Posts Tagged ‘anal’
If you're new here, you should know that this site contains BDSM, kink, gender explorations, and explicit queer sex. All sex and kink acts depicted are between enthusiastically consenting adults. You may want to subscribe to my RSS feed, Twitter, Facebook, or not. This warning will self-destruct.
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.
Okay, some clarifications:
1) Kristen has made it very clear that she’s game to try anal sex, from the beginning, from the very first conversation. That the idea intrigues her, even. She’s very GGG in bed, and if she expressed that she wasn’t so into something (and there have been things she has said she’s not so into), I’d drop it. I’d never push her to do something she didn’t want to do.
2) We talked about this before and after this post went up, and she was a bit concerned I hadn’t made it clear that she was into it. And, I don’t think I did. Is this clear yet? She has expressed an interest in trying it. But even with both of our expressed interest, we still haven’t quite done it, and I’m not sure why exactly. I thought we’d talked about it various times in depth, but given this post, and the many reader comments, I am realizing we really haven’t delved into it very deeply. I also think my own nervousness is a factor, and the ways that having sex focused on me is really hard for me, which is, ultimately, the main point of this post. Yes, I couched it in other things, because it’s hard to have attention on me, my needs, and my shortcomings. I guess that worked a little too well.
3) Asking for reader contribution here was for two reasons, but NOT as an attempt to convince Kristen that it was a good idea. Not for peer pressure, absolutely not. Not for me to be able to point to and say, “See! Comment #4 says it hurts, but eventually you like it! Just try it!” Hello, no, I don’t do that. The purpose of asking for reader comments was because a) sometimes Kristen feels – and I do too! – very validated seeing her own trepidations and hesitations shared by other people, and I thought that perhaps if someone expressed their own experience with it in a way she identified with, we’d have some starting points to discuss the parts of it that were making her – or both of us – nervous, and b) because I like it when readers express their own experiences. I love encouraging that to happen in the comments on this site, I love reading about it, I love how some people that I know well will write a thesis on a particular topic and share their knowledge and write about their story, sometimes things that they haven’t (or won’t) share on their own blog even. One of my favorite posts lately was the “share some sex thing you’ve done / you wish you’d done / you want to do this summer,” because whoa, I have some kinky readers. Y’all are awesome. Asking you for advice is a big big way to encourage those personal stories of experience, so that is what I did.
4) The comment that said “focus more on her pleasure and less on your cock.” You’re a bit misguided. For one, she is into it. For two, I always, always am focused on her pleasure. I know I have been writing less and less about our personal sex life here, and that’s for lots of reasons, the most of which is that my 9-to-5 job is ending and I don’t have access to my site at work anymore, which means I have a lot less time to work on it. But our sex life continues to be fucking awesome, and I wish I was writing up a story every time. As uh, everybody knows, I am very cock-centric, but that does not mean I am not focused on Kristen’s pleasure – or the pleasure of any girl with which I am sleeping. In fact, I am SO focused on their pleasure, most of the time, that I often bypass my own. This is actually a problem, which is the real point I tried to make in this post, but I think it got buried beneath the anal-anal-anal-make-Kristen-try-anal part that seems to have distracted everyone. And, the point is, there is no shortage whatsoever on Kristen’s pleasure. I guess you’ll just have to take my word for that, unless she wants to jump in and write a guest post, but the girl is spoiled in bed, and she gets what she wants. She doesn’t have to ask for anything twice, any toy she wants I either have or can get for her, and I pay a lot of attention to her detailed reactions and responses, and often can tell if something is uncomfortable before she expresses anything. The issue here is not her pleasure at all: it’s mine. That’s what needs some work, in this relationship, and in my relationships in general.
Since we got together about nine months ago, Kristen and I have kept a verbal running list of Sex Stuff To Explore (okay, not always verbal, we have a shared Google doc, too).
Up pretty high on my list, and one thing that I have mentioned quite a few times, is that I’d like to fuck her ass.
