of it.

"N-nothing," I gasp.

He's moved across me now, on my other side. So much of what happens is a glorious, glorious blur. He's spanking me, his hand delivering sharp stinging blows to my backside. He buries the whole of the thenar and a good chunk of the thumb of his free hand in my mouth, and I am biting down into it, screaming into his hand while he tortures my nipples.

"Do you just have nothing to say when your body is being slowly reduced," he pauses to hurt me more, to make me scream louder into the amazingly effective gag that is his hand, "mmmm... being reduced to fuck meat?"

I scream. The hand not in my mouth is touching my pussy, my clit. "Fuck meat," he said, and I scream and scream and scream. It's primal, what those words are doing to me, and I can't properly record anything before or after the ground zero of those words. That moment is shining and brilliant and all the other bits around it, amazing though they are, fade.

He makes me come. "Oh, it's been far too long since you've come for me," he says. "You're going to do that now, aren't you, fuck toy? You're going to come for your master now." My head is slowly arching back away from him as he talks, as his fingers work their magic on my sex. It feels to me like the whole thing happens in slow motion, as my body tenses and I am crying out, all the tension releasing as I come and come and come. My legs shake against him. "Oh look at you, no self-control at all," he says, and he is right. He controls me. He makes me come again, tugging my head backwards by the hair until my groans of delight deepen into guttural grunts. I am bent very far back when he finally lets go.

He won't fuck me with his cock. He suggests it, he teases, he makes fun of me, makes me beg. "Look at you. Why would I give you my cock now? In the state you're in you'd never give it back. Would you?"

I moan my negative response, tossing my head as his fingers fuck me.

"See. I'd never get my cock back. What does that make you?"

I don't answer immediately because I am screaming. He teases me to orgasm with his words. "A slut," I answer, my voice cracking because I have reservations about calling myself that.

"My slut," he clarifies, and he is kissing me.

Finally I have begged prettily enough, and he is atop me sliding his cock inside. I groan as he fills me. He feels amazing. I fuck him from beneath, just really driven wild by everything that has happened so far.

I'm falling. I'm falling, I'm flying, into an abyss and he's holding me there under him by my hair. That must be why he's pulling it so hard. His kisses are hot and urgent and he is forcing me to stay there when I would float away. I hear my own screams as if from a distance and I want to be in this moment - this moment - forever. My head is spinning, my sense of balance is all out of whack, and he just keeps driving his cock into me, drawing the screams from me with every thrust and every tug of my hair.

"I think it's your turn," he says. "I think you should get on top of me and fuck me."

"Anything you want," I gasp out breathlessly, unable to really catch up to the situation. A whole lot of delicious things have whizzed by me that I couldn't fully assimilate. Mostly fantastically dirty things he has said that made me scream in the moment but are now lost forever because my brain is overloaded. I'll take it though.

"That's right," he says, "anything I want." He rolls off me onto his back, waiting.

I dive after his cock with my mouth. It tastes sweet and salty and I moan as I lick it all over.

"Oooh, I didn't say you could suck the cock," he admonishes me. "But I suppose you're just a cocksucker who couldn't resist, huh?" I give his cock a long swirling suck for answer as I pull my mouth away, and then I am lifting my leg over him.

"Oh yes, give me that pussy," he says as I lower myself onto him, as his cock presses up into me. He grabs my hips and I scream. His hardness has never felt like this before. "I think you know what to do," he growls as I begin to slowly rotate my hips, gasping as I feel all the new sensations that changing positions like this causes.

It really doesn't take long before it starts to feel amazing. His hands are on my hips and when I start to scream he keeps moving me the way I was moving before. I am screaming, he is moaning deeply, and we are coming at the same time.

I lay on his chest for long, long minutes afterward, kissing his neck and shoulders, rotating my hips against him, listening to his soft sounds of pleasure as we both catch our breath.

After I roll off into his arms, I kiss him again, softly and with great respect and tenderness. "Thank you for rescuing me, sweet master," I whisper against his lips.

He's already half asleep, but he squeezes me tightly against him. "Love my girl," he answers.

Luckiest girl alive

That's me. For real.

Happiest.

Luckiest.

Most privileged geek in the entire universe.

My husband.

This man.

I can't. I have this whole blog here to describe how happy I am with our sex lives, but absolutely everything else is remarkable too.

Okay, so there are our parents. But since they aren't under our control, any angst from them is external to our relationship.

So I find myself at a loss for words for how amazing my husband is, and how happy he makes me.

