Wednesday, February 29, 2012
I have a love/hate relationship with porn. On the love side, I consume it regularly. It’s my favorite masturbation accompaniment – I prefer it to fantasy infinitely. Well, that’s not quite right: fantasy plays a huge part in my life – it’s just not how I bring myself off when I’m rubbing my cock. That’s how I use porn. And not just when jerking off – also as a sort of idle leisure-time activity.
On the hate side? The vast majority of porn not only doesn’t arouse me – it actively turns me off. There’s almost no porn (other than, as I’ve written, X-Art, Amateur Allure, and the “OnlyAllSites” suite of web sites) that resonates for me, and, the way I’m wired, I’m constantly in touch with the portion of my reaction to anything (including/especially that which I find most satisfying) that’s disappointed. So herewith – a review of the porn I dislike least. A healthier person might manage to present this as a review of the porn I like most, but hey – that would be another dude’s blog.
Fuckers disabled my Google+ profile. I don't know if this means that Blogger is about to disable me and this blog too, but it's definitely complexifying my life for now, as my Blogger profile and my G+ profile were linked.
Some requests for you, gentle readers:
1) E-mail me here if you want me to notify you where my blog lands up. I promise to use your e-mail for no purpose other than that, not to share it with anyone for any reason, and to delete it after notifying you.
2) If you're not comfortable with that, which I perfectly well would understand, google "mydissolutelife" in a week or so's time - I hope to be up and running somewhere else shortly.
3) Give me advice on blogging platforms: what's good for us smutty, pseudonymous folks? Is it WordPress? Something else?
4) Make some noise about Google's unfortunate "Names Policy" and "User Content and Conduct Policy." I understand that I'm not the customer - the people they sell my information to is/are - but Google is a utility, and a natural monopoly, and its behavior (and that of Facebook, too, which is similarly a natural monopoly) should be regulated.
Check out the message I get when I try to log on to G+:
"After reviewing your profile, we determined that some of the content (for example text, images, or name) violates the Google+ User Content and Conduct Policy or Names Policy. Please remember that profiles are limited to individuals; use Google+ Pages for businesses and other entities.
While suspended, you will not be able to make full use of Google services that require an active profile, such as Google+, Reader, and Picasa. This will not prevent you from using other Google services, like Gmail.
If you believe that your profile was suspended in error, or if you recently changed your profile to comply with our policies please submit your profile for reconsideration.
Your profile will be reviewed again and we will lift the suspension if it complies with our policies. Reviews are usually completed within a few days.
We're sorry for the inconvenience.
We understand that Google+ and its Names Policy may not be for everyone at this time. We'd be sad to see you go, but if you do choose to leave, make a copy of your Google+ data first. Then, click here to disable Google+."
Yesterday, I wrote about pussies – today, I write about breasts. I like them. I like them big, I like them small. Perky, saggy, big aureolae, small ones, inverted nipples, eraser nipples – you name it, I like it. With one exception: silicone. I hate silicone.
Go to any strip club, and you’re sure to see a horde of pneumatic women, breasts that don’t move when the women to whom they’re appended hang upside down on poles, breasts that defy not just gravity but entropy – by not bursting.
Why do women want these breasts? Why do men want them?
My trainer – a hot, young, thing – had beautiful B-cup breasts. (The picture below shows what her breasts used to look like.)
Unfortunately, she wanted something a little more… attention-grabbing. So she saved up and stuffed some 20s in her breasts, after first converting them into silicone. Now? She looks (to me) ridiculous. And she doesn’t look hot any more….
A wise man once said to me that the reason many men prefer large breasts is because it is a sort of insurance policy against the possibility that they might harbor some latent homosexual feelings. Or maybe it has something to do with our fantasy relationships with our moms. Who knows?
But it’s not for me.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Let me start by saying, I love pussy. I love eating it, fingering it, fucking it, looking at it, pressing against it , and thinking about it. Whether it’s bushy or waxed, I love it all.
But the time has come for me to weigh in on pubic hair. (I know, I know – “N,” you’re saying. “What the fuck took you so long?”)
When I was growing up, the idea that a woman (never mind a man) would shave her pubic hair was unheard of. Playboy, Penthouse, Club, High Society – the bibles of my adolescent sexuality – all featured copious bushes, and this was part of what made them so hot.
All of the images that I jerked off to as a kid featured unshaven, often unruly bushes, and this was part of what, at the time, I understood sexy to be:
The kids today (and by kids, I mean people in their, oh, say, 20s-50s) seem to favor all ladies shaved (see ALSScan for a site dedicated to particularly clean-shaved women – it kind of creeps me out, feeling dangerously close to kiddie porn).
And not just ladies, guys too.
First, some very basic prejudices: women have pubic hair, girls don’t. For this reason, I find it a bit unsettling when I encounter a woman with no pubic hair, whether in porn or in real life. It always activates my “ACK – she’s a little, pre-pubescent girl” switch. And for me, this is not a good thing. I don’t like being called “Daddy” – except by someone whom I’ve fathered – and I don’t want to think about pre-pubescence when thinking about mashing together private bits. I don’t care if you like calling your partner “Daddy,” but if you call me “Daddy,” my cock will shrink to the size it was when I called my Dad “Daddy.”
In addition, unless you’ve been waxed TODAY, it’s likely that a consequence of your most recent landscaping efforts is stubble. Now, stubble’s fine on a leg, as far as I’m concerned. But rubbing against my cock? Or my tongue? Or cheeks? Only if I’m kissing a man, and that’s something I do very infrequently, what with how I’m straight and all. (Not that there’s anything wrong with it, or that it can’t be really hot.)
My own preference runs toward the “neat”: I feel about pubic hair pretty much how I feel about the hair on your head. I like it neat, and think its style should reflect your style. This could be a perfectly manicured landing strip; it could be a neatly trimmed lawn; it could be a neat, but somewhat bushy, well, bush. It’s not something I ever think much about in the heat of the moment. (I’ve never thought, “Ew, well, I was going to fuck her – but look at that – she’s got untrimmed pubic hair!”) More often, I think, “Ooh – yummy!”
A few months ago, I attended a party in New York at which expectations concerning pubic hair were made abundantly clear in a cautionary e-mail sent out the night before the party:
Although our guests constitute the hottest crowd of any erotic event in the world, we nonetheless must address the topic of hygiene and grooming for MALES. Often, pictures we receive don't reveal details that we later find out at parties. Guys, if you have a hairy back, shave or wax it. If you expect to have a chance of anyone (including your significant other) to go down on you, you should also shave and trim your lower member. Women at our parties are always well-groomed and take care of themselves, so it's important that the males do the same. If you aren't cool with this, you will not be invited back. We require a high threshold of quality for our upscale, sexy guests, for the benefit of everyone else attending (including potential playmates).
