Sweat & Summer

July 20, 2010  |  dirty stories  |  6 Comments

1.

I was being a jerk. Not sure the details are all that important, I just got up on the wrong side of the bed and everything was bothering me and it was 95 degrees outside and I was mad at the world. I made the mistake of thinking that running errands in Manhattan would make me feel better. Get some things done, knock things off the to do list. Did I forget that I don’t deal with heat well? (Can I stop complaining about the heat already?)

Plus, the errands were unsuccessful. I’m only a recent Mac owner, my MacBook is about a year old, and I’ve never had to go into the Apple Store for service before. My power cord shorted out over the weekend (anybody out there have an extra one lying around? Will trade) and I didn’t know I needed an appointment at the Genius Bar, so i just went in. Plus, my iPhone 4G, which replaced my ancient 3G since I broke the screen when I dropped it on a playground in Alaska, is getting a terrible signal and I’d just heard about the booster cases Apple is giving to 4G owners. Of course, you have to do that on the website, not at the store, and they’re unavailable/out of stock. We shall see how that goes.

Combine my disappointment, my not working cell phone, my powerless laptop, with the heat, not to mention the crowds of Soho and then Union Square, and I was ready for a drink.

What I’m saying is, I was spending all my energy trying to keep it together as Kristen and I shopped for peaches and tomatoes at the Farmer’s Market.

By the time we got home I’d picked a fight, then started to backpedal out of it. We were both upset. I was being a jerk. I couldn’t seem to calm myself down or shake this “everything sucks” mood. I apologized; I knew I was off, and I said so. I tried to state what I needed, I tried to remove myself to give myself time to calm down. I could have done better. I gave up and took a nap.

2.

Hours later I woke up a little reset, Kristen and I had a decent evening, dinner and a movie, sitting close on the couch, being more careful with each other.

Later still, after we got in bed, I pulled her close as we snuggled in together and kissed her, a physical apology for my distance that I was trying to make up for with closeness. I wanted to be closer still, feel her everywhere, make it up to her, be inside her. I still felt fragile and a little thin, but the want was growing as we kissed. I got flashes of my forearm across her chest, holding her down. Adding some extra bruises to the two on her inner thighs, which are blooming nicely. I saw flashes of fucking her fast and hard and furious and it made me hot, eager.

I kissed her again, let my hands slip under her green tank top, one fingertip into the top of her undies. She sighed, kissed me back, hands in my hair, and I felt myself melt a little into her.

“Play with me?” I asked, quiet, our mouths still nearly touching.

Her whole body responded with a flush of heat that rippled through her. “Of course baby. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” C’mon, I chided myself. Say something. “I feel the instinct to be mean. But I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t know if that’d feel good, after how I treated you today.”

“You could be my mean Daddy. I like it when you do that. It would be okay.”

I was quiet. Not sure it was a good idea. I’d rather not be so torn. I’d been torn all day.

“Or you could be small,” she whispered close to my ear, stroking my hair.

Even the words felt like a relief. I nodded. “Just … take care of me for a while?” She nodded back and kissed me again, a little more commanding than usual. Her lips were sweet, tongue soft, warm, and I started to get lost in the kiss, in the feel of her next to me, touching me.

“Give me your hand,” she said, and took it up and under her shirt, to her breast, firm and round and soft in my palm. I ran my fingers over her nipple like it was a fence I was walking by, brushing it as it grew more stiff, then pinching it hard, and the arch of her back made the growl return to my stomach. Strength. Power. Maybe I need some of that. She squirmed and let out a little cry as I twisted and pulled, then took a huge handful and kissed her.

I like her nipples in my mouth. Supple and soft. I have never been, as they say, a “breast man,” never quite got it like others seem to. Don’t get me wrong, I feel and play and suck and pinch, especially when I know that’s what she likes, but maybe it’s because my own aren’t very sensitive that I didn’t used to derive a lot of my own pleasure from playing with them. Recently, though, that’s been different. (Have I written about this before?)

I was starting to salivate, to get that itch for that feeling of smallness and sucking, when she said, “Will you suck on my tities, sweet boy?” I smiled, then bit my lip to hide it. Pushed her shirt up farther and took my arm out from under her neck, lying back down over hers, a little bit of role reversal, allowing her to give me some needed comfort for perhaps the first time that day.

I lowered my mouth down to her nipple, rested my head on her arm and against her chest as her hands pulled my head closer, and sighed. Her areola puckered in my mouth, against my tongue. Her skin was sweet with that salty wisp of sweat and summer. I sucked her in deeper and used my teeth to hold her there. She gasped. I flicked my tongue, then widened it and lapped at her nipple, thick long strokes over and over.

“Ohh that’s good … that feels so good.”

I let myself get lost in the sucking. Let it feel like nourishment, let myself be filled. I pictured energy pouring out of her, down my throat, pooling in my belly, and kept drinking it in.

After a minute I shifted, brought my mouth slowly off and over to the other, brought my weight slightly over her so I could free up my right hand. I cupped her tits and kept the angle in my mouth, then dragged my hand down her stomach and hips to her thighs, which she easily parted, a nonverbal request. I slid my hand into her panties and found her wet, dipped my fingers in slow.

I lifted my mouth and looked up at her. “May I?”

“Yes, mmm yes,” she murmured, leaning back into the bed and pressing her cunt toward my hand.

I wet my fingertips and traced her lips around her clit, flicked it, stroked it. Bit at her nipple. It didn’t take long; she started writhing, breathing, “Oh that’s good, that’s my good boy, my good boy,” and came, shuddering against me.

I kissed her mouth again and she stroked my neck, held me to her. “That felt good baby.”

“I like to feel you do that. Like to touch you.”

“You made me all wet, you made me feel so good.” She kissed me again. “Suck my nipples again, sweet boy?”

I lowered my mouth again, settled next to her as she kept me cradled.

“Did that make your cock all hard?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said quietly, not looking up. “A little.”

“Did that make you want to touch it.”

I murmured something between an “um” and a “mm.” Hesitant and feeling shy. That boy-feeling of exposure, vulnerability; you can see how much I want this by the strain against my zipper, the uncomfortable hardness, the pressure.

Of course, I don’t really have that. But there are moments, like when she starts talking about it, that this feeling comes up, and this is the best I can do to explain it.

“Touch it,” she said quietly. “Touch it for me. Tell me how it feels.” She knew I wasn’t packing. She meant my cock, my other cock, my little cock I sometimes call it, my dick, my clit.

I reached down to feel under the boxers I’d pulled on to sleep in, found my cunt wet and lips swollen, my clit—my cock—hard and slick. It felt good to touch. Like I had permission, like I could take my time. Like relief from the tension that had mounted in my body during my bad mood all day. Like release.

I dragged my fingers along lazily for a minute, touching, relaxing, with a massaging touch, building arousal. I thought she might ask me to go get my big cock, so I didn’t want to come quickly. Let’s let it build.

“How does it feel?” she asked into my hair, arms still wrapped around me.