I’ve never actually strapped on and fucked a girl up the ass (how come it’s up the ass but in the pussy? Does one say “up the pussy”? No, that’s awkward. Weird). (I have actually fucked a guy that way, but perhaps that’s different. Or perhaps that’s too much for a lesbian sex blogger to disclose in parenthesis without going farther in depth. Carry on.) I want to. The idea is really hot. I don’t know why exactly – not that the why matters terribly, but perhaps if I could articulate it better she’d be more inclined to try it. Maybe because it’s taboo, maybe because it’s tight and I expect the sensation to be a little different, maybe because I have fantasies of sharing her with another butch (or two) as we all fill her and use her, so she needs the practice. Maybe because DP feels good. Maybe because I know it changes and enhances my own orgasms. Maybe because I know it makes her nervous.
I guess the real hangup is that it makes me a bit nervous too. I don’t have trouble pushing her to do things I want that are things I’ve done in the past, even when she’s nervous, but for some reason we still haven’t done much ass play. Sure, a finger here and there, a small butt plug a few times – but I want it to be my cock, and I want to be wearing it.
I’ll admit, too, that since I started keeping a tumblr log and going through my dashboard as another daily inbox, I’ve thought about it more often. There is no shortage of cock-in-ass shots on that site, the sights of which makes my own imagined cock strain against my slacks every time.
Sidenote: why the fascination with girls assholes, guys? Same reasons for mine, I imagine …
Kristen mention Tristan Taormino’s book The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex For Women the other day, asking if I had it. I don’t. I may attempt to hunt down a copy though, and maybe a DVD or two of hers too. She does, after all, have a butt plug named after her.
I may be getting a Fun Wand from Babeland in the near future (crossing my fingers), which I think will be great to play with. I’m tempted by the Njoy Plug also – I have the Pfun Plug, perhaps I should get that out. (I am a bit obsessed with these stainless steel Njoy toys these days, thanks to my Pure Wand.) I have plenty of other butt toys, though – goodness knows I have no shortage of toys. Slim cocks I anticipate working up to, butt plugs in small-medium-large, thicker, wetter lubes. No problem.
Something still makes me a little nervous, though. It isn’t the shit part, at least not for me – I don’t particularly like it, but it is just part of the reality of things up the ass, and whatever, things happen that are sometimes awkward. I can deal. I know how to clean it up, know how to prep with towels nearby and condoms and wipes and whatever other supplies. I’m not sure what Kristen’s hesitations are exactly – inexperience? pain? shit? – but perhaps it’s time to ask her again.
Fucking up the ass strapped on seems like something that is done for her pleasure, not mine. It’s her body that has to get used to some new invasion, some new and violating way of being taken. The top in me – and the use of a dick with no nerve endings – makes me hesitant to pressure something that is all about her.
But then again: this is a frequent topic for our sex life, actually, and a place in which we have some snags. Nothing big; a few tiny things. We have a complex power dynamic (aren’t they all) in that while I am a top, I am sometimes more of a “service top,” doing things to my bottom because I know she wants them, I know how she likes it, I know what she wants. (I could say much more about this – it is, in fact, the reason the Sugarbutch Star stories were born, and often the way I write smut too. That feels like a tangent, I’ll cut myself off.) Sometimes, as you can imagine, this extends out to me being so focused and attentive to her needs and reactions that I ignore my own. I think this is why (at least sometimes) I have trouble getting off. Likewise, it is challenging sometimes for Kristen to contain, to hold – not to let in or open, those are a bit different (I have an article on these concepts in the works) – and we’d both like her to be better at it. Playing with that concept sexually would be a good way to do so, we’ve discussed this, since it is one place where I can practice being completely focused on me with disregard to her feelings, and where she likes being submissive and bottoming to that kind of degrading, using power energy.
But why have I not connected this with fucking her up the ass before? I want to; I am hesitant because I feel like it’s “for her pleasure” and not for mine. But it is for mine, maybe not physically, but in other ways. Obviously! Weird to think I still have a small hangup there. This particular act it is a great symbol of this issue of me taking, selfishly, something for me and not necessarily for her (with, hopefully, the side effect of her liking it). I have pages more to say about this issue, really; I feel like I’m only scratching the surface, but perhaps I’ve written around it enough in the past that you know what I’m talking about.