I could tell you about the amazing sex that we had this weekend, after other amazing experiences that were involved in a trip away from home to celebrate our birthdays. I plan these crazy exhausting things, and this man just goes with it. "Sure, love, we can do x and y and z all on the same weekend. Why not?"

I could tell you how lovely and perfect and handsome and in tune with me he is. How utterly spectacular he is, how I feel completely singled out by the universe to be so blessed that I get to wake up in his arms every morning.

I could write about how he woke me this morning by pulling me into him and proclaiming "Mine!" so suddenly that I was startled awake. I could write about how that ended in a lovely blow job that made me at least as happy as it made him.

I could write about how special it is to have an extra day off to spend mostly curled into his arms, half-dozing in the circle of contentment he makes for me.

In March, we'll have known each other for fifteen years. That's a 1 with a 5 next to it. Our meeting was completely by chance, a stroke of luck, a current in the universe - nothing either of us could have ever foreseen. Our relationship, though? That was all his awesomeness. He took the actions that made us a reality, and he was so fucking brave to have done it.

He credits me for many of the amazing good things in his life - but that coin has two sides. My life with him is so good that sometimes I fear I will wake one day and it will all have been a dream.

Yes, sometimes maybe I get a little irritated about the communication flow - more anal, why aren't we doing this or that, etc, etc, but if I ever actually start that conversation he has never ever made me feel like an idiot for doing so, and usually he addresses my concern pretty damn quickly. What the hell else can a human ask from another human? Not a damn thing.

So here I am, trying to put into words something that really can't be.

I am gazing at him as I type, and he is fondling the beard that he grew out to create sensation for me.

He has sex on his face.

For me.

So hot.

So fucking hot.

.... where was I?

My husband is magnificent. My marriage is dazzling.

I could tell you all of that, spout all of those words, and it still - still - would not begin to touch the true core of the wonder that is my life with this man.

This sensational, staggeringly marvelous man.

Hell. Luckiest girl alive is an understatement.

Snippet

"Oh, it sure would be nice to make love to my wife," my husband murmured, spooning me as his hand slid over and cupped my breast. He pulled me closer.

"It has been a while," I agreed, sighing softly as our bodies contacted each other.

Our door opened, and our little one came zombieing in, whining, launching himself over my husband to plant his big melon of a head between us. His body followed, sliding down, keeping us separated. He was asleep before he even settled.

"What, did I summon him?" my husband asked. We laughed, but with an undercurrent of frustration.

Such is life as parents.

Enjoy your weekend, lovelies!

---

For those of you who missed it - I'm running a sale on all floggers in my shop!

Beautiful Sensations

If you've been eyeing one, or are interested in one of the new ones I've added recently, now's the time. Sale ends on the 23rd.

Carnal magic

"Turn over so I can beat you," he says. We've just been chatting on the bed and it's pretty late.

"Don't you mean turn over so we can go to sleep?" I ask.

"No... turn over so I can beat you," he repeats.

I turn over. I know better than to argue further. "I like my idea better," I sass into the pillow.

"Sure you do," he says, knowing I lie through my teeth. He shoves my shirt up halfway my back, smacks my ass with his hand until I yelp. Then he starts flogging me with a soft lovely caressing flogger that makes me sigh with pleasure. "You like that, girl?" he asks.

I do.

He switches - a hard thudding flogger that makes me yelp as it thumps into me. "You like THAT, girl?" he asks.

I do.

He switches again. I lose track. I can feel my ass warming up as he keeps switching floggers. When he switches back to the lovely soft one, it actually hurts a little.

"Oh, this ass is starting to be a nice shade of red," he says.

He uses the crop on me after I am already red. The tops of my thighs get special attention. I lift my ass into it, as the pain transmutes into pleasure, as the burn makes me wet.

He finishes soon after the crop - first his hand smacks into me a few times for good measure.

"Be naked," he says, and so I am.

He kisses me, pulls me to him, lets his hands wander over my body. His teeth find my nipple, bite it until I squeal with pleasure/pain, and then his hands are spanking my breasts, making me moan.

His fingers wander between my thighs, find the incredible wetness there, tease me. He spanks my inner thighs with his hand, over and over, covering all of the flesh there until it burns and I try to close my legs. He knocks them apart and continues spanking them. I close them again, he knocks them apart - three, four times.

I am moaning, my thighs are burning, and he starts slapping my pussy. My soaking wet pussy that wants him to fuck it. He slaps at an angle, into my mound, and I am halfway to an orgasm already. It feels amazing until it starts to hurt. I whimper.  "Am I hurting your poor pussy?" he asks, his voice dripping with false concern.

