There's nothing quite like a good, aggressive fuck session when it's been days. Nothing like the feeling of anticipation when it's not yet private time, when you still have dinner and family time to get through before the fucking can occur.
Nothing like:
Having three layers of clothing stripped from your lower half in one fell swoop so that the impact of a hand slamming into your ass will be better felt.
That first impact, the sting after months of no slapping at all.
The sudden warmth that makes those three layers hardly missed at all.
The awareness of the incredible amounts of wetness when his fingers slide through your labia, seeking exactly what they've found.
So much arousal from so much time spend waiting for this moment.
The feeling of that cock sliding home from behind in spoons position, sliding all the way in until it's actually a bit too much and then just a tiny bit further than that.
Absolute fullness and then the motion. Holy fuck the motion. Just a gentle shoving in, in, in.
Pulling away, on your hands and knees, begging to be fucked doggy style and then the even bigger cock now it's got some gravity behind it. Holy fuck there's no way that's ever going to work - but it does.
And then his hands in your hair, pushing your face into the bed while you scream. His hands, somehow multiplied, everywhere at once, pulling you into him by the hips and pushing your head, your shoulder, your lower back holy fuck that's delicious, everywhere all the while his cock is shoving in, in, in, in and it's so unutterably big and all you can do is scream into the bed for the amazing eternity of this fuck.
Nothing like it.
Friday, November 17, 2017
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Blink to Share
A good friend of mine wrote this sci-fi sex story and I thought some of my friends here might enjoy it. It's free on smashwords! "Blink to Share" is fun romp through what might happen when we start augmenting our sex lives with more than just sex toys.
Blink to Share
"Then she was serious—”Oh gosh, wow”—as Augmented Sexuality showed him how to give her internal and clitoral orgasms simultaneously. The lens app detected her orgasm, and it made the room appear to quake as she shook. Pieces of the ceiling fell down, exploding into 3-D numbers that were added to Jasper’s score in the top-right corner of his vision."
Sexual exploits complete with high scores and badges and a wee bit of self-examination. It's a fun read.
Enjoy!
Blink to Share
"Then she was serious—”Oh gosh, wow”—as Augmented Sexuality showed him how to give her internal and clitoral orgasms simultaneously. The lens app detected her orgasm, and it made the room appear to quake as she shook. Pieces of the ceiling fell down, exploding into 3-D numbers that were added to Jasper’s score in the top-right corner of his vision."
Sexual exploits complete with high scores and badges and a wee bit of self-examination. It's a fun read.
Enjoy!
Friday, December 11, 2015
Dichotomy
How is it that one person can contain both the cruel sadist who pinches my nipples and pulls them until I scream helplessly with the pain of it, and the darling sweetheart who hugs me to him the next morning and tells me how much I enrich his life?
Both are him, both are real. The wonderful joy of such a thing doesn't translate clearly to people without kinky - perhaps even only masochistic - tendencies. The thrill of knowing that the man who hugs me randomly in the kitchen and who clearly adores me can also torment my flesh and tell me that his cock owns me later that same day is surely as good as the high from any drug.
When the morning after a particularly intense fuck I whisper that my insides hurt because he kept shoving his cock into me whether there was room for it or not and the only sound from him is a little pleased "mmm," and he pulls me closer? I know that whatever I have awakened in him, in what I thought was a sweet vanilla man all those years ago, is definitely there to stay. The intrinsic goodness of him doesn't go away because he's sexually aroused by hurting me. So long, that is, as I am also a willing participant in the activities. Which of course I am.
Sex is so interesting. How we relate to it, how in so many polite company conversations we're not supposed to mention it, how what turns us on can so often be used by others who find these things out to indicate some kind of bizarre character flaw.
The nicest, best, most kind-hearted person I know is a sexual sadist. Our sexual desires don't say anything about us as people except what our sexual desires happen to be.
If only teenage me had gotten that memo. How many people are living in some private hell because they think the perfectly normal ways that their sexuality functions is somehow abnormal and wrongheaded and is going to send them to hell? Like life isn't hard enough. Like fitting in all the things we must do and all the things we'd like to do and all the people who give our lives joy and fulfillment and contentment doesn't eat up enough of our brain cycles, we focus on something that's meant to bring us pleasure and instead wring anguish from it. How good are we humans at screwing ourselves up?