Kristen, baby, that means you’re going to give me that sweet ass of yours, and soon. You’ll do that for me, right? I thought so.
Folks, Kristen reads the comments – leave some support, wouldja? Tell her being fucked up the ass is not that scary. Tell her it is hard at first but you get used to it. Tell her why you LOVE it, tell her why it’s fun and hot, tell her it makes your orgasms better, tell her your story of when you first tried it. Tell her it’s worth the work. Tell her your story of learning and practicing ass fucking. Lend her some support. Share some resources.
You know I’ll certainly appreciate it.
Really, this is a review of the Tristan butt plug for one of my favorite sex toy stores, but it’s also a shout-out to Tristan Taormino, who designed said butt plug, in celebration of her tenth anniversary in the biz. Babeland’s running a special sale on some of her goodies – get ‘em while they’re cheap!
Tristan Taormino is the acclaimed female director of sex-positive adult DVDs, award-winning author of how-to sex books, editrix of erotica, and designer of her own butt plug. To celebrate her 10th anniversary in the biz, we are introducing her new Anniversary Edition Plug (solo or in a Combo), plus her Expert Guide DVDs are on sale for 15% off.
I’ve known about Tristan’s work for a long time. Even before I was out, I scoured the Best Lesbian Erotica series (I read 1998′s so many times that it practically crumbled in my hand and I had to replace it) and pored over her Village Voice sex advice column, Pucker Up (if you missed it, pick up her book True Lust which is a compilation of some of her best). I’ve had the privilege of working with Tristan in a rather minor way, as I’ve been published in three different Best Lesbian Erotica books that she has edited, and I’ve had the chance to chat with her (briefly!) at release readings. I’ve been so excited to have even a small part in the BLE books – to help contribute to the same series that helped me mold and shape my lesbian identity feels like coming full circle, which is such an honor and humbling.
Lately, though, Taormino has not just been writing – she’s been directing porn, too. Mainstream porn, one would probably call it, as it features some well-known porn stars and most of the content is straight. While I do wish more queers were making good queer porn, I’m also glad that there’s straight porn being made by queer folks – maybe some of our radical sexualities can seep in when they least expect it, muahahaha.
I have a copy of her Expert Guide to Cunnilingus, but I’ll be honest, I’ve never watched it. Anybody out there seen it? Maybe I should dust it off and see how it is.
Have you seen any of the Chemistry series of DVDs that Taormino has done? I’ve seen a few – I don’t usually care for straight porn, but I really did enjoy watching the interviews with the porn stars (no really!) about their experience in the industry. Honestly, it was Roxy in Chemistry 3 that sold me – I even looked up some of her other work after seeing her in this one, she was just so damn hot and cute.
And I have yet to see a better blowjob scene than the one in the beginning of Chemistry 3 with Derrick. I mean, yes, Dylan Ryan is quite impressive, don’t get me wrong, and a queer femme with a butch cock in her mouth wins, hands down – but, wow. Roxy, and her tongue. Wow.
But wait – this isn’t about blow jobs. This is about butt sex! Tristan used to be referred to constantly as the “anal queen,” ’cause she was all about the ass. I remember her saying something like, I know my asshole so well, I can shave it perfectly smooth without a mirror. Now that’s impressive.
I like ass-sex as much as the next guy, but honestly I don’t have as much experience with it as I do with other things (fingers, dick, mouth, fist). Nevertheless, I’ve always wanted to get my hands on the custom-designed butt-plug that Tristan created a few years back. It’s been on various sex toy wishlists of mine for literally years now.
And for this Tristan Taormino anniversary sale, Babeland’s got a special Anniversary Edition of the plug.
But wait! What could they possibly do to improve the famous Tristan butt plug? … Make it bigger, of course! The first edition of the plug is 3 1/4″ x 1 1/2″, and the Anniversary Edition is 3″ x 1-3/4″. Just a little more squat and stout, perfect.