“It feels good. Hard. Thick and big.”

“Mmm. I like it when it gets hard and big. Then you put it inside me, don’t you, my sweet boy? You like to put it in my pussy.”

Quickly, the flash of pushing my cock into her, her tight resistance, the way she opens up and wraps around me was in my head. My cock pulsed harder. I could barely respond, her nipples still in my mouth, still needing the distraction and permission of sucking.

I started rubbing my clit cock faster, jerking it a little, keeping my fingertips wet. My muscles got harder, too, contracting in my thighs and ass and stomach, starting to clench down and press into my hand. My knees straightening out, toes curling, then knees opening out to the side, legs splayed.

I let it build until I was almost ready to come and then backed off, took my hand away for a second, concentrated on sucking at her tits again, a little harder, a little deeper into my mouth, tonguing her nipples and swallowing as I breathed and concentrated on the heat building between my legs.

Only a quick break, a quick moment before I reached back down and started rubbing my clit again. Moaning through my full mouth, pressing myself against her, her arms pulling me toward her chest and keeping me close to her as I got closer, closer. Stroking up and down and, if I was being really honest, I would tell you I was thinking about my other cock, my big cock, the go-to one I usually use, and whose weight I miss hanging from my hips if I don’t wear it a few times a week. The girth of it in my hand, what it’s like to slip over the head and feel the ridges, feel its tip against my palm. What it’s like to slide inside of her.

More noise from my mouth. Growls and grunts and heavy breathing and convulsions as my chest and stomach contracted.

“Are you getting closer, sweet boy? Come for me. Come on, jerk that cock for me.”

I kept my fingers low and felt the tension hard and swollen under my fingers. Just a couple more strokes, just—there—just—closer, my fingers in fierce rhythm getting harder, quicker, as fast as I could go, “Yeah, yeah, fuck,” I started trying to exhale more, I’m holding my breath, pushing my hips up to meet my strokes.

“That’s good baby, that’s so good,” she keeps murmuring.

I’m ready and it burst out of me as I pulsed and thrusted, stroking fast and hard once more, twice, three times, my body convulsing in the microseconds between, shuddering as the shock waves faded, gasping as I calmed and tried to keep letting go, still feeling ripples of release through my whole body. I realized her nipple was still in my mouth, loosely held so I could suck in air, and I let up to take a full breath, let it out slow. Still shuddering. Still tingly all over. And as I relaxed I released even more, letting something out, some tension I’d been holding on to, something bigger, who knows what, something stored deep in my muscles, and tears started rolling down my face and toward my ears, I started gulping, soft sobs between breaths. Just a few before it passed, faded, and my breath smoothed.

I turned toward her again and sighed, rested against her, kissed her. I was spent. It didn’t take long to fall asleep (in a slightly wider embrace, still affected by the heat).

I woke the next morning feeling scrubbed clean, not a trace of that bad mood left in my system, pulled her close, smelled her skin, felt her shoulder with my cheek. Everything is much better when I remember how lucky I am to wake up with this beautiful girl every day.


Have you nominated your favorite sex bloggers for the Top Sex Bloggers 2010 list yet? Just leave a comment with your favorites before July 31st.

Waking Up

May 29, 2010  |  dirty stories  |  3 Comments

I love waking up with Kristen.

For one, she usually sleeps naked. I still sleep lightly with someone else in my bed, and often wake before her and feel her next to me, shift from whatever sleeping position I’ve gotten myself into overnight and slide my arm back under her neck and pillow, cradle her close to me.

This particular morning, I woke already turned on. A dream, a feeling, the closeness of how we fell asleep together—who knows why. She was wearing a tiny cotton summer dress as a nightgown, and I knew she was bare under it. I knew she’d shaved her pussy recently, too, that it was all smooth and soft, that I could touch her lips without anything in the way.

I dozed a while, tried to wait until a more reasonable hour before waking her. Each time I woke she had shifted slightly closer, curled against my chest, in my embrace, one leg over mine, entangling.

Eventually I couldn’t wait any longer. I slowly touched her, her thighs, sliding my hand up between her legs.

She hums a little and nuzzles into my neck, spreads her thighs apart at my touch, not really awake yet.

This story contains some Daddy/girl dirty talk. If you’d like to read on … Read More

Morning Bondage (Review: Scalloped Cuffs & Snap Hooks)

May 17, 2010  |  dirty stories, reviews  |  1 Comment

I woke early the other day, with that familiar urge to hold and protect and control Kristen, maybe it’s the subconscious absorption of her smooth naked skin all night long, how sweet her body feels in my arms as we both turn and slumber, maybe it’s when we go in and out of whatever tough times we’re having, either about each other or just our individual general struggles against the world, maybe it’s just how I am wired, to protect and shelter, and sometimes control and dominate.

I began touching her before she was fully awake. She and I have talked about this, I have permission to take her whenever I want to, particularly in the mornings, she likes to be awakened that way. I kissed her neck and collarbone and breasts and shoulders, let my hand trail slow and soft over her skin as she murmured little sighs and stirred gently, eyelids heavy, not really awake and not really trying to be.

Slipping her panties down and off of her, I stayed low on the bed and kept my hands on her hips, using my elbows to spread her thighs open, the soft and sweet indirect morning light just enough to see the pink and pretty lips of her pussy. Delicate and velvety and I wanted to taste her, lowered my mouth down to run my tongue along the length of her slit. Just the tip of my tongue, breath hot on her cunt, keeping my mouth hovering above her and my hands gripping her hips. She squirmed. Pressed her thighs into the bed, pressed up as high as she could against my mouth, tensed everywhere.

I let my tongue flatten and drag softly, softly along her pussy again, from her hole up to her clit, and rest there, using the soft inner part of my lips to suck and tease.

Kristen comes easily this way. Tongue on her clit, one finger just one knuckle in and circling around the opening of her cunt, she quickly thrashes her arms down into the mattress and gasps, twisting her head and jerking her legs straight. I soften the pressure and go back in, tongue wide and lapping again, with quicker, smaller movements over her clit, until she comes again, crying out a little louder this time, and I shift up the bed to kiss her, hold her close for a moment.

I had set it up a week ago: taken the new fleece-lined wrist cuffs and secured them to another set of cuffs I’d placed around the bars of my headboard with some snap hooks. Kristen likes to struggle, likes to thrash around, and a little bit of restraint goes a long way: it gives her the opportunity to push or pull against something, lets a few more of her muscles tense and tighten and release a little deeper (and plus she doesn’t hit me in the face quite as easily). I took the fleece-lined cuffs down and buckled them around her wrists, then the easy click of the snap hooks secured her wrists to the bedframe.

She immediately calmed and quieted, not out of boredom but out of relaxation, watching me as I moved back down between her legs and set again to tonguing her pussy, making her come. This time I slid two fingers into her pussy, sucking her lips into my mouth and spreading them open with my hands to get to her clit. She strained against the cuffs and I felt the muscles in her stomach and ass tighten every time she pulled against the headboard.

