In the midst of all the Boss Man craziness, Papa Bear and I took our vacation into the mountains. It was absolutely perfect. It was off season at the resort, so the place was pretty well deserted. We spent four days cooking, snuggling, drinking, wandering through town, swimming in the natural spring pools, and screwing.
One night, after coming in from the hot tub, we fell into bed naked. We kissed feverishly, drunkenly, and started groping and sucking and fucking. I was on my stomach and as he fucked me from behind, I half-purred, half-growled, “I want you to fuck my ass.”
This is something that has always been a challenge for us. It has something to do with how thick Papa Bear’s cock is, and how tight my ass is, but in the year and a half that we’ve been together, we have only achieved anal once, and I couldn’t take it for long.
This time, though, I guess I was just drunk enough, just horny enough, and just lubed enough.
He slid the head of his cock into me. I gasped, and told him to wait. He held still and I tried to relax. He slid in a little more. I whimpered and took a deep breath, somewhere in the space between pain and ecstasy. We continued like that for several minutes, me breathing and trying to relax, him waiting and then advancing. And then he was inside me.
I moaned loudly. “Fuck me,” I begged, and he did. I screamed. I screamed and moaned and swore, and told him how fucking good it felt. I begged for more–harder, faster. He pounded me while I came and came, and then he filled me with cum.
“Holy fucking shit.”
It was definitely worth the wait, but we both agreed that another year and a half is not allowed to pass before we do that again.
I fucked him. Good god, it was hot. That unmistakable, delicious energy you get when you’re sitting inches away from someone, looking into their turquoise eyes, talking coyly about anything at all, and you know they’re about to be inside you.
I love sizing them up. His huge hands made my breath catch in my throat. He had freckles on his tattooed arms. His hair was reddish brown, he was chewing gum, and I couldn’t help remembering the biceps from his photo.
He gave me a drink. I downed it in less than a minute. We laughed, and he asked me if I wanted another. I said yes. We went into the bedroom. We kissed. Groaned. Groped each other. He undressed me, pulling off his shirt, then mine. His pants, then mine. We kept kissing. He was a good kisser. Urgent and gentle and hot and surprising. He licked my neck and my nipple and between my legs. I gave him a hickey on his bicep, and sucked him until I swallowed his cum, then licked him clean.
He fingered me. I jolted and moaned. He laughed at how cute I am when I jump. We talked. Well, he talked–I listened. I do that. Draw people out, so I can get a sense of them, without giving anything away myself. Its why I should have been a therapist–everyone tells me that–if only I could get my own shit together. Get sane. Get stable.
I sucked him hard, and he slid his huge, veined, curved cock between my legs. I screamed as he entered me. I was dying for it. Panting. He pounded me HARD. Just like I needed him to. He moved me into different positions like a pretzel. He told me to get on my hands and knees and banged me from behind. He slid down on top of me and rubbed my insides with his dick, while playing with my clit. I screamed so hard I was surprised I had any voice left. He came in me. At least I’d been smart enough to use a condom.
We lay panting and sweaty, muttering curses under our breath. Hot. Horny. Half-crazy. He got me another drink, and I went to clean up. We cuddled. Stroked each other. Talked.
“We should go soon,” he said.
I wrapped my leg around his, not letting go.
“Let me up,” he said. “It will be worth it.”
I let him up.
He slid another condom over his enormous, throbbing cock, grabbed my leg, and pushed inside me.
I saw stars.
The first thought I had when he kissed me was “WRONG. This is wrong.”
Logically speaking I know it’s fine for me to have sex with whoever I want to, but every so often slut-shaming and mono-normative thoughts creep into my head and it’s hard to shake them.
He led me inside and told me I needed to be wearing much less clothing, and the teenager inside me who was told she’d be forever sullied if she had sex with someone who was not her husband, quavered.
He started off by having me suck his cock, which didn’t help.
What would people say?
You shouldn’t be doing this.
Shut up, all of you.
We went into the bedroom where he immediately bent me over the bed. I was still swollen from the night before, so much so that despite being wet, he had a hard time entering me.
“I’m beginning to think you can’t handle me two nights in a row,” he said. “You’re so swollen its like fucking an 18 year old.”
Inside, I am still an 18 year old. Just now experimenting with my sexuality, because back then I was too scared and repressed to do so.
It hurt. I grit my teeth as he slammed into me. Told myself to relax like I do at the beginning of anal. Breathed. Whimpered. And eventually came.
It stopped hurting. I came again. I came so hard and got so tight that I pulled the condom right off him–he had to stop and put on another.
I came the way you should only be able to come from tantric sex–continually. I came for 20 minutes straight. As soon as one orgasm ended another began. I rose and crashed, whimpering, moaning, screaming and panting. Eventually, he came too, with me still in the middle of an endless orgasm.