The Tristan butt plug is uniquely designed with two things, in my opinion: one, the insertable part is kind of long, but more bulbous than most butt plugs, which means it stays in place better; and two, the base is narrow and rectangular, which means it kind of fits between your ass-cheeks easier. Brilliant!
To be totally honest, I haven’t used it yet. It’s a little … gulp … large. But I’ll be sure to report back when I do.
It is 100% high-quality silicone, which means it can be easily boiled. I know you’re dying to get your ass around one of these; high-tail to Babeland and pick it up – there’s even a special Anniversary Plug & Expert Guide Combo. Seriously, all of Tristan’s stuff is on sale – there’s got to be something in there that would be a great addition to your own collection.
Bet you didn’t even know that this woman is your hot queer sex mentor, but she is.
The Girl in the Red Dress
At first I’m trying to ignore her. I have my latest review book, Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica
; I have my iPod on to some soothing lofi mix Muse made for me; I have lube in my pocket for a quick jerk-off session before we arrive in New York. I need all the sanctuary and release I can get before returning to that hyper-stimulating city.
But she’s making a big show of her many bags, heavy, designer luggage, and she – being tiny petite thing – seems unable to slip them all into the overhead luggage rack.
The only other person in this car is a man in the back who has been snoring since I got on. I think about telling her to just leave her suitcases on the seat next to her, but her jaw is set, her sensuous mouth twisted in a sneer, and as she begins to climb onto the train seat to reach the rack better, I sigh and, reluctantly, get up to help her.
“Please. Let me,” I say, sliding behind her and putting my hand on her waist to guide her out of the way, then taking the heavy suitcase out of her struggling grip and nudge it onto the metal rack easily. She’s got a great ass in those tight jeans. Her eyes are wide, then she drags her gaze along my arm to my face. I watch her watch me. She looks like Penelope Cruz, all dark hair and big pools of dark liquid eyes.
“Um,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I answer, a bit dismissively, now offering my hand so she can get down. The train doors buzz and are about to close, we’ll be in motion shortly. I pick up her other bags and one by one put them up into the rack above her seat. She takes off her thin white sweater and sets it with her handbag next to her, and watches me.
I groan a little with the weight of the last one. She notices. “Thanks again,” she says, and I detect a slight accent, French maybe, though she looks Spanish. Her words are a little airy, already pulling Vogue Milan out of her purse and turning her attention to it, a tiny sideways glance at me to see if I’m still standing next to her, waiting for my good-dog biscuit.
I retreat back to my aisle seat. We are facing each other, opposite sides of the train. She is absorbed in her magazine. I put my feet up and crack open my book, start reading through the bondage stories. She takes out a compact and lipstick and fusses with her mouth, repainting, touching her fingertips to the edges of her lips, then wipes microscopic flecks with a tissue. I don’t watch her, but she periodically sweeps her eyes over to me. I rest my hand on my neat little package as I read through the story by Toni Amato, “A Girl Like That:”
She’s the kind of girl who brings out the worst in me. Coming on all hip and cool and all into sex, rubbing some part of herself all up against me every chance she gets. I’m not saying all the things my people taught me about women are so great, but I’ll tell you what, where I come from, that kind of girl is called a cock teaser.
It’s like there’s this small thing, like those stars they talk about, those White Dwarves, sitting deep and low in my belly, and this girl comes along, doing her number, and that son of a bitch just goes nova.
She makes the worst part of me want to do the best it knows how to teach her a thing or two about fucking.
I’m stroking my cock unconsciously through my jeans when I notice someone looming next to me, and it’s her, she’s returning from the bathroom with a clutch in her hand, I didn’t even notice her get up. The girl smiles, almost, and pushes past as though I am taking up the entire aisle, or maybe to show off her gorgeous ass in those tight, tight jeans.
The train lurches and opens its sleepy doors, the man in the back of our train car is moving at half-speed and makes his way off the train.
We’re alone.
She notices too. She’s looking out the window but keeps stealing glances at me. The conductor comes through and says nothing to either of us, just takes the small pieces of paper on our seats, the remnants of our tickets.