I lost track of how many times she came in my mouth. Sometimes I let up, gave her a break, paused between orgasms, other times I just kept going and she did, too. I brought my elbows up to press her legs apart, kept my fingers inside her or spreading her lips open. I held her hips, pinched her nipples, gripped her ankles, held her legs up by the back of her thighs. I reached for the conveniently located pump bottle of Maximus lube on the nightstand and got a dollop on my third finger so I could slide it into her ass, just a little, filling her up, sucking her clit as swollen as I could and letting up just as she was about to come, changing my stroke down to a tickle until she contracted hard around my fingers and came again, again, again.

I lost track of time. I stopped caring if she was being too loud for this time in the morning, whether my neighbors would be home. I wanted to get my camera out, take up-close macro shots of the curves and lines and folds of her pussy, oh so pink and swollen and beautiful.

Not that she would have minded me doing that, but I didn’t. Next time, perhaps. That image of her arms and legs and pussy spread is still so clear in my mind, still a lovely mental image I’ve replayed more than a few times since then.

The cuffs were easy to unhook, left no marks, no bruises, no dye, were very comfortable. I pulled her close and noticed it was well past time to get up. “Morning, beautiful girl,” I murmured into her hair.

The Fleece Lined Buckling Cuffs w/Scalloped Edge and KinkLab Nickel-Plated Snap Hooks (4-Pack) were sent to me to review from JT’s Stockroom. Check them out for all kinds of other fantastic bondage toys.

Review: Moon Glass Plug, and How We Played With It

April 28, 2010  |  dirty stories, reviews  |  2 Comments

This, my friends and readers, is the Moon Glass Plug from Good Vibrations, and it is beautiful.

Can’t you tell already, just by looking at it? That blown glass with the gentle blue coming through it? (Maybe that’s just me. I do have a thing for blue glass. If I had it my way, all of my dishes would be blue glass.)

The other night, when Kristen and I were playing, I had her on her stomach in front of me, her chest down on the bed but her knees under her, ass up. We’d already been fucking for a while, she’d come three or four or eight times, who can keep track, and I slid my cock in from behind her while lubing up my fingers. For a while I just touched her asshole gently on the outside, I could feel her relaxing and starting to enjoy the feeling, opening up a little, pushing back against my finger and cock. I had the Moon Glass Plug out, ready to use, and touched it too against her asshole, but she wasn’t really ready for it, so I started with my fingers instead.

“Put your fingers on your clit,” I said.

She did, brought her hand down between her legs. I started sliding my finger into her asshole, just a little, really only knuckle-deep, just so she could feel it for a while. But it didn’t take long before she was getting all hot and squirming against me, bucking her hips harder, and I worked my finger a little faster in her ass, not deeper, just faster, which she liked, oh I could tell she liked it right away. I’m not sure what she did exactly, moaned maybe, or just responded physically in a way that was clear that was it, right there, perfect.

I noticed I’d kind of stopped moving my cock, so tried to get my hips going while she continued to work herself up. Now, this is a girl who can come by her own fingers in mere moments, so that it was taking much time at all was telling in that she must’ve been very worked up. I could feel her clenching hard on my cock, so hard in fact that she started to push me out, clenching her ass too, hand moving faster, gasping, as she came, hard.

So hard, in fact, that she ejaculated, gushed all over my cock and thighs. I silently thanked my Liberator Throe, and out loud, groaned. “That was so damn hot.”

I moved forward up to the pillow to hold her closer and kiss her for a while. She asked if I’d used the glass. “No,” I said, “that was my finger, just a little of it. Do you want to try it yourself?”

She took it from me and slowly worked it into her ass. For a while she said, “it’s too big, it’s too big!” but didn’t want to give up, and was certain she could do it if she moved slowly. I stayed next to her as she took the whole thing, finally, then brought her hands down to her cunt again to get off a few more times.

I told her I wanted to watch for a while, asked if she wanted my help.

“No,” she said. But then, later: “Lay on top of me?”

She likes the weight, holding her down. I spread my forearm across her breastbone and kissed her, my body slightly lifted from hers as she continued to work her hands between her legs. I like to watch the way her body gets all tense, then releasing as she comes.

I like to watch in general.

She came again, once nice and hard, then another for good measure, collapsing onto the bed. It took a little more work to get the plug out of her ass, since it’s pretty thick and spherical in the middle and has that skinny little neck before it flares to a plug. It’s only 3 1/4” long x 1 3/8” wide, but the shape makes a difference, and even makes it feel more thick than it actually is (though it is pretty thick).

And it’s gorgeous. Did I mention that it’s gorgeous? The most beautiful butt plug I own, though I don’t know if I usually describe them as “beautiful,” so perhaps that’s easy. The glass is smooth and hard, and very simple to clean. I haven’t tried it myself yet, but since it’s easily sterilizable, I will be. And I’m looking forward to seeing it in her ass again, too.

The beautiful Moon Glass Plug was sent to me for review by Good Vibrations. Get your own, or a different butt plug, or many other fabulous sex toys over at the Good Vibes website.

Desperation & Dominance

March 5, 2010  |  dirty stories  |  16 Comments

“Want to know what I was thinking about when I got off yesterday?” she asks. We’re lying in bed, tangled limbs and sheets, a little sweaty, breathing heavily still, hearts calming. She’s nude now. I’m still in boxers and an undershirt. I’ve taken advantage of the ongoing permission I have to fuck her, take her, if I wake in the middle of the night or before her in the morning, as I often do, like this morning, hands on her, fingers in her, forearm holding her down by her collarbone until she thrashed and came and muffled a scream into my shoulder.

“Yes,” I answer, arm under her neck, the other hand on her hip and curved under her thigh and ass as she drapes herself over me partly.

“I was thinking about … you using me,” she starts in a small voice, quiet, by my ear. I can feel her breath. “Filling me up. Fucking me and fucking me without caring how it was for me. I was thinking about tears streaming down my cheeks, and you not stopping, just … taking me, until you get what you want, and you come.”

I bow my head a little to find her mouth by feel in the dark bedroom. “I like to use you like that,” I say. She nods. “Let’s play later.” She nods again, pulls closer to me.

This story contains Daddy/girl roles in sex play, some domination and submission, and lots of tender loving care. Continue reading with that knowledge, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Read More

Lipstick Blow Job

January 21, 2010  |  dirty stories  |  10 Comments

Kristen: perfect. well i will come by around 9 then. that is late for dinner but oh well
Sinclair: okay, will be home. that will be our one plan
Kristen: ok
Sinclair: that + a blow job
Kristen: oh yes. yay
Sinclair: so, wear lipstick
Kristen: to yoga? :-)
Sinclair: ha! probably putting it on after is better. but, if you like …
Kristen: hehe

She bought new lipstick recently, thanks to a Sugarbutch reader who recommended her particular shade. It’s bright, but lovely and femme, and it doesn’t come off on anything, even tacos.