I had visions of an inspection of my man-scaping, of being thrown out before the party began, or of a woman taking one look at my somewhat hairy nether regions and sneering in disgust. In the event, we pretty much stuck with the couple we had arrived with, who received my pubic hair just fine.
Now – I’m neat and tidy. I generally do a bit of man-scaping. I adhere to the preferences I laid out above: mine is neat, but it reflects my style. It looks less like topiary than like shrubbery, and, as with my head and my face, I generally let a day or two too many go before shaving, except when I have big plans.
All this baffles me just a bit: seems to me, people should do what they’ll do, that it seems an odd place to feel entitled to have expectations about what others do, but, at the same time, I’m genuinely confused by the seemingly hegemonic preference for bareness.
I'm a fan of some hair on both men and women. I think totally bare isn't so attractive. Also, I think it's too hard to maintain, speaking as someone who has really bad luck with waxing. It's uncomfy to shave certain areas, and stubble on top/in the apex of the cleft rubs him the wrong way. Not a fan for either of us.
As for him, I am a big fan of neatly, shortly trimmed, and nearly shaved on the balls. It's soooooooo much better for oral. Like unbelievable to me how much more pleasant it is than with a full bush. And honestly, without some hair, I just don't think it would smell as good. Scent is very important to me.
And Debutante Dilettante, who says, “trim but no more.” She says “absolutely not!” to waxing. Or said that, but has been tweeting today about her “Hollywood waxing” in anticipation of her own first visit to a sex party. (I have no idea what a “Hollywood” is.) And finally, Bi and Bi, who says she’s been waxing lately, because she can’t get “smooth enough” from shaving.
What do you think?
Monday, February 27, 2012
Have I mentioned how much I want you? How much I want to see you? To feel you? To taste you?
How sleep is nearly impossible? How concentration is simply out of reach?
My eyes could burn a hole through your tight top, through your jeans. Why are you dressed so cruelly? There is no part of your body to which I can have the instant access I crave.
I need you. Now....
Sunday, February 26, 2012
She sits before me, her gorgeous stockinged legs crossed, the camera pointed at me. “You may cum now,” she says.
I stroke my cock faster. As I imagine her mouth, her hands on it, she turns the lens, bringing me into focus as I cum.
The camera is probably ruined.
It’s been over a week since I last came. I’ve shared a bedroom with my son for nine nights now. A sensible man might have brought himself off in the shower, or after his son closed his eyes. Not I. Somewhere in the last few days, I decided to “save” my orgasm for my return home (tomorrow).
Needless to say, I’m looking forward to getting home.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Each week, Unconscious Mutterings puts up a list of words and invites participants to do a little stream of consciousness, in public. I generally don’t go in for that sort of thing, but I couldn’t resist 1, 2, and 7 in this list….
- Crown :: The part of my cock I most enjoy your licking
- Landmark :: Place I’ve fucked
- Shock :: Not yet….
- Affair :: Not my style.
- Appear :: Conceal, reveal
- Contemplate :: Clothing
- Hinge :: Bend over while I fuck you.
- Function :: Suck
- Obstinate :: No
- Fulfill :: Suck
"Get it up," "keep it up".... These don't feel remotely accurate to me. They suggest that I have something to do with the mysterious hydraulics of my cock.
I've found myself hard on a bus filled with denture-wearing, demented senior citizens, and soft in the mouth of the hottest of sex partners. Sometimes, I think my cock is a barometer of my mental state, my true, subconscious level of desire. Others, I think its turgidity is random, or worse.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
It's getting late by you. Soon, you'll be getting in bed, tuning out for the evening. I don't know what you wear to bed, but tonight, I would suggest that you sleep topless, in cotton panties.
DON’T stick your hand inside your panties.
I want you to touch yourself through the panties, to press them into your cunt, hard. And trace the outside of the panties with your fingernails - tease your thighs, your cunt, with your own touch.
But don't go in - don't stick your finger inside you, no matter how wet you get, no matter how much your pussy craves it. Don't reach for a toy (except to press it against your panties).
Roll over, on your stomach, a hand under your crotch, so when you simply lie down, when you allow the weight of your midsection to be transmitted to your bed, it can't help but press your clit down on your fingers.
And sleep well.
First, list a few parts of speech - say, nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs. Then, make a list of five of each that get you hard, or wet. Next? Pick out a few pictures that you really like. (I keep a running set of those that turn me on here.)
Then, it's story time. Write a story, inspired by the picture, and using all the words.
Oh yeah - play with yourself liberally while you're at it....
Let me know how it goes.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Although we weren’t young when we married, it was as if we were. We loved each other truly, madly, deeply, and we satisfied the requisite two of the three possible requirements for a satisfying marriage: we made each other think and made each other laugh. Although we made each other cum, we did so infrequently, and somewhat perfunctorily. Worse, this was fine by both of us, or so we each would have had the other believe. (And maybe, so we would have had ourselves believe.)
We each had different strategies for managing our sexual malaise. Mine grew metastatically from occasional visits to strip clubs to “happy ending” massages once a month to once a week to daily, to “sugar daddy” arrangements, and to a host of other, more destructive and costly behaviors. Needless to say, this all required lots of deception, self- and otherwise. And lots and lots of money.
Meanwhile, we kept at it in the marriage, trying to make the sex part better. But we both presented lots of obstacles to the other. Mine surely were “worse,” in any relative comparison. But they weren’t alone.
Then, one day, it all came clear to me: I wasn’t solving our problems off on my own (as I had told myself). I wasn’t getting that to which I was entitled (which I told myself more infrequently). I was (as) an addict – out of control of virtually every aspect of my life, totally absent.
I got help. Went to a 12-step program, got “sober,” or whatever that means. And I told my wife, pulling the rug out from under her. To her credit (or detriment?), she concluded that, as awful as I’d been, as bad as all this was, she didn’t want to leave me.
She was angry – furious – and confused, and disoriented. But she wanted to stay with me. Probably for some good and some bad reasons.
So we did the things couples do in this situation. We started seeing a shrink together, we worked through our shit, and we discovered that, lo and behold, there were even more problems than just my thieving, lying, cheating ways.
We focused on those problems, both of us, in earnest, in a spirit of devoted commitment to one another and our family. And we hit lots of bumps in the road. Some put there by me, some by her. And the car kept on going – the bumps slowed us down, but they never stopped us.