Embrace the dichotomy. Life is there to be lived, and sex is there to be enjoyed. Consensually. Of course.
Happy holidays, blogland.
Both are him, both are real. The wonderful joy of such a thing doesn't translate clearly to people without kinky - perhaps even only masochistic - tendencies. The thrill of knowing that the man who hugs me randomly in the kitchen and who clearly adores me can also torment my flesh and tell me that his cock owns me later that same day is surely as good as the high from any drug.
When the morning after a particularly intense fuck I whisper that my insides hurt because he kept shoving his cock into me whether there was room for it or not and the only sound from him is a little pleased "mmm," and he pulls me closer? I know that whatever I have awakened in him, in what I thought was a sweet vanilla man all those years ago, is definitely there to stay. The intrinsic goodness of him doesn't go away because he's sexually aroused by hurting me. So long, that is, as I am also a willing participant in the activities. Which of course I am.
Sex is so interesting. How we relate to it, how in so many polite company conversations we're not supposed to mention it, how what turns us on can so often be used by others who find these things out to indicate some kind of bizarre character flaw.
The nicest, best, most kind-hearted person I know is a sexual sadist. Our sexual desires don't say anything about us as people except what our sexual desires happen to be.
If only teenage me had gotten that memo. How many people are living in some private hell because they think the perfectly normal ways that their sexuality functions is somehow abnormal and wrongheaded and is going to send them to hell? Like life isn't hard enough. Like fitting in all the things we must do and all the things we'd like to do and all the people who give our lives joy and fulfillment and contentment doesn't eat up enough of our brain cycles, we focus on something that's meant to bring us pleasure and instead wring anguish from it. How good are we humans at screwing ourselves up?
Embrace the dichotomy. Life is there to be lived, and sex is there to be enjoyed. Consensually. Of course.
Happy holidays, blogland.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Art
Art comes from pain, I've always heard.
It logically follows that when one is happiest, one is least likely to create.
But what happens when happiness is like a long bike ride through the hills? Some of the uphill climb might be wearisome, and one might sit in the shade of a particularly nice tree to let one's heart rate go down, and while doing so one might write a poem. Or sketch a landscape. Or come up with the idea for something amazing.
Happiness doesn't have to stall creation. But people who are happy haven't got much to get out of them, except perhaps the overwhelming joy of just being alive. The hills are alive with the sound of music, yo. They're just not singing to me right now.
I've been there, in that place of overwhelming joy. Last week, even. Perhaps even this week. Thursdays tend to be particularly nice.
But right now I'm stalled about halfway up a hill. Maybe it's a silent hill, or maybe it's a hill that has eyes. I'm hoping it's neither of those and I'd be perfectly fine if it'd just start singing. Well. Maaybe a little creeped out.
Ultimately climbing it will be good for me. But wow, the climb is certainly some work. I'm looking forward to cresting and coasting my way down.
The main problem with this metaphor is that when you're biking you know where the summit is most of the time. You can see it, or see it on your map. Life doesn't give us such easy cues for more complicated situations than geographical layout.
My pain is not immense at the moment, so my art is only small art: a jokey blog post with mixed metaphors. Even so, it feels good to create something more lasting than dinner.
I wish you all happy journeys and non-silent, non-eyey hills.
It logically follows that when one is happiest, one is least likely to create.
But what happens when happiness is like a long bike ride through the hills? Some of the uphill climb might be wearisome, and one might sit in the shade of a particularly nice tree to let one's heart rate go down, and while doing so one might write a poem. Or sketch a landscape. Or come up with the idea for something amazing.
Happiness doesn't have to stall creation. But people who are happy haven't got much to get out of them, except perhaps the overwhelming joy of just being alive. The hills are alive with the sound of music, yo. They're just not singing to me right now.
I've been there, in that place of overwhelming joy. Last week, even. Perhaps even this week. Thursdays tend to be particularly nice.
But right now I'm stalled about halfway up a hill. Maybe it's a silent hill, or maybe it's a hill that has eyes. I'm hoping it's neither of those and I'd be perfectly fine if it'd just start singing. Well. Maaybe a little creeped out.