She walked into my place wearing lipstick, still in her yoga clothes. Not the new lipstick, one of her others that is more sticky and means I tend not to kiss her when she wears it, lest she get it all over my mouth. Sometimes I don’t care about that, of course. But we kiss all the time, so the wanting-and-not-having is kind of fun, for a little while.

I’ve been craving roasted garlic lately so I spread some on some toasted bread, then baked some sweet potato and potato fries with cumin, and constructed a pretty decent veggie burger (sauteed onions, pepperjack, goddess dressing, sprouts, lettuce). (I’ve had this recent revelation that I really like sandwiches, so I’m indulging in that a little these days. Plus, Kristen is a new vegetarian, and is skeptical of the veggie burger, but I’m a big fan.) We may have also had a beer or three.

So we had a nice dinner. Enough about the food.

We cleaned up, did the dishes, had a few bites of ice cream. Her lipstick had mostly wiped off after eating and I pulled her close before going into my bedroom. Though much of the last few weeks has been a struggle, we are also closer, more clear, creating something lovely and excited to dip back into each other. My weekend with her went smoothly and the things that are coming up between us are more conversations than anxious explosions, which feels good, great, but I’ve been missing the power play, which we haven’t done much of lately. I’ve been careful, wanting to really recalibrate before taking too much on or slipping into the wrong places, but we have talked about how we both miss it.

In my bedroom, I slip on my cock while she reapplies her lipstick. I pull her on top of me as I lay down on the bed and kiss her neck, her face. She gets breathless. Sucks in air as her mouth waters and tongue swells, I can see it, despite her lips already being darkened. I slide two fingers into her mouth, feel her tongue, push them just past the first knuckle so she can lick around the pads with her tongue. She closes her eyes and moans.

“Hmm, you like that?”

She moans a little. It’s not really a question I expect an answer to.

“Ready to get that lipstick all over my cock?” She looks up at me, gasps and her chest collapses a little, shuddering and giving in toward me. I grab her hair. Our lips are nearly touching. I run my fingers down her cheek and jaw and notice a smear of lipstick that must’ve been on them, from putting them in her mouth.

“Yes, ohhh,” she breathes softly. “I want to make you feel good.”

I lay back on the bed, hand in her hair, the other on her shoulder or arm or wrist. She positions her mouth over my cock. rings her fingers around the shaft slowly as she lets her mouth water, parts her lips, watches it in her hand as if it is getting bigger at her touch. I practically feel it quivering. Underneath, my clit swells and strains to feel her lips, to be swallowed in her mouth too.

When her lips finally touch it, it is always a revelation, always a surprise, how much I feel it, how much tenderness is in her light kisses, the soft soft pillows of her inner lips, her sweet wet mouth and tongue. She coos a little and I can’t help but to moan, she gulps down thick breaths of air when she pulls her mouth up and off, holds my cock her in her hand softly. Licks just the tip with her tongue.

My cock is covered in rings of lipstick now, smeared around the head and the little ridges of the underside. She gulps it down again, pushes it all the way back into her throat and holds it there while I push and press and pulse against her, eyes rolling back until they close and my back arches to go farther, get deeper inside her.

She gags a little and pulls off, smooth and quick, smiles, looks at me, a little shy, a little desperate. She knows how hot this gets me. I know how much she likes to be stretched open, filled. She’s wet between her legs by now, she likes sucking cock that much.

She does it again, swallows deep, deeper now, her lips all the way to the base and grazing my harness. She holds it way far back in her mouth again and I am tempted to grab hold of her by the hair, start shoving in and out of her at my own pace. She wouldn’t mind. She would like it. I grip her hair but don’t pressure her head down, just remind her of my arm strength and presence and control.

She takes it as long as she can, then pulls back again, gasping a litlte, wipes the spit from her chin. Her lipstick is gone, smeared all over my cock.

“Kiss me,” I say, and sit up, pulling her toward me.

She rises to her knees to kiss me, her mouth sweet and swollen. I kiss her hard and long, wanting, eager, remembering the feel of being thick insider her and still feeling my dick swell.

I pull back. “Oh thank you, baby,” I say between kisses on her cheek and jaw and neck, “you do that so well, god, I love how you suck it.”

She smiles, hums a little in satisfaction, a little sheepish, cute, sweet. “You like that? Do I make you feel good?”

“Yes, yes baby, so much.”

“I like to do it.”

“Mmm, my sweet girl. Take your shirt off, let me up.” I lean back a little, shift my weight, and stand next to the bed as she slides her tee shirt and thin bra over her head. She still has pants on, too, comfortable black ones she wore to yoga earlier. She looks at me expectantly. “On your stomach,” I say, pushing her down and pulling her over toward me.

I want to fuck her mouth from the side of the bed.

I’m not actually sure that will work, but I want to try. It’s a very different angle than her being above me or on her knees in front of me. Luckily (and not by accident), my bed is on risers, raised just to my hip height. She stretches out sideways on the bed and I pull her forward, mouth to my cock, and keep my hand on her head to guide my cock in and out of it as she stretches her tongue forward and looks up at me. I shift my feet to get more power and thrust in again, hips bucking. I like this. Go figure. I like having control of the depth and speed. I like how she looks up at me with just a hint of discomfort in her eyes, a little bit nervous, not sure she wants me to keep going, but so turned on. Oh hell yeah I like this. I feel the tension building in my cunt and want to fuck her, want inside of her; I keep thrusting for a moment but want us to be more connected, want to suck at her lips and pinch her nipples and hold her down while pounding into her. I hold her head a little harder, cock against the back of her mouth, and pull out swiftly: “Take your pants off.”

She breaths heavy, gasping for the air filling her lungs, and lies back on the bed, slipping her pants down her legs. I strip off my harness and pull out my other cock, my favorite cock, the one I love to fuck with, that is a little thicker and longer than the one I’ve been using for her mouth. (Plus, I bet it’s not great to get lipstick in her.)

She watches me, and her hand hovers a little between her legs. She looks from my cock to my face, one of her hands up on her chest, arm brushing her nipples absently, now totally unclothed and a little chilly in my drafty bedroom. “Can I …?” She starts.

I’m still buckling, adjusting. She wants to touch her clit. “Sure,” I answer, watching her as she does.

When I finish strapping on, smooth some lube over my cock, and lie over her on the bed, she’s breathing heavy and arching her lower back, still touching her clit, watching me. I grip her inner thigh with one hand and guide my cock with the other, touching her lips and skin softly, feeling how wet she is. She’s murmuring “yes, yes, please, ohhh … ” and I’m trying to draw it out, to wait, looking up at her and smiling at her gasping, that arc in her body straining for me, for that moment of contact, of friction between us.

When I slide in, it is slow and fully, all the way, and I lie my weight down on her simultaneously, pushing my forearm down into her chest and shoulders. She closes her eyes, opens her mouth in a silent tense moan. She comes so easily, gets there so fast, I don’t want it to be over yet, not that I can’t keep going but I just want to drag it out a little longer, she hasn’t come yet and she doesn’t usually go this long without doing so. I slow down, deliberate and hard, but she just tightens and tenses until her pussy pushes my cock out of her completely.