And then, about a year ago, we passed the end of the bumpy, rutted dirt road and found ourselves, once again, on a smoothly paved one. Our therapist pronounced us ready for graduation, or rather, agreed with our own pronouncement that we were ready. And we were. We emerged into the sunlight of a new day, with stronger love and trust for one another (albeit dented, to be sure) and deeper commitment.
Through it all, all I can say is that I demonstrated, over and over, my deeply felt understanding that I was entitled to nothing, that the harshest possible judgment of me was merited. The only thing I demanded (as much as one in my shoes could demand anything) was that, if she wasn’t ready to forgive me, she at least aspire to forgiving me. There were days on which she couldn’t, on which even forgiveness felt for her a bridge too far.
Thankfully, those days have been few and far between, and most days, we live the life that I document my half of in this blog.
Friday, February 17, 2012
With apologies to those offended by my politics (at least one of you has complained)....
I move that we introduce a new form of the word "Santorum": to fuck a woman or man while s/he holds an aspirin, or any other object, between the knees, or that position.
Context would make clear whether the word was being used in its original noun form or the newer form:
1. After I fucked him, I was dismayed to find Santorum all over the kitchen table.
2. My favorite position? Santorum.
Liza and I have been trading writing assignments. I gave her “jealousy,” and she handled it winningly (I recommend reading her thoughts on it). She gave me “cheating”: “I'm curious about your history with cheating--only on T, or was it a pattern in relationships? When was the first time it happened, and what did it feel like afterward?”
The short answer to the question is no, it wasn’t a pattern. In my relationships prior to T, I only cheated once, a few months into a relationship when I was 17. It was devastating to both of us, and I never did it again. Including through a long, sexless relationship in my 20s that looked a lot like a 20-year-old marriage (as opposed to a marriage between 20-year-olds).
If you've been following this blog, you know that a key concern of mine is my likability. I want you to like me, not just to come here for the prurient bits (which I do hope you like as much as I do), but also for the more introspective and/or thoughtful bits. Both Liza and L have recently weighed in (as has T, a bit, even further behind the scenes) on a key issue: my emotional availability and vulnerability.
L pointed out to me recently that, whereas in Liza's blog, and Violet's and Rye's, and Guy New York's, there is affect and emotion and tenderness shown between the various participants in escapades, here, there is little or none. (Guy New York, in particular, almost always ends his posts with a moment of tenderness and connection.)
I think this a good point, and one that gets at some interesting questions. I've been writing a bit about jealousy lately, here and elsewhere, and I think that there's something important, to me, going on in my studious withholding of affect from my reports of the sex I have.
I would be jealous (as I have described in several places) were I to read accounts by T, or L (or even Liza, with whom I have hardly even a slightly flirtatious relationship) that were anything other than physical, logistical, mechanical. And so,to spare my wife, and to a lesser extent, L, I leave it all out. Or rather, to model that from which I hope they’ll spare me….
Which leaves me seeming, as Liza said, "aloof." I'm sorry to my readers for this, and it pains me, not least because I think it's just wrong. I think I'm the opposite: accessible, revealing, disclosing.
That's a little self-serving: I'm sure I'm also protecting myself. I'd rather believe that L can't "hurt" me, because it's my cock, not my heart, that she has a grip on. But that's not true, and I've gestured in that direction. I feel genuine warmth, affection, caring not just for L, but for her whole family. But it is interesting that I keep any such feelings out of – far away from – my depictions of our sex.
I don't know exactly what to do with this insight, but I will work on it. Not because I "want to be more sympathetic," as Liza put it (and I winced at the suggestion of performance, of inauthenticity), but because I want to be more honest and accurate and complete.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
I didn’t write this. A lovely correspondent of mine did, in response to a tweet I had sent: “Describe for me a memorable sexual encounter that did not involve nudity.” I enjoyed it so much, I thought I’d share it with you:
I strut into the bar confidently, knowing his gaze is already upon me. Stopping long enough to scan the crowd, I feel a surge of sexual longing when our eyes meet.
He’s chosen a booth in the farthest corner, and I smile knowing it’s for the sole purpose of watching me as I move across the room.
I walk towards him slowly. Deliberately. And although I’m getting more and more turned on with each step, I remind myself “This is strictly business”.
He greets me with a hug, but this time he pulls me close and presses his entire body into mine. I’m a bit flustered and he knows it. I think he enjoys it.
I slide into the booth across from him and hand him the completed paperwork.
The waitress arrives. He announces that we’re celebrating tonight and orders two shots of Patron Silver. My favorite.
He gives a toast thanking me for my efforts to close our business deal and we drink the tequila. It goes down easily, maybe too easily.
“Woo! That feels good”, I say as the warmth spreads down my body.
“Then we need two more!” he replies with a smile.
I know better, but I drink the second shot. We flirt, then feeling bold and full of desire, I begin tracing my foot up his leg until it reaches his crotch.
He grabs my foot and holds it close so I can feel his hardness.
The waitress brings us the bill and I quickly straighten myself up, but she sees what I’ve been doing and smiles.
We talk about our business deal as he walks me to my car. It’s cold, and the conversation isn’t finished so we get inside.
Suddenly, he grabs the back of my hair and pulls my head back as he leans in to passionately kiss me, his tongue darting into my mouth as I eagerly kiss him back. His fingers slip beneath my blouse. He pinches my nipple and I let out a small moan as his other hand lightly strokes my neck.
Without thinking I whisper “Are you going to choke me?”
“Careful what you wish for…” he replies, before placing both hands on the front of my throat and squeezing gently, but firmly. I gasp and let out a squeal as the electricity surges from my throat to my pussy, making me instantly wet.
He squeezes my throat again and asks “Do you like it?”
I’m overwhelmed by what I’m feeling- this has never happened to me before- and I have to sit there for a moment before whispering “Yes.”
He tells me “You need to be taken. Against a wall. “ and I melt with desire.
We kiss some more before saying good night and going our separate ways.
It was the sexiest experience I’ve ever had, and I’m glad you asked me to describe it.
P.S. My panties are now soaked and I’m taking them off….
She’s tiny – maybe 5’2”. She has black hair and pale white skin. Pulled back tight, as it usually is, her hair is straight, except for the curly bit behind the scrunchie. Her eyes are shocking: the whites, milky; the green, almost crystalline; the black, pitch.
Her breasts are small, no bigger than A-cups. Her waist is tiny, her hips flare out – she has a surprisingly large waist-to-hip ratio.