Ultimately climbing it will be good for me. But wow, the climb is certainly some work. I'm looking forward to cresting and coasting my way down.
The main problem with this metaphor is that when you're biking you know where the summit is most of the time. You can see it, or see it on your map. Life doesn't give us such easy cues for more complicated situations than geographical layout.
My pain is not immense at the moment, so my art is only small art: a jokey blog post with mixed metaphors. Even so, it feels good to create something more lasting than dinner.
I wish you all happy journeys and non-silent, non-eyey hills.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Fluid
I went swimming at a friend's house recently. It had been a while since I had so much skin bare in the sunlight, and though I carry sunscreen with me everywhere, I forgot to put it on my back.
The water was amazing. It embraced me, welcomed me back like a long-lost lover, supported me as I moved through it for hours and hours.
That night, though, I paid for my lack of forethought with a sunburn so severe and painful that lifting my arms over my head brought tears to my eyes. The brush of my hair across my shoulders made me whisper "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck" as though being burned with a hot iron. Days later, the pain persists and makes me regret my foolhardiness.
Pondering it all made me think of how relationships are similarly fluid. They change and move and what may seem a tiny oversight can lead to huge mishaps.
Friends, lovers, family, people themselves are fluid. If we don't make an effort to keep up with the changes, apply our protections and keep swimming, we can drown or burn. No one is carved in stone, no one stays the same throughout their lives.
Sometimes it may seem like a lot of work, and sometimes it may well be too much work and we may have to let a relationship go or suffer burns over and over and over again.
Most of the time, though, the rewards are worth the work, and the painful reminders when we forgot to put in the labor still don't make the relationship one we should ditch altogether. We just need to be more careful next time.
Now and then it just pays to remind ourselves that time only flows the one way, and the moments spent we can never get back. Best to spend them wisely.
What's your favorite wise way to spend your moments?
The water was amazing. It embraced me, welcomed me back like a long-lost lover, supported me as I moved through it for hours and hours.
That night, though, I paid for my lack of forethought with a sunburn so severe and painful that lifting my arms over my head brought tears to my eyes. The brush of my hair across my shoulders made me whisper "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck" as though being burned with a hot iron. Days later, the pain persists and makes me regret my foolhardiness.
Pondering it all made me think of how relationships are similarly fluid. They change and move and what may seem a tiny oversight can lead to huge mishaps.
Friends, lovers, family, people themselves are fluid. If we don't make an effort to keep up with the changes, apply our protections and keep swimming, we can drown or burn. No one is carved in stone, no one stays the same throughout their lives.
Sometimes it may seem like a lot of work, and sometimes it may well be too much work and we may have to let a relationship go or suffer burns over and over and over again.
Most of the time, though, the rewards are worth the work, and the painful reminders when we forgot to put in the labor still don't make the relationship one we should ditch altogether. We just need to be more careful next time.
Now and then it just pays to remind ourselves that time only flows the one way, and the moments spent we can never get back. Best to spend them wisely.
What's your favorite wise way to spend your moments?
Monday, March 16, 2015
Spin the slave girl: a fantasy
I have a very very good imagination.
Once in a while my husband will use that to his extreme advantage by crafting a fantasy directly into my ear while he manipulates my body. Bondage, discipline, even fucking, can come from his lips into my ear without him actually putting forth more effort than coming up with the idea.
He spoons me, and his lips are right against my ear, his arms around me as he begins to speak.
"You'd like a cage, wouldn't you. And I could just hang you from it. Tie your wrists to your ankles, spread your legs wide, and hang you up, just to beat you, or to fuck you wherever I want. Just to keep you right here and fuck you. I could spin you around to decide where to fuck, oooh I should fuck your pretty face right now," he whispers, his hands roaming my body as they like. In point of fact I have a cold sore right now, but my imagination doesn't worry about that as he describes his cock filling my face, my throat. I moan deeply and his fingers find my clit as he keeps talking about using my face to fuck. He strokes it lightly, expertly, driving my desire for him to a fever pitch as he keeps talking, his sexy fucking voice playing right inside my brain, turning me into a puddle of need.