“Oh, you done with that?” I tease her, kissing her pretty mouth, hand in her hair while I hold my cock with the other, touching it lightly to her slick lips and hole. “You got enough, you don’t want any more?”

“No no no,” she starts, small and steady, “I want it, I want it, give it to me … ”

“Please?”

Please, please, give it to me, put it back in my pussy, please fuck me with it, please … ”

I do, of course I do, slide it back inside, she lifts her knees high and rocks back her pelvis so I can get deeper, shoving inside as she throws her hands up and back to grasp at the blankets, the edge of the mattress, the headboard, as she pushes against me harder.

Minutes pass, I don’t know how long, I can lose myself in this part, the soft melding of our curves together and the rhythms we create while we circle in and out of each other, cycle through pressure and pain and pleasure, the kisses, the grasping at each other. She sometimes comes like this, I sometimes come like this, but neither of us do so after a few minutes (or ten or forty) I shift to my knees and pull her hips up higher, my hands grabbing hold of her inner thighs to pull her to and from me, pulse my cock in and out of her, slapping her thigh for surprise and that shocking spasm of sting before moving my fingers to her clit, flicking it gently, and she starts to shudder, mouth agape, shoulders and arms and wrists held tense and flailing as she clenches everything tight, tight, tighter, pushing my cock out again … until she releases, groans in a long moan, relaxes back, breathes hard, and reaches for me, eyes still closed, to come closer to her.

I wrap my arms around her, lay my body out over hers, and kiss her, both of us catching our breath, vibrating in the aftermath, until we’re ready to go at it again.

The Dirtiest Kristen Stories

December 13, 2009  |  dirty stories  |  1 Comment

Today is my one year anniversary of dating Kristen. There’s another post coming shortly about our year together, but while that’s coming, here are some of my favorite stories of her from this past year. Many of the most viewed posts on Sugarbutch are stories about Kristen, though to be honest we have had sex probably hundreds of times more than are written about on this site. Sometimes I feel guilty for not keeping you updated about all of the awesome fun we have in bed, but hey, I bet you would rather I was having this awesome fun than interrupting it in order to write about it, right?

Here are some of my – and your – favorites:

My Slutty Little Girl, April 2, 2009:

I pushed her back on the bed easily. Kneed her legs apart and pressed my cock up against her, bare, through my slacks. Kissed her, hard, felt her body under me.

I pulled back after a minute and lifted myself up. “Take my dick out,” I ordered softly.

She did. Unbuckled, unzipped, palmed it in her hand, let out a low satisfied hum of pleasure when she touched it. I tightened my harness, lowered myself back on top of her, kissed her neck. “I want to fuck your mouth.”

She arched in response, but whispered, “But I want you to fuck me.”

I almost laughed. Her desire handed to me on a silver platter, I took it gratefully. “No.”

“Please, baby, I need it, I want you to fuck my pussy.”

I do like the way she begs. I nearly acquiesced, but said “no” again, pulled back to shift to my knees on the bed. Took her hair in my fist as she bent in front of me. “Do it real pretty, and I’ll fuck you.”

(Read the entire story)

Wait For Me On Your Knees, January 29, 2009:

t the dining room table in her living room. She sits on my lap, kisses me. I pull her hair and move my mouth to her neck.

“Ohh yes, yes,” she breathes.

“Mmm, I like it when you say that. Say yes again,” I demand softly, next to her ear. She hears me, and says nothing. She bites her lip and looks right at me, which tells me she’s refusing to say it. Am I pushing her too far? Does she know – she must know – that saying yes is playing with consent, that I am warming her up for saying no. Does she feel pressed? Pressured? I study her face, wait for her to say it for what seems like minutes. “Say it,” I say again, low, with a grip on her hair, desire and dominance building in me. I pull back a little to get enough distance between us so I can hit her. I wonder how fast I’ll have to do it for her to not see it coming. I want her to be surprised.

Underneath her resistance, she’s got that tiny self-satisfied smirk on her face.

She is surprised. A quick, hard smack against her cheek. Then five, six, softer, in rapid succession, warming her up. And another, stronger. Another. Her whole head turns on impact. I don’t stop. Harder. I vary the rhythm and let her have a breath, a quiet moment in between, when she straightens her body and feels the sting.

This is the hardest I’ve slapped her, but I can feel the way she can take it, now, differently. She’s not scared or wincing but open and accepting, drinking in the sensation.

I stop. Pull back a little and watch her recover.

When she can, she whispers, “yes,” hand to her stinging cheek, eyes dark and smoky and submissive, that look, that look, that strong and active giving over that makes my knees weak (and oh I’m glad I’m sitting down).

I kiss her. Smooth her cheek with my fingertips, feel the warmth with my lips. “Good,” I say between kisses. “Good girl.”

(Read the entire thing)

“I’m Kind of … Insatiable.” (aka, our first date), December 15, 2008:

We lay together and I catch my breath, flex and stretch my fingers. I run my palm along her hips, the sides of her body, and she is all nerve endings and sensitive skin, writhing under my touch, rubbing her feet against the blanket on the bed. I could take her again. Could roll her into her back and listen to her breathe and moan.

I like the way her moaning becomes practically laughter as she gets closer. How she turns her head to the side and strains with every muscle like she’s trying to press all the edges of her, like she’s going to tear her way out of herself, la petite mort indeed.

She shifts next to me, I balance on my elbows on top of her again. I still have my tee shirt, my slacks, on. She’s stripped bare.

“Did I mention I’m kind of … insatiable?” she asks, a little embarrassed, a little shy, a little excited.

I grin. So am I.

My hand between her legs again, my mouth at her neck. “You’re wet.”

“Yes,” she breathes in my ear.

(Read the entire thing.)

Her Dirty Talk Got Me Off. Twice. March 31, 2009:

“Fuck my hole,” she whispered, “take me, fuck me hard, pound your big cock in me deep. I’m your slutty little girl.”

(Read the entire thing.)

Rocking Chair Blow Job, January 12, 2009:

“That’s right baby, suck it.”

I lean back again and my dick swells, puckers when she sucks hard and fast. She keeps it deep in her mouth and pulses and I cry out. Fuck.

I pull her up again and lean forward to kiss her, mouth swollen and red, opening for me as I keep my hand on the back of her head, on her cheek, on her jaw, holding her just where I want her, tongue in her mouth and she sucks that too. I reach my other hand down between her legs and push the thin fabric of her panties aside, enter her easily with two fingers and swirl them over her clit. She gasps.

“I like the way you suck me off,” I say, low, into her ear. “Your mouth feels so good. Oh god you’re so wet,” I trace my fingers along her lips and flick her clit, swollen, thick and sensitive. She moans.

“I want you to stand up, bend over, pull off your panties and hand them to me. Understand?” I pull back and remove my hand and she nods. “Do it then.”