Her teeth are pearly white, her smile (as I think I may have said before) infectious. She is one of those people who truly lights up a room when she smiles. Her ass is round, meaty, surprisingly big given her tiny size. She has a few tattoos, in direct contrast to her innocent mien. The tattoos identify her as the property of another, though she professes to be through with him, to intend to remove the tattoos.
She always dresses just across the line of sexy, into whorish. I was embarrassed to be seen with her – her whorishness drew attention, when discretion was more of what I craved. Her heels, too high; her skirts, too short; her tops, too tight; her lipstick, too red. She never wears a bra (she doesn’t need to, but that doesn’t stop many women). She rarely wears panties, though she would for me, because I asked.
Her fulfillment of requests was exquisite: there was never a question, never a challenge, never a push back.
She introduced me to true submission, and I’ll always owe her for this.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Thanks, E-Lust, for making "Secretary" one of your top three stories this month. I'm in AWESOME company.
Photo courtesy of Penny
Welcome to e[lust], the sex blog round-up- The best posts from the hottest and smartest sex bloggers all in one place! This edition highlights topics such as STI's, swingers and poly relationships, spanking, role play and so much more. Want to be included in e[lust] #34? Start with the rules, come back in February to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ The Top Three Posts ~
I'm The 48% - I keep breathing. Strangely enough, the world didn’t end at that precise moment. I felt numb. I stared at those two red lines on the monitor.
Can Swingers be Happily Married? Long Term? - Swinging can be an exhilarating experience. It requires sincerity, honesty, vulnerability, strength, forgiveness, and patience.
Secretary - I was a little worried: my intentions in placing the ad had been purely dishonorable, but her response offered no evidence that she correctly divined my intentions.
~ e[lust] Editress ~
Why I Write – And Respect – Negative Sex Toy Reviews - I call a spade a spade, and name it out for being crap no matter if it’s $39 crap or $139 crap. Crap is crap and you shouldn’t have to buy it.
~ Featured Post (Picked by Lilly) ~
A Little Spanking Can Go A Long Way - All I could do was hold on until it was over. It was more than I could take, but I took it and, of course, I loved it.
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
A Great Fuck
all my weight on her
a Masturbation Story
Having him in my mouth
Kiss Me There
Sodom: Enter the Fist
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
A Beginner's Guide to Spanking
A Matter of Lube
Attraction, Rejection and Uncertainty
Bad Vibes, Generally
Fluidity: Growing-up Poly Part VI
Never Pinch a Sadist
Near Outing due to Outrage
Porn, Pubic Hair, Sex & Reality
Sadie Says ... Remember Santa Barbara
Kink & Fetish
Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor
“Do twelve reps!” she barked to me.
My triceps were burning. I didn’t think I could squeeze out five more reps, let alone twelve.
She leaned down in front of me, her cleavage in my face. “I know you can,” she said.
My eyes glued to her chest, I pulled the bar down in front of me. I don’t know how I managed to do it, but I did – twelve reps.
“Good boy,” she said. I always feel patronized when she praises me. She’s young, she’s in sick shape. I’m older, and not flabby, but not a gym rat either. There’s little I can do with weights that she can’t do, and she’s smaller, female, etc., so praise from her inevitably rings hollow.
And/but, when she praises me, when she says “good boy,” it always brings to mind the image of me throwing her around a little, making demands of her, saying, “Good girl” when she earns it….
She writes that she wonders “whether [my] diffuse narrative and aloof style lead readers, especially new readers, to think that [I am] having non-consensual extramarital affairs and [am] consistently seeking same.” I’m not.
She also asks, “how do you go from all the (presumably secret) cheating to having what seems to be a pretty healthy and positive open relationship? With the same woman? Who clearly was able to come to terms with the situation. All the other stuff I can wrap my head around. This is the part that leaves me scratching my head. In a good way, but also in a ‘I cannot imagine ever going there/coming out of it’ sort of way.” My very short answer: good luck and hard work, in that order.
I understand that this is a crucial question. Unfortunately, I suspect it’s one this blog never can answer.
Partially, this is a problem of narrative structure: if you’ve read every word of this blog (a dubious achievement, to be sure) you know that I’m obsessively, painfully honest and disclosing. There are no (longer any) secrets in my life. My wife reads this blog, she vets much of what I write, and exercises welcome editorial control over subjects and approaches. I suspect that she learns little by reading this, other than the occasional flash of insight into the deep recesses of my brain that our conversations hadn’t unearthed.
You also know that I wasn’t always honest – that for a long time (twelve years), there was a disconnect between the “me” my wife saw and the “me” I was. I lied, cheated, and was increasingly out of control.
And, to get to what I imagine is Liza’s point, you have absolutely zero insight as to how my wife interacted with the me that was, how we, how she, made the transition from what we were to what we are.
(How) did she forgive me?
(How) can she trust me?
Does she trust me?
(How) can she love me, after all I did?
(How) can she join me, as she does, in much (but not all) of my dissolute life?
And, perhaps most important, how the hell did we get from there to here?
This blog has a structural problem, in that T doesn’t write in it (other than voting in my little poll on the upper right hand of the page), or at least, hasn’t written or commented so far (I think she knows she’d be welcome to participate in whatever way she might wish). That’s not a structural problem for me, or for T, but it is for a reader hungry to know the full story, including the backstory, of my dissolute life. Suffice it to say, if T ever were to write her own blog on these matters, it’d be a doozy (and if you like this one, you’d love that one.
And I’m sorry, but I have little to offer there. If my wife is to speak, she’ll do so to her own audience, on her own terms, on her own timetable. I don’t know that she has any interest in entering the fray here. Nor do I (frankly) care – I love her desperately, and am enormously grateful for her love and loyalty. She owes me nothing, and while I understand Liza’s (and perhaps your) hunger to learn a bit more about her, you will get what you get on that front.
Here’s what I can offer you (and if you’re reading this, you should know that it’s been through T’s filter, and she’s approved these words): like many marriages, ours has been through the wars. And like every marriage, the apportionment of blame (or credit) is never as crystal clear as anyone, within or without, might like to imagine. I have committed horrendous, enormous sins. I also have worked mighty hard to right the wrongs I did. Every day, I wake up grateful to my wife – not just for loving and supporting me, sticking by me, but for being herself, for being the person with whom I fell in love all those years ago, and for remaining (seemingly) in love with me after all this.
I came out of my closet to T almost three years ago. In the time since then, a lot of water has flowed under a lot of bridges. I have reinvented myself – physically (lost 20% of my body weight), professionally (changed careers), spiritually (adopted a mindfulness meditation practice the likes of which I would have scoffed at three years ago), familially (I’m a stay-at-home dad for the time being), and psychologically (I’ve totally reinvented my conception of who I am, what it means to be me).