He told me to get up on the bed for a cuddle but I could barely move. He kissed my neck and growled in my ear, sending more shivers of pleasure through me.
I am allowed.
I am allowed to feel this.
I am allowed to use my body in whatever way feels good.
I am allowed to orgasm, I am allowed to cuddle, I am allowed to suck cock, and I am allowed to do it with whoever I want as long as they want it, too.
My body, my life, my pleasure, my choice.
The only one who has to live with it is me.
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, it is even truer for sexiness.
Ever since my self-imposed ban on other lovers, I have pretty much given up on sexy.
I haven’t combed my hair since Sunday, and my “going out” clothes have been relegated to a suitcase in the bottom of my closet. My poor lingerie drawer has been sorely neglected as well. If I do not have “other” men telling me in word and deed how sexy I am, then my physical appearance ceases to matter.
Am I a non-entity who can’t take care of my appearance because I respect myself, and not just so that others can validate me? Apparently that is exactly what I am.
I am not sexy.
I’m surprised my husband will even agree to have sex with me. We have been averaging about once a week lately. I can tell when it has to happen. The constant raging fire inside me has turned into more of an orange ember, though it is still there. It doesn’t increase when I need to have sex, but what DOES increase is my bitchiness. I snap at the kids if they do not go to bed immediately after our telling them to do so, for fear that if they are up too late the husband will be too tired. I also snap more at him–I am punishing him because I anticipate that he will reject me. Why I think I will catch more flies will vinegar I’ll never know, but though I want to be sweet as honey, my subconscious is in control and it is angry at him when I want sex.
Even on these nights, I don’t do anything to up my sex appeal. I am still sporting the bedhead I woke up with that morning. I may pass a damp cloth over my body instead of taking the effort to shower, deodorant serves as a substitute for perfume, and my mascara and lipstick remain abandoned on my dusty make-up shelf. I am forcing him to love me at my worst, because it stung so badly each time he rejected me when I was at my best. And, miraculously, love me he does–even though I am not sexy.
I know, though, that sexy isn’t all about looks. It is about how you feel–who you are. When I had a variety of lovers and illicit trysts penciled into my day planner, I was sexy all the time. One morning I dragged myself into work after a night of no sleep. I didn’t bother with make-up, I was wearing my unflattering work clothes–and I was sexy as hell. I got hit on by countless male customers.
It was the naughty way I smiled to myself while reliving the previous night’s activities. It was my confidence, and the endorphins still coursing through my body. I felt sexy, and so I was. And that is the real issue here.
Why does having sex in a committed relationship, with someone who genuinely loves me, have zero effect on how I feel about myself? Why does having sex with a stream of assholes who couldn’t give a shit about me, make me feel like a goddess? Is there any logic to this at all?
Maybe knowing that I am ONLY wanted for my perceived outer sexiness boosts my confidence, while the possibility of being rejected by someone I have committed to spending my life with fills me with fear. Maybe I do not believe that I am worthy of true love, or maybe love without the rush of infatuation bores me. Maybe I have serious psychological issues and really do desperately need a therapist.
I am not sexy. But I want to be. I want to shave my legs just so I can rub the smoothness of one against the other. I want to pout my lipsticked mouth in the mirror and smile because I like the way I look, not because anyone else does. Can I convince myself to sleep in lingerie, even if chances are my husband will NOT rip it right off me? Can I walk around naked just to feel the air move across my skin?
I am not sexy. But I want to be.
A co-worker made a joke as she walked past, tracing her fingers lightly across my back in a way that was nothing but friendly. Even now, I am fascinated at the way my entire body responded to her touch. It wasn’t sexual, but it sent tingles down my spine. Every part of me warmed, liked I had just finished doing shots. It did not pass quickly. It lingered like the goosebumps that rise during a persistent wind, or the way skin heats up when exposed to the sun.
The realization hit me like a bucket of water to the face: It has been such a long time since I was really touched.
A touch just for the sake of acknowledging that someone else is here, and human. A warm show of appreciation or affection. Something so off-handed that I’m sure she didn’t even realize she was doing it, and yet it shook me.
It’s not that I live without physical contact. My kids climb all over me, demand hugs and kisses. They tug my hands and pull me around, falling asleep with their elbows in my face, planting themselves on my thigh until my leg goes numb. My husband and I hug and kiss by automatic response when I leave the apartment, sit side by side on the couch with our arms touching, clasp hands over the toddler sleeping between us as we drift off at night.
But as for touch that is genuine and natural, that is not born of habit, and that demands nothing? It is non-existent in my world.