"I could get your ass all nice and slippery, slide my fingers in there, then shove a huge plug into you. Then when I fuck your pussy, there won't be much room. But I'd make room. You're mine and I'd shove my cock into you because it feels so fucking good inside you. 'Too big,' you'll say, 'oh, master, it's too big for me,' but I won't fucking care and I will make you take it all and there is nothing you can do about it."
I just keep moaning. My brain has completely accepted that my face is currently full of cock, despite the fact that it is not.
"Mmm. It's so good inside your throat," he murmurs, "and I know that once your face realizes what it's really for, it hates to stop. All your holes are like that, aren't they? Once they realize they're fuck holes again they hate to give it up. Your sweet mouth doesn't want me to stop fucking it, does it? But I should just spin you again and see what else to fuck. Face hole, pussy hole, ass hole. . . face hole, pussy hole, ass hole." And inside my head, it's exactly as if he has done just that. I am a collection of holes, spinning slowly, suspended from a cage while he decides where he wants to put his cock next. I barely stifle my screams of gratification at being so objectified.
"Mmm, I guess I'll fuck your pussy," he murmurs, sliding his actual cock into me from behind as I make loud grunting noises, his words causing minor spasms over my entire body. I am a slippery wet mess by this point, his words and his fingers have made me come several times already. I am floating, every nerve tingling, hanging on his every word, suspended by his voice as surely as the imaginary restraints into which he has bound me.
"Take it, girl. Take it all. Too big, is it? That's your favorite thing to complain about, isn't it? I should spin you around again and shove it down your throat. You won't complain about that, will you? Of course you won't, your throat will be full of cock. Don't worry, girl, soon your lip will heal and then, ohh, and then. . . "
"Then you'll fuck my throat again?" I gasp, each syllable interrupted by my gasps as his cock moves inside me.
"Oh yes, what a clever fuck toy you are. That's right, then I'll fuck your throat again," he croons, the low rasp of his voice sending tingles down my spine. "You love being full of my cock, having all your holes filled and stretched open around me, for me. That's what you're fucking for. For me to fuck all your holes. Your ass loves my cock too. It loves me to shove inside it, to force you open, to make you mine. You're afraid too, afraid of how big it is. But you love to be afraid of my big cock fucking your ass. You're a collection of fuck holes, what's that like, to be a walking collection of fuck holes?"
I can only respond in grunts and barely-restrained screams. His words and his actions have driven any rational part of my brain away and I can only feel things, react to things, arch, scream, pant, gasp.
"And I can just keep you here, hanging here, for me to fuck those holes whenever I want, however I want. Ohh yes I like that. My own hanging fuck toy." He pulls me closer into him as he speaks, his cock pushing more into me than there is me, stretching my insides further, making me cry out as he finally comes. His orgasm is long, his moans of pleasure intense.
But then he is on top of me, his fingers sliding into me, stroking my clit, pressing hard into my g-spot, and I am screaming again. I thought I was spent, done, no more gasps of pleasure left but he is wringing every bit out of me that he can.
And I adore him. I adore what he does to me and I just keep thinking, when I am allowed to think as his fingers draw more orgasms from my exhausted body, how very lucky I am to be this man's sex slave.
Thank you, husband.
Once in a while my husband will use that to his extreme advantage by crafting a fantasy directly into my ear while he manipulates my body. Bondage, discipline, even fucking, can come from his lips into my ear without him actually putting forth more effort than coming up with the idea.
He spoons me, and his lips are right against my ear, his arms around me as he begins to speak.
"You'd like a cage, wouldn't you. And I could just hang you from it. Tie your wrists to your ankles, spread your legs wide, and hang you up, just to beat you, or to fuck you wherever I want. Just to keep you right here and fuck you. I could spin you around to decide where to fuck, oooh I should fuck your pretty face right now," he whispers, his hands roaming my body as they like. In point of fact I have a cold sore right now, but my imagination doesn't worry about that as he describes his cock filling my face, my throat. I moan deeply and his fingers find my clit as he keeps talking about using my face to fuck. He strokes it lightly, expertly, driving my desire for him to a fever pitch as he keeps talking, his sexy fucking voice playing right inside my brain, turning me into a puddle of need.