I think it’s not an exaggeration to say that anyone who knows me would have a hard time reconciling much about who I am today with who I was three years ago. And yet… and yet… there remains an essential continuity.
And – and this is where the blog really falls down – the same is true of T. So much has changed for her, both as regards herself personally and as regards her participation in our marriage, in our family.
Those few who know us both, who know both of our “sides” of the “story,” such as it is, are struck both by how similar both sides are, and by how credible, how believable, our shared construction of one another’s sympathetic and less-than-sympathetic moments have been.
Everyone is agreed that “99% of the women in the world would have left me.” I think that, at the same time, none of T’s friends or family EVER has suggested that she should have left (or should leave) me. If they have, I don’t know about it. (That’s not strictly speaking true, as I think about it – I have a vague memory of one of her friends trying to fix her up with someone at a particularly difficult moment for us.)
This may not answer whatever questions my words so far have raised, and I apologize for not being more concrete, not giving more details. I’ve tried a few times to write a simple re-telling of the story, but it’s impossible to do so without speaking for T, and I wouldn’t presume to do that.
I’m happy to do my best to answer any specific questions you may have – feel free to ask away in the comments. I’m genuinely not trying to be opaque or to hide anything – I just am reluctant to speak for anyone other than myself.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Me, I have lots of that, but I also have the dark, seamy underbelly of pleasure – compulsion, addiction. You read me and you see not just pleasure, but craving. Not just pursuit, but drivenness. And it’s no wonder that you react with some trepidation to that.
Tell me what brought you here, what you want to see more of, in the poll on the upper right of this blog. Thanks!
L is working through her shit. She and her husband are on a road that’s not the same one T and I are on, that doesn’t have the same history, or the same participants.
But she’s not in a place where all that stuff can continue, and she’s not in a place where I want it to (as much as I want it to).
She apologized the other day for “leading me on,” for the volatility that characterizes her and her husband’s thinking about stuff. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “This shit is complicated.”
And it is.
Sometimes I write about fucking other women, about knowing my wife fucks other men, about sometimes our doing all that together, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if it were simple, as if it were easy. And sometimes it is. But more often, it’s not. It’s really complicated. The emotions that get stirred up are intense, and often painful. There’s not just jealousy – there’s fear, anger, resentment, envy, sadness, inadequacy, insecurity…. All that and more. So why would anyone do it?
Because, to be honest, for me, all those emotions are omnipresent anyway – they’re not really a feature of the monogamish path. Rather, they’re a feature of life, and the monogamish path just demands that they be acknowledged, that they come to the fore, that we communicate about them.
Just like you, I imagine, I always had insecurities about myself – I have them today, and I had them twenty years ago. The difference is, today, I can talk about them with my wife, I can see her fuck a guy who activates those insecurities – and I can see her come home from fucking him to me, demonstrating conclusively that she loves me, that she isn’t going to leave me for another guy.
I know that L and her husband have a lot to work through, and I don’t presume for a moment that I know how it will end up, how it should end up. Or even that “end up” is the right way to think about it. T and I haven’t “ended up” anywhere – we are where we are. We’ve been other places, and I expect we’re not in our last place. I’m sure they’re not in theirs, either. From what I’ve seen, they’re two smart, creative people who love one another terribly much.
I hope they travel safely on their path, and I miss L.
But perhaps for you? What a funny name for a woman from The ussr. (I thought the USSR had dissolved – maybe even before Keene was born. Hmmmm. I wonder if she’s for real.) She does look hot. Maybe I’ll respond and see what comes of it…. But if she appeals to you, feel free – I have no possessiveness over Keene. In any event, I am a bit of a stickler for good grammar and spelling….
From: "Keene Rothfuss" <email@example.com>
Date: Feb 13, 2012 1:01 PM
Hello there! I seen personal profile before.Unfortunately I don't recall to my mind exactly where... I exactly don't remember... I could came up with another kind of motive to chat, however I don't want to mess your head :).
Could we dispense with no procedures?Am I Allowed To talk to you ? My nickname "Kuma"! :) I would want to be your girly friend, as well as correspond with you. I talk 2 'languages'. Now I am 24. I'm from the The ussr.
I emailed you my picture. Sorry because of this photograph. Hopefully you don't think I am a bad lady. I'll write to you a lot more should you pardon me for these types of straightforward picture.
Monday, February 13, 2012
It's not just that I'm scared I'll lose her. It's that I'll lose her TO someone, someone who, by virtue of being more desirable (to her) than I am, renders me completely undesirable. (And, for what it's worth, "her" in this instance could equally well be my wife or a flight attendant I've known for five minutes.)
But why is jealousy such a powerful emotion? Why do we organize so much human activity - and absence of activity - around the imperative of minimizing jealousy? Why can we not bear to shoulder the burden of jealousy even for a moment?
Lately, I’ve been thinking a bit about how money works, about how it can simultaneously deliver and undermine fantasies.
As I’ve written about before, my ultimate fantasy is endless oral sex with endless women. And I’m a lucky guy – it’s not that infrequent that I have the experience of long blowjobs from two women at a time. But invariably, when that happens, the women are women I know, like, even care about. And I’m not paying them.
So often, after just a few minutes after the blowjob begins, I’m thinking empathetically about their experience, about what I’ll do with/to them. This seems right and good. It deepens the emotional content of the experience, and inevitably leads to fucking and licking and all sorts of other fun.
And that’s all good.
On the other hand, when I care about people, I tend not to feel so comfortable asking them to suck my cock for three hours. Especially if I’m not also paying them.
But if I’m paying someone, or someones, to attend to my cock, well, then an aspect of the experience that I’m structurally denied (as I’ve written before) is the opportunity to feel genuinely desired.
And here I am, in my relatively vanilla existence. I infer, from what I read on the FetLife, and Twitter, that there are cock sluts out there, women who genuinely live to suck cock. I’ve even met (and paid) a few of those. But my life – as dissolute as it is – hasn’t brought me into contact with anyone who simply wants to suck my cock forever and ever, and/or whom I’m comfortable asking to do that, without an exchange of money happening.
It feels almost an exquisite torture that I know how to bring about a world in which two, three or more women – women who all really love sucking cock – suck my cock. But in that world, I’m out a shitload of money, doing something my wife (understandably) doesn’t want me to do, and (because of the money) not able to believe that the women really want to be sucking my cock.
(For what it’s worth, I also don’t want to be doing that, for a whole host of reasons – not least of which is that I have squandered so much time, energy, and money away from my family, I REALLY don’t want to do any such squandering any more. It’s just not the me I want to be, and, thankfully, I mostly am the me I want to be at this point in my life.)