Of course, sex is in a class of its own. I haven’t been laid in awhile, but even if that wasn’t the case, sex is different from no-strings affection. And then I try to remember…when was the last time I had sex out of nowhere? When was the last time my hand innocently brushed against someone else’s, sending a spray of electricity, shocking us both? When was the last time I looked up into someone’s eyes, innocently, with no agenda, and just let the mood build? When was the last time I had sex that unfolded like a story? Sex that just happened?
I miss that.
I am all for going after what I want. For both parties being up front. For meeting someone with the full-knowledge that both of us are only there because we want to bang. But there is something so real about the chance meeting, the slow connection, the touch for the sake of touch until there is nowhere to be but on each other, grasping and naked.
The kink party was fantastic.
Sir got an invite through Fet Life, and the guests were hand chosen by the host to include only friendly, open people. When we arrived, there was a group of people sitting around the island in the kitchen, eating, drinking and talking. A bunch of people welcomed us with hugs and made us feel totally at home, even though we didn’t know anyone.
There was bondage porn playing on the TV, a dungeon in the basement, and a bowl of condoms sitting on the table beside the chips and dip! We spent about an hour just getting to know everyone, and then the fun began. The host, Mr. S, kicked things off by making his submissive, Peanut, get on all fours, exposing her ass-cheeks by lifting the skirt of her skimpy french maid outfit, and spanking, punching and kicking her bare bottom. It seemed kind of brutal to me, but I knew she was a pain slut and absolutely loved it. She’d told me earlier that when she got her tattoos and piercings (she had both nipples done–so sexy!), she orgasmed each time. I watched for awhile (she had a fantastic ass, after all), then went back to the kitchen to join Sir.
When Mr.S offered to give Sir a tour of the dungeon, I was told to go too. We headed down the narrow stairs into the basement, where it was FREEZING (!), and he showed us around. There was a black bench with leather cushions big enough for two, and a cross with wrist and ankle restraints. Hung along the wall were whips and paddles of all kinds, from wide to slim, leather to bamboo. And around it all was a theater of sorts–couches and arm chairs where people could watch others do their thing. A little shiver went through me.
(To be Continued…)
While I was on vacation last week, Daddy’s Friend told me to send him a picture of my pussy. I declined. I lost my cell phone and I was not about to take explicit photos with my camera and upload them to my in-laws computer. It just wasn’t going to happen. Strike one.
I have a terrible sense of direction. Just terrible. This is how, when I returned home, I wound up circling D.F.’s neighbourhood in my car, knowing his street was just around the corner but having no idea how to get there–despite having been there before. I was almost twenty minutes late. Strike two.
I was punished for both offenses. I was told to strip naked and then get upstairs. He stuck his fingers in my pussy as he climbed the stairs behind me, teasing me. I wanted more. He bent me over the bench at the foot of the bed, then took off his belt. Standing over me, he pushed his cock into my mouth and I sucked him and whimpered as he whipped my stinging ass cheeks repeatedly.
“Say ‘thank you’,” he commanded.
“Thank you, Sir.”
He rewarded my compliance by filling my wet pussy, first with fingers, then with cock. He pushed in deep, giving me equal parts pain and pleasure. The contrast was so intense that at any given moment I didn’t know whether I wanted to pull away or fuck harder against him. I came furiously, soaking us both, and was given a moment to recover before the large, round head of a magic wand was pushed against my pussy. I gasped and immediately started to moan, as he ground the vibrator into me, up and down the front of my sex, and fucked me with his fingers.
The vibration against my clit felt so sublime that it didn’t hurt when he thrust a third finger into me, and then a fourth. The pressure on my insides mounted until I was literally out of control, sobbing and screaming and coming. The vibrating stopped. I was stretched beyond comprehension.
“Have you ever felt so full?” he asked me.
I shook my head, unable to speak.
He repeated his question. “Have you ever felt so full?”
“No, Sir,” I panted.
He told me to sit up and look. His entire fist was inside me. I gasped.
“You didn’t think I could fit so much inside such a tight little pussy, did you?”
I shook my head, still out of breath.
He turned the vibrator on again. “Let’s rub your clit some more.”
He moved the vibrator over my pussy in circles, fucking me at the same time with his entire, massive hand.
I went through the roof, writhing and howling with pleasure as he fisted me, digging my nails into him and coming in rough, strong waves.
“Fuck, God, Fuck, God yes!”
When I finally came down, he soothed me by rubbing my pussy and my tits before turning me over and entering me from behind.
He rammed into my sensitive, swollen pussy and then took off the condom, about to come on my back.
“I want you to come inside me,” I whispered.
“I want you to come in my pussy,” I repeated, louder this time.
He fucked me with his bare cock, and my entire body responded. I could feel everything as his hot liquid blasted inside of me.
“Are you on the pill?” he asked when we were done.
He wasn’t very impressed.
I hope he punishes me for that.