"I could get your ass all nice and slippery, slide my fingers in there, then shove a huge plug into you. Then when I fuck your pussy, there won't be much room. But I'd make room. You're mine and I'd shove my cock into you because it feels so fucking good inside you. 'Too big,' you'll say, 'oh, master, it's too big for me,' but I won't fucking care and I will make you take it all and there is nothing you can do about it."
I just keep moaning. My brain has completely accepted that my face is currently full of cock, despite the fact that it is not.
"Mmm. It's so good inside your throat," he murmurs, "and I know that once your face realizes what it's really for, it hates to stop. All your holes are like that, aren't they? Once they realize they're fuck holes again they hate to give it up. Your sweet mouth doesn't want me to stop fucking it, does it? But I should just spin you again and see what else to fuck. Face hole, pussy hole, ass hole. . . face hole, pussy hole, ass hole." And inside my head, it's exactly as if he has done just that. I am a collection of holes, spinning slowly, suspended from a cage while he decides where he wants to put his cock next. I barely stifle my screams of gratification at being so objectified.
"Mmm, I guess I'll fuck your pussy," he murmurs, sliding his actual cock into me from behind as I make loud grunting noises, his words causing minor spasms over my entire body. I am a slippery wet mess by this point, his words and his fingers have made me come several times already. I am floating, every nerve tingling, hanging on his every word, suspended by his voice as surely as the imaginary restraints into which he has bound me.
"Take it, girl. Take it all. Too big, is it? That's your favorite thing to complain about, isn't it? I should spin you around again and shove it down your throat. You won't complain about that, will you? Of course you won't, your throat will be full of cock. Don't worry, girl, soon your lip will heal and then, ohh, and then. . . "
"Then you'll fuck my throat again?" I gasp, each syllable interrupted by my gasps as his cock moves inside me.
"Oh yes, what a clever fuck toy you are. That's right, then I'll fuck your throat again," he croons, the low rasp of his voice sending tingles down my spine. "You love being full of my cock, having all your holes filled and stretched open around me, for me. That's what you're fucking for. For me to fuck all your holes. Your ass loves my cock too. It loves me to shove inside it, to force you open, to make you mine. You're afraid too, afraid of how big it is. But you love to be afraid of my big cock fucking your ass. You're a collection of fuck holes, what's that like, to be a walking collection of fuck holes?"
I can only respond in grunts and barely-restrained screams. His words and his actions have driven any rational part of my brain away and I can only feel things, react to things, arch, scream, pant, gasp.
"And I can just keep you here, hanging here, for me to fuck those holes whenever I want, however I want. Ohh yes I like that. My own hanging fuck toy." He pulls me closer into him as he speaks, his cock pushing more into me than there is me, stretching my insides further, making me cry out as he finally comes. His orgasm is long, his moans of pleasure intense.
But then he is on top of me, his fingers sliding into me, stroking my clit, pressing hard into my g-spot, and I am screaming again. I thought I was spent, done, no more gasps of pleasure left but he is wringing every bit out of me that he can.
And I adore him. I adore what he does to me and I just keep thinking, when I am allowed to think as his fingers draw more orgasms from my exhausted body, how very lucky I am to be this man's sex slave.
Thank you, husband.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Floggers and punishments and sex partners, oh my!
DelFonte answered my plea for questions by asking:
Do you still make beautiful floggers?
And sadly, my short answer is no. I had to give that particular pastime up due to arthritis in my hands. I was down to a simple choice: Make floggers or live relatively pain-free. I do still have all the materials and all the ideas and I'd love it if my hands would magically return to their former ability.
And I do still have quite the lovely collection of floggers of my own.
If you have one of mine, be happy! If you want one of mine... well, I do still have a few I made before my hands crapped out on me.
sub hub in phx asked three questions:
1. In what ways are you punished for being a bad girl?
Hm, this is an interesting question. It feels a little playful. We don't really have a "punishment" dynamic as such, but now and then my love will say something like "You're awfully grumpy. I think I need to beat that out of you." and then will begin a pretty good session of flogging/spanking, usually followed by a pretty forceful fucking.
It's really rather delightful.