But back to those women I could pay: it may be that they are/were perfectly happy to be sucking my cock. But no matter what, the fact that it’s MY cock is/was of little or no interest to them, except as regards their pocketbook.
And to add to the exquisite torture, somehow I’ve managed to create a universe in which I – for whom a night in which two women suck my cock is something that actually happens fairly often – manage STILL to feel like there’s a cocksucking adventure that I want to have, that I SHOULD have, but can’t.
Yet another way in which it sucks to be me. Or not.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
I just want you to like me.
I've written before about the relationship between my desire to be seen, not to be judged, and to be desired and approved affirmatively.
I was talking with L about this blog, about my hunger for viewers, for the affirmation that comes with growing viewership, and she said, "The thing is, N., you're much less sympathetic than, say, Liza” (whose blog, by the way, I love). L continued, “Liza is married, she's not doing things that most people couldn't imagine themselves doing. Most people can't imagine themselves going to a sex club, making out with a pregnant Hasidic woman while her husband fucks her, or flying a woman they've just met once to Miami for two days of sex. Let alone going to sex addiction twelve-step meetings, massage parlors, etc.”
I know she's right, that both the breadth of my exposure and the intensity of my hunger (witness the volume of posts on this blog - a good proxy for my... enthusiasm) can be off-putting.
But still, I have a failure of perspective: while I'm clearly dissolute, the truth is, I'm a pretty vanilla dissolute, as these things go. I’m not a “swinger” in “the lifestyle.” When I’ve been to swing parties, I’ve been one of the few people who doesn’t have an active profile on SLS, who doesn’t go to these things weekly. I’m much more like an adventurous tourist than I am a foreigner (if those are foreign lands). When I’ve been to sex clubs, I’ve been a wallflower compared to the people who go regularly, who “like” the sex parties on their Facebook profiles (yes – people do this), who have all fucked one another multiple times. (And just for perspective, I have fucked exactly one person, other than my wife or my date, in a sex club in my life.)
My “sex addiction,” such as it was, brought me a lot of experience with paid sex, to be sure. I’m not sure that my experiences were particularly deviant or unusual – except in its quantity. (Most men have been to strip clubs, massage parlors, and/or prostitutes; most, however, have just been to those latter sex workers once or twice in their lives, and more important, most have the good sense not to write blogs about their experiences.)
And yet – these deviant journeys are not what I’ve written about on this blog, for the most part. So what is it that makes me, in L’s mind, “unsympathetic,” or, as I think she really meant, a bit “foreign,” or even “intimidating”?
I just put up two new “polls,” on the upper right of this page, looking to ascertain how (or really why) you readers got here, and in coming days, I’ll also ask, I expect, about some of your negative feelings about what I’ve written here.
I’ve always been hungry to understand what people see when they look at me – not out of narcissism (he tells himself), but rather, out of a genuine sense of somewhat mystified uncertainty on the subject. What I see when I look at me, at least as regards this particular subset of my personality, is an open-minded, adventurous guy who also is articulate and curious. So when I’m tagged “unsympathetic” (and I imagine correctly, accurately) it baffles me just a little. Because I’m so wedded to this image of me as being essentially vanilla.
I always welcome anything anyone has to say on this (or any) subject, in the comments, or more privately, by e-mail.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
But anyway…. T and I had planned a night out – we were planning to go to Gemini & Scorpio’s Valentine’s kissing party. I confess, I’m a bit trepidatious about these G&S parties – their invitations caution against insufficiently extravagant clothing, and advise that people should “think Burning Man” when getting dressed.
I think, in general, if you have to spend an hour or more Googling just what that means – looking at pictures of men at Burning Men, trying to find pictures of G&S parties – then probably it’s precisely you (or, to be precise, me) that the velvet rope is meant to exclude.
In the event, we didn’t need to be excluded by them. We missed our second consecutive such party, succumbing once again to the Friday-evening fatigue with which every early-mid-40s parent couple is intimately familiar.
We retired to our bedroom, and commenced our current form of foreplay, blog-reading and writing in parallel, checking in with one another, sharing hot things we found. T, like me, is a big fan of Liza’s blog, and we discussed briefly what it is about Liza’s blog that makes it so compelling, and how it differs from mine.
And then we decided we would watch Mad Men and some porn, and fuck, probably not in that order, and probably not all separately. I suggested porn first, Mad Men later, theory being – we may pass out if we just watch Mad Men, and my cock is REALLY hard….
So porn it was. We opened up the X-Art web site (one of my current favorites), and started watching videos.
First up was “My Best Friend’s Boyfriend.” It began with two unbelievably hot women – a blonde and a brunette – on their backs, the blonde in a fuzzy white sweater and white cotton panties, her hand rubbing her clit, and the brunette with a faceless man’s cock resting on her lips. This would have done just fine for me, but for T, the facelessness of the man was a problem – one I understand, but don’t share.
Next came “Seaside Romp,” which began with a man chasing a (too-thin, in my opinion) woman on the beach. This one lasted all of ten seconds before T announced her disapproval.
There was another, “VIP Lounge,” this one with a platinum-haired blond guy, reminiscent of Rocky in “Rocky Horror,” and yet another perfect brunette.
“I know,” she said. “I’m being difficult.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, and I meant it. It’s ALL hot to me, although I, too, was pleased to move on.
Then came “Prelude to an Orgy.” This one featured Faye, an intensely freckled, red-headed woman with a tiny waist, nice meaty ass, and yummy-looking breasts, and a muscular, somewhat generically good-looking muscular blond guy. It opened with her sliding back and forth on his cock as they fucked doggy-style, and shortly, we saw them first cuddling and then, him licking her shaven pussy as she moaned.
I like X-Art videos in part because they feel real, not acted. This one was no exception. The performers didn’t seem to be conscious of the camera, they weren’t overly dramatic, I had the genuine sense we were just watching two people fuck.
At this point, T’s hand was in her panties, and I had one between her legs and one between mine. My cock couldn’t possibly have been harder. “I want to fuck you from behind while we both watch,” I said.
“That sounds hot,” she said. She rolled over on her side and I pulled her black cotton panties down, my boxer briefs off. I slid my cock inside her as I pulled her toward me. I couldn’t see the laptop’s screen, but I didn’t care. It took a few moments before I was sliding in and out in earnest, but soon I was: I pulled her toward me by her breasts, by her throat, and she pressed back into me.