I go back to my book. I finger the bottle of lube in my pocket and think this would be a good time to go rub one out, then get absorbed in a story about a dyke cop who is passing as male in a straight club, picks up a girl and takes her, handcuffed, out to her truck. I nearly reach my hand into my pants.
“Um, excuse me?”
She’s standing, still in her seat but leaning forward over the seat in front of her, facing me, ass tipped to the side, front of her button down revealing creamy skin, long dark hair swinging. She smiles when I look up, flashes me an intentional smirky pose that she has practiced in the mirror – her seduction look. “Would you help, I have to … I need … something from that bag.” She glances up at it.
I put my book down and tug at my jeans to cover my hard-on. Clear my throat. “Sure.”
I get up and move toward her. She kneels and reaches for it, her back to the aisle as I come up behind her and reach up.
“This one?” My mouth is close to her ear.
“No, not – yes, that one,” she says as I touch the smaller suitcase. She reaches up to help me, bending slightly forward, as we both ease the weight of her bag down onto the seat. And I swear she rubs right against me, pushing back, just a little. Maybe I’m imagining it. Yeah, sure Sinclair; you just happen to have a boner and this girl offers up her ass on a silver platter.
I back off. Return to my seat. Again.
“Um, thanks!” she calls.
I toss a half-smile over my shoulder. “Don’t mention it.” She pulls a bundle of fabric out of her bag and I don’t watch. I don’t pay attention. I can’t see it. I shouldn’t be watching, but I am. It is slinky and red. She finds a few other bits and tucks her hair behind her ear, gathers an armful of clothing, makes her way toward me, down the aisle, to the bathroom at the back of the car.
She’s in there a while. I try to concentrate on my book, to not wonder what she is doing, what she’s slipping into, who she’s meeting when she gets off the train, not to imagine being that somebody so filled with lust and permission that I’d fuck her right on the platform, couldn’t even control myself long enough to wait until we went to dinner, drinks, a show, whatever it is she’s dressing up for. My breath is quickening and my hands are starting to do that aching thing where they are pulsing with grip, wanting to hold push grab press punch slap.
She makes her way back to her seat like the aisle is a runway, like she’s coming in for a landing. Each step deliberately placed. Legs precisely angled and separated and her gait is sharp, strong. Her red dress swings from her hips, past her thighs, to her knees. A few bracelets jangle from one arm, simple and slim. She’s pulled her hair up high on her head, into some sort of ponytail, then twisted around itself in a beautiful knot.
I watch her as she closes the distance to her own seat. I don’t drool. I am not drooling. I try not to drool at the sight of her ankles, her calves, the hints of the backs of her knees as her dress swings. I wipe my mouth. Her ankles cross just slightly, which makes her hips curl and switch like a figure eight. Like a come-hither finger.
I swallow. Breathe in. And quickly open my book, flustered, and turn it to the page I was reading as she slides onto the train seat and I snap out of my spell.
Of course – of course – I am too zealous and the book slides out of my hand, skittering out into the aisle. I take a sharp breath in and some spit goes down the wrong way, I start to choke, cough, loudly, as I jump up to retrieve the book.
Oh good lord. I get ahold of myself. Straighten up, book in hand. Clear my throat. I don’t look at her. I can’t see her. I am sure I am five shades of crimson and I steal a glance her direction, she’s covering her mouth, that perfect smirky smile, eyes dancing, looking away from me. Obviously she saw everything.
Fuck.
I resettle. Book in lap, adequate breath in lungs. I sneer to myself. Re-open the erotica. Do you have to be so obvious? I yell at myself in my head. You dumbass. Real smooth, Sexsmith.
She’s going through her open case next to her, I can see her arms moving but can’t see what she’s doing. Then suddenly she’s up, out of the seat and back in the aisle, pads down toward me as if she forgot something.