He's not a man of many rules though, or of precise bizarre desires. There was a time when I kind of wished he was the sort of man to want me to do something mostly impossible and who would then punish me for not being able to do those things, but I think for me that's best left to a fantasy scene we play out together rather than the reality of my existence. It might be incredibly hot at first but I have a feeling it would get eye-rollingly old for me soon.
2. Do you have any desire to be required to have sex with others within the realm of your servitude?
These are wonderful questions, thank you for them. I personally don't have a desire to be made to have sex with anyone else. I do very much enjoy a sensation of violation but I think that this might cross a line? Though then of course, "required" is up for debate.
I don't want to have sex with anyone but my master. There was a time (funny how things change) when I thought "hey, this'd be great, we should try this," but harsh reality always intrudes and people are messy, messy creatures. They're all full of feelings and emotions and flaws and, for the moment at least, it seems like just too much work.
3. Would you able to witness your Master Husband having sex with another woman?
Wow, these are really thought-provoking. I'm trying to imagine this thing.
I don't know if I'd be able to witness it, in a literal sense, because he has even less desire to have sex with others than I do. He doesn't like people, so having another one in his personal space is farthest from what he'd want.
But I think I might be sidestepping the intent of the question. I believe what you mean is - would I be emotionally able to witness such a thing. And I am completely secure in the fact that I am his and he is mine. If he got a bee in his bonnet and wanted to have sex with another woman while I watched, I think I'd be okay with that. I might wonder what was wrong with him and if he was okay because that's not his style, but once we'd ruled out the possibility of brain tumor, I think we could roll with it.
I'd be more interested in watching the woman though, to be fair.
I have more answers coming! Please feel free to ask more questions! I am loving interacting with you all. ❤
Do you still make beautiful floggers?
And sadly, my short answer is no. I had to give that particular pastime up due to arthritis in my hands. I was down to a simple choice: Make floggers or live relatively pain-free. I do still have all the materials and all the ideas and I'd love it if my hands would magically return to their former ability.
And I do still have quite the lovely collection of floggers of my own.
If you have one of mine, be happy! If you want one of mine... well, I do still have a few I made before my hands crapped out on me.
sub hub in phx asked three questions:
1. In what ways are you punished for being a bad girl?
Hm, this is an interesting question. It feels a little playful. We don't really have a "punishment" dynamic as such, but now and then my love will say something like "You're awfully grumpy. I think I need to beat that out of you." and then will begin a pretty good session of flogging/spanking, usually followed by a pretty forceful fucking.
It's really rather delightful.
He's not a man of many rules though, or of precise bizarre desires. There was a time when I kind of wished he was the sort of man to want me to do something mostly impossible and who would then punish me for not being able to do those things, but I think for me that's best left to a fantasy scene we play out together rather than the reality of my existence. It might be incredibly hot at first but I have a feeling it would get eye-rollingly old for me soon.
2. Do you have any desire to be required to have sex with others within the realm of your servitude?
These are wonderful questions, thank you for them. I personally don't have a desire to be made to have sex with anyone else. I do very much enjoy a sensation of violation but I think that this might cross a line? Though then of course, "required" is up for debate.
I don't want to have sex with anyone but my master. There was a time (funny how things change) when I thought "hey, this'd be great, we should try this," but harsh reality always intrudes and people are messy, messy creatures. They're all full of feelings and emotions and flaws and, for the moment at least, it seems like just too much work.
3. Would you able to witness your Master Husband having sex with another woman?
Wow, these are really thought-provoking. I'm trying to imagine this thing.
I don't know if I'd be able to witness it, in a literal sense, because he has even less desire to have sex with others than I do. He doesn't like people, so having another one in his personal space is farthest from what he'd want.
But I think I might be sidestepping the intent of the question. I believe what you mean is - would I be emotionally able to witness such a thing. And I am completely secure in the fact that I am his and he is mine. If he got a bee in his bonnet and wanted to have sex with another woman while I watched, I think I'd be okay with that. I might wonder what was wrong with him and if he was okay because that's not his style, but once we'd ruled out the possibility of brain tumor, I think we could roll with it.
I'd be more interested in watching the woman though, to be fair.
I have more answers coming! Please feel free to ask more questions! I am loving interacting with you all. ❤
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