I pulled out of her, and for just a moment, she swallowed my cock. I pressed her head down, her mouth reaching the base as I pressed deep into her throat. Then, I pulled her up and moved her onto her hands and knees. The video came to an end as the guy came on her chest and into her open, waiting mouth, and I pressed play on the next one before resuming our fucking.
The next video was “Private Tutor,” featuring Emma and “Mr. X.” He may be the same actor as the one who had just fucked Faye – I’m not sure. She is a platinum blonde, slender, with multiply pierced labia. As the video began, she was sucking his cock, and I slid mine into T once more.
I pushed her head down into the bed, leaning on her sculpted shoulderblades as I pounded her. (She has preternaturally defined shoulderblades and back muscles, from years of swimming.) In and out, I fucked, first with her legs spread and me between them, and then, closing her legs and moving mine to the outside, as more of a piledriver, I continued.
As is her wont, after a few minutes of this, her cunt expelled my cock as she came, gushing a torrent of salty liquid all over our bed and the pillow we had positioned under her. And then I was back inside her, my arm around her throat, pulling her whole body toward me as I rocked back and forth. On the screen, Mr. X. pulled out of Emma and shot cum all over her stomach and, for the first time in the 8 1/2-minute video, Emma looked directly in the camera as she squeezed her small tit and smiled.
While still pounding T, I selected what would be the last video – “My Love.” This, it turned out, was a solo effort, featuring Eufrat, playing with herself. She’s a stunning brunette with a radiant smile, big natural breasts, and dressed in black lingerie.
T was by now oblivious to the porn, having cum several times, and my cock still sliding in and out of her as I pressed her face down with one hand while navigating on the laptop with the other.
“Shit – this one’s solo,” I said.
“I don’t care,” she said. “But you know what would be hot?"
“What?” I said, as she squeezed her thighs tight on my cock.
“If, when you’re about to cum, you pull out…”
“And cum all over your back?” I said.
“Yes….” she moaned.
She was still wearing a sexy blue cotton top. I thought momentarily either about taking it off, or trying not to cum on it. But then I was thinking about other things as I sped up my pace, pulling her body toward me, pumping deep into her. I could feel that she was tiring, and so I began my final lap. I thrust deeper, harder, as Eufrat’s hand was rubbing her clit, and as she started fucking herself with a black silicone dildo.
I felt the waves come closer, the cum start to rise, and I pulled my cock out, shooting all over her ass and lower back just as she came, and Eufrat came. “Keep touching me,” T said, and I pulled out, and rubbed her cunt furiously with my hand, more salty cum squirting out of her.
We lay together, spooning for a few moments, and then, as I left to go to the bathroom, she switched the wand on….
Friday, February 10, 2012
To date, my sex life has consisted almost entirely of assertions of my power and control. I've done this with money, paying women to give me massages or provide lap dances or companionship; I've done it with dominance, providing direction and instructions, giving shape to sexual encounters and ensuring they look as I would have them look; and I've done it with my orgasm, controlling it, as I do, such that it is almost never something that happens to me, but rather, almost always something I either choose to do, or choose to permit. (More on this elsewhere, but suffice it to say, I have infinite stamina and nearly perfect self-control.)
In recent days, I've found myself pondering what it would be like to put myself in a position where control were handed to another, where rather than being the dom, I'd be the sub. Here's what's interesting about pondering such a reversal: althoJade Morey), it is nonetheless profoundly appealing and intriguing – mostly intellectually, but with a hint of sexual excitement somewhere there deep in the background. I find myself almost irresistibly drawn: what would it be like to relax, to let go of the need to plan an encounter, to direct the action?
As I went to meet L for our abortive date last night I thought about this: the pressure of conjuring a fun plan was, well, fun. But imagining ceding that responsibility feels fun too, and in a wholly different, and unfamiliar way.
I know what this means: I should try it.
Last night, L and I had a date scheduled – our first date since our resumption of regularly scheduled programming. It’s funny how these things work: that was three weeks ago, and since then, our relationship has been back to usual – multiple tweets, e-mails, etc., every day – pictures, instructions, games, what have you. It’s been insanely hot, and, truth be told, it’s that, more than the fucking, that we both enjoy most. Which is not to take ANYthing away from the fucking.
Anyway – she got in my car, dressed as I’d requested (I’d asked her to send me choices among her clothes, and had picked out a grey cashmere sweater/dress, black leggings, heeled boots, and black boy shorts with lacy trim). She looked hot, and I could hardly wait to feel my cock against the back of her throat, to shove my hand into her leggings and feel her dripping cunt. I knew she had brought the toys I’d requested as well, that her little JimmyJane vibrator (the one she played with in our Chinese hotel stay) was burning a hole in her bag.
But it wasn’t to be.
I looked in her eyes, and I knew that her departure from home had been strained. I asked her about it.
“You want the truth?” she asked.
You see, I don’t just fuck her – we’re also friends. I imagine myself an ally of hers, of her husband’s, of her marriage, of her family.
Without going into the details, for the second time since I’ve known her, I found myself not fucking her – not because she didn’t want to, not because she wouldn’t, but because it would have been the wrong thing to do.
Another dom might have plowed through her ambivalence, through her situation. Not this one.
Ah, the joys of adulthood.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
“I may have a naturally submissive personality, but I enjoy being forced….” Mariposa
“How do you tell the man you love that you want him to own you? That your desires are not of the vanilla kind. That you want him to dominate you in every aspect. That you need and crave consequences for your brattiness. That sometimes your [sic] bratty just because you need him to put you back in your place. That you want him to spank you when you break the rules.” Bratty Sub (unfortunately, her blog was very short-lived)
There are two different kinds of submissives*, in my experience. (Well, of course, there are an infinitude of kinds of submissives – but there are two useful broad categories into which submissives can be divided.)
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
The possibilities are endless.
To challenge her mind, to send her home with her head spinning and her cunt dripping? Or do I want to dress her like a little doll, show her off to a room full of leering, lecherous jealous sops?
To give her the reins, sending her home with a pound of my flesh? Or to make her scream, and send her home with a pound of my flesh under her fingernails?
To bring her to a room filled with hotties and give her bold, scary dares? Or to challenge her to give me bold, scary dares?
To go straight to our room, tie her to the bed, and not let her up for hours? Or to give her a blindfold, restraints, and a paddle, and challenge her to do her worst?
To bring her to a strip club and challenge her to keep up with the professionals? Or to drive to a deserted spot and test out the shock absorbers on the car?
To take out our laptops and write? Or to take out our sex toys and play?
To bind her, to gag her? Or to dare her to control herself?
What do you think? What would be best?