I catch a whiff of her perfume as she walks by. Dizzying, intoxicating. The swish of her skirt. I watch her little toe-heel trot down the aisle. My body acts without my mind and I reach for her. My hand on her hip. Lightly at first, but then she doesn’t pull away and I grab her harder. Both hands and I stand, pull her toward me, her back to me, and she is still. I can’t see her face but I can feel her breath through my hands, she’s holding it. Surprised. Waiting.
I lift her skirt in the back to reveal her perfect ass. A work of art. A combination of genetics and squats and hundreds of hours at the gym. She knows it. She’s bare under her red dress, no panties, no stockings. Perhaps that’s what she forgot. I can’t resist, I palm the apple of her ass, caress the flesh, spreading her cheeks and opening her slit.
She lets out her breath, finally, and it comes with a breathy moan, just a little.
And I’m gone. The slightest noise from her lips and all I can feel is what it’ll be like to be inside her, to feel her body curl around my arm and buck and thrash and grasp as she comes. I’ve got to feel it. Got to make her.
I press against her back. Her neck is bare, hair up, and my mouth is just at the corner of her jaw, below her ear. I reach around her and pin her arms to her sides, pressing her back to lean against me, and she arches, thrusts her hips up, feels the cock behind my fly. She lets her head lean back against me, lets me take her weight.
“Bend over.” Right next to her ear. Barely audible.
I release her from her hold. She turns her head just a bit and her face is quizzical, open, lustful, a tad resistant. I run my hand up under her dress firmly, continue to drag it up her back, then press, hard, on her shoulder blades, bending her over the train seat in front of her.
“I said bend over.”
Faster now. Unbuckle and unzip. The dress pushed up to her waist, one hand on her lower back to keep her hips tipped up to me. Her asshole is dark pink, a burst between her cheeks, perfectly smooth, and her ass is perfectly round, my thighs are already quivering and hips pulsing, so ready to fuck.
I grab one of the condoms I always keep tucked into the inner pocket of my bag. Roll it on. Spit into my palm, and again, lube up my cock. Spit again at my two fingers and shove them at her hole.
I hear her gasp – “ah” – just once – and she glances back over her shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. I push on her upper back again.
“Head down.”
Her body shudders at my voice and gives in. A ripple of submission through her backbone and I feel to my toes the way it makes every hair on my body stand up, clench, awaken.
Cockhead at her asshole, I enter her easily, so smooth. So tight. The resistance of her ass is just more friction and tension between us and I want to tear into her. Split her apart. Harder now. Faster and she’s taking it so well, “so good baby,” I whisper to myself, fuck it’s so good. She keeps her legs strong and pushes back against me. It’s not enough lube and I remember the bottle in my pocket and laugh to myself. What kind of pervert am I to carry lube on the train?
I pull out and squirt it right on my dick, smear it, and ease back into her.
Oh yeah, give me that ass. Give it to me.
The girl in the red dress has her arms braced against the seats, bracelets jangling. We hit a rhythmic sliding stride and she brings her forearm down in front of her, leans forward, brings her other hand between her legs. Immediately I feel her knees weaken and press together, back arch and spine curl and oh it’s beautiful. I bring my hand up her spine to her shoulder blades, then her neck, take a handful of hair and keep her steady. She pulls against me, not to get away, but to heighten sensation. Struggling has such varying degrees. She doesn’t want out, she wants more.
I take grips on her hip and hair. Slam against her hard, pull out slow. Slick where my cock is fat inside her, swelling and eager. Resistance and tension. She tips even further forward onto the seat until she’s held up by it, lifted at the waist, hand furious between her legs, thighs pressed so hard together, on her tiptoes straining up and tipping forward more, further, until she lets one foot come up off the floor and bend at the knee, toes curling.
She is starting to let go, really let go, become undone at the seams, and she can’t keep the tension in her muscles so she stops resisting my hand in her hair, my palm against the flesh of her ass, holding her cheeks apart, fingers gripping her hipbone. But I don’t let go, I just hold her stronger, tighter, take her a little deeper as she opens, opens deeper, opens hard, and every hinge in her body loosens, I feel it from inside pulse and ripple and again, and again, until she is gasping, chest heaving, crying out, gasping for air. And I ease up, slide in slow, press hard and sweet against her as orgasm fades, shudders, and her body rebuilds itself anew.