She does.

(Read the entire thing.)

Hogtied, May 28, 2009:

After a minute I catch her by the hair. “You’re starting to squirm.” I say, low in her ear.

She breathes out, a tiny voice. “Uh huh.”

I’m still mostly clothed, but my cock is out, hard, stiff from my fly. I kneel behind her, push on her shoulderblades so she’s facedown on the bed again, and tease her pussy with the head of it. “Waiting to get fucked?”

“Yes,” she says in a small voice.

“What?”

“Yes.” Louder.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m waiting to get fucked. Fuck me, please, please, put your cock in me, baby, ohhh … ” and I do, of course I do, when she asks so pretty like that.

(Read the entire thing.)

Am I forgetting your favorite Kristen story?

Fucking & Making Love

November 11, 2009  |  dirty stories, essays  |  11 Comments

She looked so damn hot yesterday.

I don’t know what it was exactly. She was in an outfit I’ve seen, tight slim jeans, her girly black tank top with the silver star pattern, little yellow sweater with the clear buttons. Maybe it was her hair, she’s been letting it grow and it’s getting longer, almost to her chin, it’s thin so it’s starting to flip up at the ends. So. Fucking. Cute. Maybe it was the earrings, simple large silver hoops, the ones she’s worried are a cliche but I keep trying to assure her they’re classic, sexy.

Off hand, she said yesterday that I am obsessed with my hair. I said ‘obsessed’ was a bit strong, but I see her point. Maybe it’s not just my hair, either, but hair in general. Still, I don’t want to pressure her into doing things like growing her hair long because that’s what I like – I hope it’s okay for me to state my personal preference while at the same time accepting however she prefers to present. Because while it’s true, I do prefer long hair, even more than that I prefer her to make decisions based on her own wants and needs and personal expression, not on what I desire.

Still. Her hair was so much shorter when we met, nearly as short as mine is now; I’ve been growing mine too, going for that early Elvis look. I’d dye it blue-black like his but I really like the few strands of gray that are coming in at my temples.

I guess I really am obsessed with hair.

Point is: she looked so, so good. Fun, flirty. Femme.

We chatted on the couch after I got to her house. How are you, how’s your day, how’s your sister. Maybe it was that I hadn’t seen her in more than a day after spending many days in a row with her. I felt my appetite for her growing, bubbling up. At one point she tipped her head just slightly sideways, her hair doing this little flip on both sides, the lines of her silhouette so perfect, those big hoop earrings brushing her neck, and she gave me a little smile, eyes twinkling. If I’d been on a TV show, it would’ve cut to a shot of me, my spine becoming jelly, my hands to my face, crying OH GOD as I slide off the couch before springing up and throwing myself on her, wrapping around her and kissing her hard, my mouth wherever she’d let me put it, then the camera would snap back to the shot of us on the couch as we were before and nothing would’ve actually happened, just me, sitting there blinking, in awe, probably totally transparent and readable and ooey gooey in love. Am I so obvious? Moments like that I feel oafish, bull in a china shop, too big and awkward next to such grace and elegance, like I am certain how much she knows she’s got me wrapped around her little finger.

Oh and here I am being all dramatic and admirational again. Are you bored of this femme-worship yet? Three and a half years of Sugarbutch and I only love femmes more, I am only more certain of my orientation to them in such a specific way. Only three and a half years of Sugarbutch, but I met my first femme nine years ago, and I knew then … what? Something. The way she shocked me to life, lit up the night like a shower of sparks from fireworks.

And I’ve never had it this good. I tell myself that every day: every day of this relationship I am grateful, so appreciative of every minute we have together. I’ve not known a bliss like this and I’ve never known it to last this long.

When Jesse was here, she had a brief little snag with Violet, some conversation where it wasn’t quite perfect, but she didn’t let it phase her or lose her unwavering faith in their relationship. “We’ve always been able to talk it through, whatever it is,” she said. And so far, Kristen and I have that too – not big explosive fights and feelings getting deeply hurt, but conversations of honesty and self-awareness and accountability and care. There are some things looming, a little, I’ve felt their weight lately, our differences and complications and inadequacies and places where we need more support, but we have always been able to talk things through, even if the journey is more illuminating than the destination, even if the only conclusion is, “well, now we know, that’s how we work, that’s my particular quirks and assumptions coming up against yours in our unique relationship way. We’ll just have to watch how this plays out.” We still come back together, appreciate each other, speak the deep truths. I feel like I am heard, always. And oh how important that is, what a relief to have it in my relationship, with her.

Dacia has a piece she’s read in public a few times lately which has the lines, “I write about the relationship I wish I was having,” and “I buy my own bullshit.” I’ve done that, here, in the past. I’ve written myself into love, used this site to woo and court. I haven’t wanted to do that with Kristen. It’s too precious, too real; I’ve learned from my mistakes, or rather, I am learning, I am trying to learn. That is a major reason why I haven’t written about her like I have others.

Plus, I’m all the more protective of my heart these days. How many heartbreaks is one heart made to withstand, anyway? I love writing about my relationships, but it can also be a crutch – I become obsessed with micro-articulating my feelings and emotional landscapes in writing, sometimes to my own detriment, overdramatizing and letting the articulation of the emotion be more important than the experience, the story, the audience, the effects.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

So I am protective of this relationship, as it has swelled and sometimes burst, its ups and downs. I haven’t chronicled it all here, preferring instead to articulate it to her as best I can. And there are things, snags, places between us which are murky and lurking a little for me right now, things that have come up and we’ve said “we should talk about that more later,” but now it’s later and I don’t even remember what they were, so that makes me all the more nervous. The unknown rather than the known. I should’ve kept a list, I keep thinking. But I’ve got to calm my nerves about this, not let it affect the really good highs inside of which we still so easily slip. So far, we’ve been able to talk through everything, and for now I’ll rest comfortable on presuming we’ll be able to do that in the future, too.

Yes, I was high when I reached out for her upper arm and pulled her onto my lap, and she’d just told me about how she’d done her homework this morning by playing with her ass while getting off, but that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t also in love, wanting to make love, wanting to be inside of her, drinking her in as I sucked her nipples into my mouth and left bite marks on her neck and shoulders. She cried out and I thought, someone should be videotaping this she is so goddamn hot.

In the bedroom we slipped off her clothes. “Take off your shirt.” I slid her tight jeans down her legs. She was in this matching bra and panties I hadn’t seen her wear before – she does wear the bra, a little white one with pink polka dots and pink satin bows, very femme, but the matching panties have layers of ruffles. I’ve never seen her in them.

I didn’t take them off.

“I want to see your ass. Turn over.” She does, gets on all fours. “Show it to me. Get down on your elbows.” She parts her knees a little and arches her back, I run my hand over her curves and feel the outline of her cunt and ass under the thin fabric. I let my fingers trail over her softly, slowly. My mind raced. There’s so much I wanted to do to her, with her. All that ass talk earlier made me want my fingers in her there, to get out the little plug I’d brought to leave at her place (her further homework), wanted to plow her ass hard and make her scream. I won’t do that, yet, of course, it’ll take some time to work up to it. I wanted her to stay on her knees, ass in the air, while I gripped her hips and fucked her slow and hard. I wanted her on her knees, mouth full of spit eyes looking up at me as she sucked me down.