I wake up to find the following e-mail: “Which panties shall I wear today?” she asked, and included a picture of eight pairs of panties laid out on her bed. Thongs, boyshorts, bikini briefs; plain colors, patterns; cotton, silk.
Now this is my kind of multiple-choice question.
I can taste her cunt, just looking at the picture. I can imagine the slickness her fingers are encountering. I can hear her heavy breathing as she’s bucking her hips up, slightly, to meet her fingers, to increase the pressure.
As I’m lost in my reverie, my phone rings: it’s her.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Not sure how I feel about memes like this, but I’ll try this one, just ‘cause it’s at least a little raunchy. It’s framed as multiple choice, but, in the immortal words from the Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and from Blazing Saddles, I don’t need no stinking multiple choice. Don’t click through if you don’t want to learn relatively banal answers to relatively banal questions:
It got me to thinking - what are the Google searches I would like to lead people here?
Here are a few:
male feminist slut
straight but not narrow
hot and smart
These are the sort of associations I'd like people to have when they read my blog, my "brand," if you will. How'm I doing? What do you think of when you read this blog?
Your incandescent ass looked funny - I had never seen it not naked - but your strong, silky underwear refused to yield, even when soaking wet, tight over your cunt. "This is goofy," you thought.
But then, my hand, fierce, landed on your already swollen ass.
"Thank you," you said. "Thank you.”
Monday, February 6, 2012
“That was incredibly hot! I cant wait to cum reading that later tonight. ;p”
I told her to check back here before she does for a message.
Here it is:
As I wrote earlier, I need to see what your tongue looks like. Please don’t cum before sending me a picture of your tongue wrapping around or licking something.
I also want to see the curves in your body – but whether that’s tonight or later, I leave up to you.
Tonight, though, I need to hear what you sound like when you cum. Please call my phone – I won’t answer – and cum for me in my voicemail.
And afterwards, I very much would like to read your words – for you to describe for me how it felt – to read my fantasy, requests, instructions here, to know that these words right here are for you, but that lots of people are reading them, are seeing your arousal at my requests (and mine, at your fulfillment of them).
I’ll be grateful – and will reward you appropriately – for all.
She’s tall – 5’10” – taller than most women I find sexy. Taller than most women. But her pictures are delicious: she has black, straight hair, framing an olive face, with deep brown eyes. In her first picture, she is casually posed, looking slightly up, a mischievous smile on her full lips, her upper teeth just touching the inside of her lower lip – and dimples visible on either side of her grin. She looks as if she just finished saying, “I want to swallow your cum.”
In her second, she’s turned sideways, and her bathroom mirror catches the lower half of her face, her chest (obscured by her arms as she holds her cameraphone), and her curvy, denim-clad ass. Her current toothpaste is Colgate.
In the third, the lighting is poor, but her smile is goofy, infectious, and naughty. I don’t know what she’s about to do, but I want her to do it to me.
And in her final picture, we see her looking up, once again, as if she’s about to lower her mouth on my cock while maintaining eye contact the whole time. Her raincoat is open wide enough to tantalize with a glimpse of her clavicle, but not of her cleavage. A bra strap (or tank top strap?) is visible under the left shoulder of her coat.
We’ve never met.
But we did have a hot exchange once before. It escalated fast – over the course of a couple of hours, we established how hard I would fuck her face, and she left me a hot, hot message – her voice was sweet, seductive. And then she disappeared. I pestered her (stalked her?) a little, bummed that someone with whom I had seemingly connected so well was seemingly uninterested in connecting again, more, or in person.
Eventually I gave up.
I even forgot about her.
A week or two ago, I set up a new OKCupid profile, not my old one, and messaged a few women who turned up. I mentioned my blog, and introduced myself. But OKC continues to be a total waste of time and energy for me. I’ve had exactly two conversations prior to this morning with anyone using my new profile, and each was a polite blow-off.
But this morning….
We had the usual back-and-forth pleasantries, and then, in her third message, after I observed that she was looking up in all her pictures, she informed me, “I love looking up when giving head.”
I confirm she’s real, that she’s female – she sends another hot picture. In this one, she’s wearing glasses, and she shows me her iPhone’s calendar, with today’s date. DAMN, she’s hot. I can see her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her lips – all look delightful. But I can’t see her tongue. I need to see her tongue, touching something – her lips, a pencil, food. I need to feel her tongue on my cock.
She looks fun – her smile is frisky, mischievous, naughty. And I’m already deep in a fantasy that has my head buried in her crotch, tasting her, the flavorful juices dripping out of her wet cunt – wet even before I touch her. And that has her kneeling, pleading: “I want your cock,” she says – she appears to be saying even in the pictures. “I need your cock.”
And her mouth, as I imagine it, lowers down on me, applying pressure, suction. It feels tight, smooth. And she allows me to seize control, pulling her head up by her hair, pushing it down, holding it down, thrilling in the sensation of her tongue flicking, lapping, even as she can’t lift her head and gasps just a little.
I lift her head up and flip her over, face-first on the bed. I tear down her jeans, but not far, and push her head into the mattress with one hand, holding her ass with a loose grip as I plunge my cock into her from behind.
I grab a sharpie and write an “F” on her ass, and then I use the letter as a target – I spank her, hard, as I’m fucking her. Just because she told me she likes the letter….
It’s her tongue I want to see next.
And, to know that I’m right, that she is wet, that her hand did find her clit as she read this, that she stroked herself idly, or not so idly….
This three-sentence story specifically is about L and me:
Her hair was wet, her body still soapy, when he entered the shower.
When he left, her knees were sore and cum streamed out of her mouth.
She felt so dirty, it was delicious.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
There is one hot sentence at the very end of the post, though, in which I contemplate Jade standing over me, dressed deliciously, as I admire her gorgeous body even as she’s flogging me, her ass barely contained by her leather pants, her breasts spilling out over a spandex bustier, riding crop in hand….
Saturday, February 4, 2012
I like giving instructions.
Wear the black boyshorts with the buttons.
Take a picture of your left breast, in your right hand.
Play with yourself while imagining my cock in your mouth.
Cum in my voicemail.
When you send me a picture, or a movie, when you leave me a voicemail or when you tell me you’ve done as I asked, my cock instantly is hard, my arousal intense.
I’m intrigued, though: I don’t always look at the picture or the movie right away. I don’t always listen to the voicemail of you cumming. Eventually, I do, yes – but for me the real turn-on is just in knowing you’ve done it. I like the power – the power you give me by doing as I ask. The respect – the respect you show me by indulging my wishes. It makes me so hot to know that my desires are your desires, that you want me to have what I want.
Turns out, that’s what I want.