"Yes," I squeal as he slaps me there again.

"Does your pussy want me?" he asks. He stops slapping me, lets his fingers stroke my clit - my throbbing, needy clit. I moan.

"Yes," I murmur. It's bloody obvious anyway.

"Does your mouth want me?" he continues.

"Yes," I answer.

"Does your ass want me?" he finishes.

I moan.

"What a slut that makes you. My slut," he growls into my ear, his hand tugging on my hair.

"Get on top of me," he says, and so I do. Carnal magic. He conjures sex.

My clit grinds against him as I rock. It's too much, too good.

"You're coming, aren't you? Yeah, fuck yeah, come for me," he says, and I must.

"You want to get off me?" he asks, later, knowing my arms must be tired.

I don't.

"I'll still fuck you," he promises. "Or maybe you'd like to suck my cock?"

I moan.

"Yeah. You want this hard, wet cock fucking your face, don't you?" He slaps my ass, forces me to rock atop him, and I am coming again as he talks.

My wrists are complaining and so I lift off him, slide down between his legs, take the slick hardness of him in my mouth. He is salty, sweet, intoxicating, all the arousal he has generated in me making him taste like that.

My wrists don't like this either, after a while. I roll to my side, and he is in my mouth again, fucking into my throat, holding my head. I start to pull away - it is too much, my throat hurts, my stomach isn't sure how it feels - but he grabs me, holds me, is fucking my face regardless. I know if I could get a word in he would stop, but at the moment I don't want to get a word in.

"Turn over so I can fuck your ass," he orders, pulling his cock from my mouth. He slaps my face with his cock - with his hard, heavy cock. It surprises me and I squeal. He does it again. He likes to make me squeal. Finally he stops, and I whimper as I obey. It's been a long time since we've had anal sex. I try to relax, but that's like trying not to think about something; it doesn't work that well.

His fingers are cool and slippery and feel nice when they touch my tiny hole, but I am so sensitive that I shriek, squirming away a little. He holds me still, slides his fingers deep inside me there. It feels amazing.

He stops, too soon. To take so long with sex in general and yet to rush this part feels so wasteful. His cock presses against me now, and I groan. It's not going to work.

"Give me that ass," he growls, and that sends a rush of heat through me. I try. I push back on him, but it's not going to work. He adds lube, but it's like his cock hit a wall, and as I wriggle, almost-but-not-quite-impaled on the end of his cock, I feel him softening, losing the rigidity that is a must to enter this particular territory.

Not easily discouraged from sex in general, he pulls away to replace his cock with his fingers. They slide inside my ass, inside my pussy, fuck me in both places at once. I scream with the pure joy of it. He adds even more lube. "I think your ass likes that," he says as I moan deeply, helplessly. "I think I should find something to plug it with."

It takes him a moment to locate, but he finds it: The Big End. SO BIG. I am on my belly as he presses it in, and I moan. "You can take it," he says, knowing he's put it there before. I scream as it finally passes the largest part, locking itself inside me. I am panting, but then his fingers are stroking my clit, sliding inside my pussy. I am screaming again because I am so sensitive and I am coming, again, again, again."Oh my God," I beg as I try to catch a breath between orgasms, but that is all he lets me say before he wriggles his finger and makes me come again, again, again.

I am twisting, sweating, panting. I can't. "I can't," I pant, but he is not about to let me finish a thought. More, more, more. I scream and I come and come and come. I feel his cock hardening against my thigh as my screams lengthen and grow hoarser.

"You can't what, girl? Can't stop? Who said you could stop?" he asks. His finger drives me insane and makes me scream until I think I might explode.

"I am going to fuck you," he whispers into my ear. "Right after I'm done making you come."

I writhe. I am a fuck puppet, nothing but a neverending orgasm, a helpless mass of twitching nerve endings.

"Turn over and give me your pussy," he finally says. I can barely breathe, much less move. I claw at the mattress to help me turn over on my side.

His cock slides into me - forces its way into me. "SO FULL!" I exclaim as he slowly drives into me.

"So mine," he growls. "So nice of you to stop coming for a second so I could get my cock in you." He grabs me, and begins to thrust into me in earnest, moving my body against him like a rag doll. "But if you still want to come, don't let me stop you," he says, fucking into me harder. The plug is forcing his cock into my g-spot and it doesn't take long before I am screaming again, a final orgasm ripping through me. I squeal helplessly as it shakes me, and he makes a noise - a contented hunter's noise, as he fucks me right into his own climax.