But most of all I wanted to be close, pressed against her, kissing her, wrapped around each other. So I strapped on, peeled off her pretty bra and panties, told her to turn over, slid inside, and got lost in her, got lost in the way we wind around and hold each other. We barely spoke, just felt each other, just took it all in with our bodies.

There were a few times I slowed down, savored her, looked at her, but the vibration was so strong between us, I couldn’t didn’t want to stop. Sometimes I wondered if I should, if her hips were okay, if she needed more of a break, but I kept getting so close and ultimately was able to come inside of her for the first time in a long time, I was glad I didn’t stop. (I don’t know why I haven’t been coming lately. I broke out the Spartacus harness I’d retired hoping that would help. It did, apparently.)

Later, she said, “I thought you were going to stop … but you didn’t. That was good.”

Yeah, that was good. And I’m glad she said that. Always affirming to know I wasn’t pushing her. I want to push her, I want to have that kind of power and trust and knowledge and skill, but that has to be earned, that has to be worthy. I want to do so much more with her, to her, want to take her to all sorts of dirty places and cradle her and worship her and honor her and fuck her and smack her around and force her and hold her and let go with her and trust her.

There’s time. It’s been almost a year, but I know enough to know that we’re in this. And that we’ll keep building, and exploring, as this keeps getting deeper and stronger.

Fucking in Public in Liberator Lingerie

November 9, 2009  |  dirty stories, reviews  |  13 Comments

Kristen and I dispute how many times we’ve been to the particular play party that we attended on Halloween. I thought we’d been before at least once, but she thinks it was only one other party in the same space. Perhaps because we also attended a completely different party around the same time (where the rocking chair blow job happened) I am blurring the parties together.

Regardless, we hadn’t fucked in “public” in a long time, and Kristen had the perfect costume for the Halloween play party: this “Secretary” outfit from Liberator.

secretary

Okay, you got me: it’s more lingerie than costume. Really it’s just the cuffs and collar that cross it over that line. Not really sure why it’s a secretary outfit, either; I guess because it has pinstripes on it, it is business-y? Whatever. The lingerie is hot. It arrived in a lovely fancy black box in pink tissue paper, and since Kristen tried it on earlier in the week I’d been looking forward to fucking her in it.

This is only the second Liberator item I’ve been sent to review – the first being the Throe, the moisture-proof blanket Kristen and I use pretty much every time we have sex. Well, every time at my house, anyway; we should get a second for her place, too. I’ve been looking forward to more from their product line, particularly some silk pillowcases to see if something higher quality will do less damage to Kristen’s hair, which is inevitably a tangled mess after thrashing against the sheets for a while. (Those of you with fine, baby-thin hair out there may know this problem. So far there’s no cure except conditioner and a shower. Suggestions?)

Instead of the pillow cases, though, they sent us Kristen’s pick for lingerie, just in time for the Halloween party.

It’s kind of hard to order clothes online, especially lingerie, where it should be very form-fitting and specific to a body’s shape. Liberator lingerie comes in x-small, small, medium, large, x-large, and 2x, and the customer service folks told Kristen that it runs small, so she ordered what she thought would be the closest to her size. She seems pretty happy with the fit, but it was a bit of a gamble; we may try a slightly smaller size next time, but it’s hard to say, that one might be too small. Returns to Liberator have to be pre-approved, probably because they do sell all sorts of products for sexiness and they aren’t about to accept used sheets or used sex furniture, but if it’s because the lingerie was the wrong size I bet they would understand. Be sure to ask, though, if you’re not sure.

We dressed at my place; she slipped into it as I got my harness ready under my black slacks, tee shirt, and button-down. When I announced I was ready, she said she was too, and I thought, really? You’re going to wear that out, without anything on top of it? She zipped her jacket up over it, her very short jacket, coming only to her high waist. The garter is almost a mini-mini-skirt, if you stretch your mind a bit, and we were driving, walking only the few blocks from her apartment to the play party. Plus, it IS Halloween, which is practically Scantily Clad Day, and I’d be with her – it’d be okay. (It did make me feel a bit protective, but also hot, that she was willing to venture out into public wearing so little. And knowing I’d probably fuck her later in the same lovely outfit made it all the better.)

We arrived at the play party a bit late; it was packed and going strong. Someone recognized me upon my entrance (who were you? I could barely hear or see, I apologize) and Kristen and I made the rounds, watching the various scenes in progress already: someone holding onto the bars of the “jail cell,” two pairs of dykes giving/receiving blow jobs, someone on a leash being led around by someone very mistressy, a girl with lovely curves face down being smacked by her top in a cowboy hat. Every once in a while the music would quiet just a little and I’d hear someone screaming or yelling or moaning and go investigate – I do love that it is a safe space to come and be naked, be vulnerable, be exposed, and be hot and sexy.

We didn’t stay long, but we wanted to play at least a little. I like to show her off. I like for others to watch her and see how ridiculously sexy she is when she comes or how good she is at her particular talents, like sucking me off.

I’m not sure how it started; with a kiss, I think (isn’t that always how it starts?). I love the way she kisses, from subtle, supple energy to hard, insistent, demanding. I love how she meets me, pushes me for more, mouth and lips and tongue so sweet and open, lovely, tender. I can’t even explain it without resorting to cliche flower metaphors.

Somewhere in the winding labyrinth of little black nooks and crannies I leaned against the wall, feet apart shoulder blades pressing back, cock already tucked into my slacks when I was in the other room, not a packing cock but a fucking cock so it is straining at my zipper and pulling at my belt already. She presses against me and can feel it, rubs up against it, which makes me groan. She winds her fingers through my hair. Puts her mouth to my neck. I feel myself coming undone, coming thickly into my body and connecting to her, those invisible strings that pull us to each other becoming taut.

She wants to be somewhere more public. I want to be somewhere quieter, we were right under the speaker and I can’t hear her noises, can’t hear her breathing. I lead her into the back room, full of signs that read “BDSM and sex only – no chatting please,” where Crash Pad is playing in the background, and I find a chair. We keep kissing before I sit back into it, just enjoying reconnecting and building the sensuality between us.

To be honest, we hadn’t fucked in a while. A few days, probably. Maybe there was some morning making out in there, some quickies, but no half-day laze in bed like we are used to. We kept disconnecting, we’d traveled and had visitors and then were decompressing from a week of socializing, we weren’t arguing but I was particularly exhausted and not communicating that well or being very attentive. It was a relief to let the world fall away outside and just be with her, just feel her back and shoulders and waist, her ass all round and squeezable in that gorgeous high-waist garter.