"You're so fucking incredible," I whisper hoarsely as his arm around my waist pulls me closer to him, as I gather enough energy for actual words. My mind is blown.

"You're pretty incredible yourself," he says.

As long as he wants to, I'll let him keep thinking that.

My reality

"I like to make you mine - make you know that you're mine."

His hand is pressing on my face as he says that; his eyes gazing into mine, burning into my soul. He presses harder, making my mouth open in an involuntary gasp.

His fingertips drag along my skin just so. How does he make it feel like magic? It's just a touch. The first time he ever touched me like that we'd only been physically together for a matter of hours, and yet I melted. I'd never been so wet in response to anything, ever. I was already his before he ever touched me at all. And now, now his fingers are gently trailing across the top of my breast, circling my nipple, closing around it. My night shirt doesn't provide a barrier to him - he just goes under it.

He squeezes my nipple, a slight tug, barely noticeable. He doesn't let go, though. He's increasing the pressure slowly, slowly, slowly, until my mouth opens and a little cry of pain comes from me. He stops at my whimper, but I moan, arching my breast to his hand. I want him to hurt me more. I need him to hurt me more.

He doesn't disappoint.

Later, his fingers are between my legs, stroking my wetness over my clit. I am moaning. He feels so very, very good; he's so incredibly sexy, and he plays my body and my mind like an instrument he has built himself. "I'm going to fuck you, fuck hole," he whispers into my ear - a harsh rasp that is heated with his desire. I tremble and a little cry escapes me. I can't process the heat of it. He hasn't removed my shirt and my own heat is trapped against my skin.

"You want me on top of you, girl?" he asks.

"Oh, yes," I agree. I don't know if he knows but when he's got me that worked up I will agree to whatever he says.

He rolls atop me and his cock is sliding between my folds. Oh, that's been a while. I moan as he presses into me, very aware of the size of him. "Like that, girl?" he asks. "It's been a while, huh?" he says. I am just enjoying him, making noises of pleasure at finally feeling him inside me again. This is what life is about - everything else is just to support this.

He fucks me, gently, as I have been in quite a bit of pain in that area lately. He feels incredible. I am rising up to meet him and.... oh. His earlier manipulations of my clit had left me open in such a way that when I rise up, his pubic bone grinds into my clit. That is very fucking nice. I am fucking him now, from underneath, and he is saying something but I only grasp it at the moment and later it's gone. My clit grinds against him and then I am screaming, pulsing, coming. La petite mort, indeed.

"Good girl," he whispers, kissing me as I recover, his hips making slow circles against me. He fucks me in earnest then, until he too is panting, gasping. "Oh fuck," he moans as he fills me, as I pull him as far into me as I can. His skin is so hot as he rests atop me, as I kiss him.

I am hot. I am on fire. I am burning, composed of molten lava. I will suffocate. "Too hot, too hot," I moan, working my nightshirt over and behind my head. My arms are still trapped inside it though. He rolls off of me so I can get the dread garment away from my skin, and the blessed coolness of the air in our room strokes me, soothes me. He pulls me close but doesn't cover me up.

He is my reality.

Gratitude

In my life, he has burst like the music of angels, the light of the sun.
 -slightly misquoted from Les Miserables

Life

is

good.

My husband, by the mere act of falling in love with me, set into motion a chain of events that has led us through much heartache and strife, through even more joy and happiness.

He brought me the world, and became mine.

Now, even when there is tension between us, he dissolves it.

"Turn over and face me, girl," he says. Like he knows - just knows the difference between me facing away for comfort and facing away because I'm wounded.

In the circle of his arms, no minor irritation can last. Or perhaps it's not allowed beyond the barrier. It melts away as my face presses against his chest.

I belong to him; I am well and truly bound. He knows this.

I am endlessly grateful for the joys of the life we have built together.

The best part has always been there, though, and that is the joy I find when his arms are wrapped around me. Missing that for a single night seems a burden too great to bear.

Today, I am grateful for our love.

I am grateful for the way he indulges my whims.

I am grateful that he works so hard to take care of us.

I am grateful for the scorchingly hot sex that we have on such a regular basis that I can't even remember it all.

I am grateful for his boundless patience, for the way that he is so very, very slow to anger.

And I am grateful that at the end of every work day, he comes home to me and sleeps in our bed, wrapping his long limbs around me and making me feel like the most treasured person in the world.