We kissed for a long time. Standing, arms wrapped around each other, melting a bit, finding the edges of each other again. Finally I pulled back to say, “there’s a chair behind me. I’m going to get my cock out, you’re going to get on your knees. Got it?”

She nods. I kiss her again, so sweet, savoring her lips, and drop back to the chair behind me as she drops to the floor. It is doubtlessly good whenever she ventures to put her mouth on me, but this time was exquisite, the kissing still reverberating on my mouth, still feeling her tongue and pillowy lips, how is it that after nearly a year it just keeps getting better? (I ask myself this regularly.) She kisses the head of my cock, softly. I feel it jolt through my body. Her tongue running along the corona. I shiver, swelling. She pulls it into her mouth deeper with suction and my eyes roll back in my head, I nearly fall out of my chair.

I love to watch her this way. I let her go on, watching the room watching us a little bit, dykes over by the doorway biting their lips and sucking on their fingers absently, eyes fixed. Enjoying them enjoying the view of her ass, her back curved, leaning forward.

The couple in the far corner leaves and the swing is unused. I pull her mouth off my cock with my hand on her chin and kiss her. Her mouth is wet.

“Let’s go back into the corner.”

I tug on my slacks so they don’t fall down around my ankles, lead the way. I undo my button down and slip it off, set it on the bench next to the wall, by the swing and the table that is suspended by chains from the ceiling. She stands next to me as I drop down to my knees and unhook her garter belt to slide her black panties down her legs, then hook up the belt again.

“The swing?” I ask her. “Or the table?” Both are free. She looks over to the table coyly and we take a few steps over to it, maneuver her up onto it. Kind of hard to do without proper leverage. There was a couple fucking right here as we watched earlier and it’s kind of a thrill to do something similar to what they did. She lays back, grabs the chains for leverage, wraps her legs around my waist as I lube up my cock and slide it in. I work it in and out a little, softly, she’s quiet and not nearly responsive enough. I can’t reach her to kiss her from this ninety-degree angle at which we’re fucking.

I can’t hear her, either. The music is too loud, plus there’s porn playing on the TV behind us, and other people fucking nearby, so any joyful noise, so to speak, could be coming from anywhere. I can’t hear her. I can barely see her, it’s so dark in here, a windowless basement with only bare colored dim light bulbs from the ceiling and the light from the TV. It’s not enough for me to tell what’s going on with her, but I can feel it, something’s not quite right.

“You okay?” “Yeah.” She wants it to be okay. (So do I.) But we can both feel something is off.

We mess around for a little while, I hold her, hold her down, push her ankles onto my shoulders so her legs are up, touch her clit, she gets off once or twice. But her heart’s not in it, and she forces it a little, makes it happen faster than necessary. I suspect she wants to go.

I lean down to wrap around her for a moment and she responds immediately, softens and pulls up into me. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. She nods into my neck. We get up, clean up the area, put our clothes back on, I tuck my shirt in.

It was fun, thrilling to debut her lingerie in public, fun to show her off a little, thrilling to watch her go down on me in front of a room full of people. But it isn’t quite enough. We haven’t had enough connection lately. I need some cuddling and intimacy and kisses all night long, wrapping around each other and sleeping late, making breakfast and laughing and leisurely lazing around on the couch watching reruns of 30 Rock, holding hands. I need some quiet to ourselves, with the world on the outside shut off and put away. I need to catch up on the last week, decompress together, let her know what I thought of the parties and people and fun times and her cooking and all the events we’re sharing. I need things to just slow down so I could catch my breath.

I pack up my cocks, we get our jackets, venture back out into the cold, and walk the few blocks back to her place, where we whisper sweet nothings quietly before falling asleep together.

What’s On My Mind

September 29, 2009  |  dirty stories  |  11 Comments

You in stockings and a garter, pussy bare, black bra, your lips and eyes darkened. Heels strapped around your ankles that I take off, or maybe not. Black and red silk ropes around your thighs, under your knees, around your ankles, around your wrists. Smooth ropes on the smooth stockings and I love the texture, run my hands all over you. I slip a blindfold over your eyes and kiss you. Smear the lipstick across your cheek and lips. You get still and quiet, waiting.

Your fist in me deep. Hard. The look on your face when you’re between my legs, that awe and desperate look I know I get too. Sweating. My hand on my clit, hard, rubbing hard, getting close until I grab you by the hair and push your mouth down on it, yeah, like that, suck it, don’t slow down, fuck me, until I’m hard and bursting in your mouth and I lift you by the hair again, take my clit in my fingers again to come, hard, around your fist. I wish I could squirt as easily as you do, I would, I would come in your mouth and watch you swallow it.

Your new thigh high boots, your little black dress. I’d like you in an alley, maybe, a dirty one, street-lamp lit and bricked and you’re nervous about the dinginess but you want me, you trust me. I push you up against a wall, slam your shoulders back, bite your neck, suck your tongue. You’re wearing fencenets between your boots and the tight hem of your dress but nothing underneath; I get my fingers between the wide holes and into your tight one, and hold you there, until your knees buckle and your fencenets rip.

You coming in my mouth again. Last time your knees on either side of my head, dipping your pussy into my mouth while I licked and sucked, tongued your hole as deep as I could. “You want to do it?” “Yes.” Your fingers on your clit and I held your hips (how you like it) and watched you squirt all over my face, dripping down my chin and cheeks, into my ears, and I laughed, mouth filled.

Blindfolded, on your hands and knees, mouth stretched open, pussy, ass, holes stretched open farther than you thought they could go and you like it, you like being filled like this, you like taking me in. A gag maybe. Breathing tight around the edges. Touching your smooth skin in easy strokes and thrusting inside you, my mouth by your ear: no, don’t come yet, don’t come yet, let me do it first, don’t do it baby, just take it.

My hips are heavy this morning and I remember the weight and swing of my longest cock between my legs, the swagger of it, the thrill of filling it, the thrill of filling you, that squeeze and tightening and then the ease when we work into our rhythm and press, thrust, push against each other.

I’m biting at my lips, remembering yours, remembering the way you kissed me when I got off in bed earlier this week, we’d woken early to fuck but I hadn’t gotten off, pulled out and rolled beside you, annoyed. “What’s wrong?” “Frustrated. I want to … ” “I know.” So I did it, put my hands on me, slid my cock off and held you tight to me, wanted your body next to mine, the way you kiss me when I am not in charge of the kiss. That mouth of yours.

I am tempted to get out the little digital video camera and set it up in the corner to make a record of how we fuck. Would we be too self-conscious? Would we get into it like we usually do? Would we be loud enough to hear on the recording? I could tell you louder. Louder. Say that again. Say it louder. Say fuck me. Say fuck me, Daddy. Say I want your cock. Say fuck my little pussy. Say it. Say it. Take it. My sweet girl, my lovely little girl, my darling. What would we capture? What would we look like? Will we look back at this in ten years, wonder how we were ever that young, that in love, that passionate? Or will we look like amateurs compared to whatever we’d be doing then? I want to find out.