I pull out and let her rest. We are quiet a moment. I release my hand from her mess of hair and caress her neck gently, let my hand drape across her hips and thighs, even find her hand, wet and warm from her own liquid, touch her fingertips gently.
Her breathing calms. She sighs, once. Reaches up to brush her hair from her face and I stand, tuck my cock, zip up, run my fingers through my perfectly messy hair to assess the damage.
She stays where she is, leaning for support over the bench seat. I pull the skirt of her dress down over her hips with a shit-eating grin on my face and smack her ass once, a little harder than I meant to, but playful, and she gasps and tenses, then stands. Her makeup is smeared. Her face is still open and sweet from the release but it changes as she watches me. I gather my book and pocket bottle of lube and put them back in my bag, pick up my jacket and slide my arms into the sleeves.
She’s still watching. Eyes wide. Breathing.
“We’re here,” I say. The train is slowing and I can just make out the tunnels of Penn Station as we arrive in New York City. She blinks. Opens her mouth to say something.
I grin. Lord she’s cute. I kiss her cheek as I slip by her and remove her heavy suitcases from the overhead racks. I notice strappy black high heel shoes at her seat and my mouth waters.
Heaving the last of the bags down, I turn to her again. She’s still by my seat, now empty, one finger in her mouth, looking a little shy. I smile and nod, once, a goodbye-take-care-have-a-nice-night gesture, and turn to the door as the train comes to a full stop.
“Um!” she calls after me. I look back. “Thank you?”
I give her a long glance from her ankles up to her legs to her hips and belly and breasts, the disheveled red dress, hair tumbling from its neat design on her head. She’s stunning, really. Delicious.
“Don’t mention it,” I say, and step off the train.
Our story continues with our hero and heroine already in the midst of fucking in a hotel room near the Seattle airport. Read part one and part two.
For logistical sake, Miss DD reminded me that she didn’t actually take the spreader bar off until after she’d fucked me on all fours on the bed for a while.
She also had her hand in my ass, I’m pretty sure, while I was on my knees in front of her, while she was fucking me. Fingers, I mean; not her whole hand.
I forget how much I like double pentration. That feeling of being filled.
By then, I was practically insatiable. She had me by the hips, had my ass in her hands, in range of her slaps, my shoulders and arms stinging and sensitive to where she’d bitten me raw. Everything was sensation. I lost my sense of myself and only reacted to her touches, thrusts.
We detangled, she paused and removed the bar, and I dared walk to the bathroom, laughing at the look of myself with wrist and ankle cuffs, amused and deeply appreciative. It takes a lot for someone to get me into these. I can’t believe how uncomplex she makes it all seem; the minute I heard her laugh when she opened that hotel door, I was comfortable, comforted.
I came back to the hotel bed, pillows pulled onto the floor, white bedspread messy.
“Let’s have you bent over the edge of that bed, there,” she nodded to the side, near the wall, snapping another condom on her hard, huge cock, re-gloving her hand (one of them) over her makeup case that doubled as her domme kit.
(I too have one of those; of course, it is a black and orange toolbox. Oh we make quite the pair.)
I bent. Fiddled with my harness, she had losened it and the strap between my legs was completely unhooked now, cock lose and hanging a little awkwardly.
I stretched my arms in front of me, face down in the bedspread, and she lubed up her cock, slowly entered me, again, from behind, drew a finger into my ass – oh – and then a smallish plug.
“Don’t push this out,” she ordered, cock still sliding in me. I was dizzy, felt out of control of my body. If I’d been able to think about it any further I would’ve felt opened, vulnerable, exposed, but I could barely think, could only feel that distinct filling up embrace.
I am out of practice; the plug slipped out easily. I became aware enough of my muscles to clench, which made my cunt burn and throb.
“Better. Now keep it there,” she threatened, taking hold of my hips and fucking me harder.
She braced one boot behind her, on the wall, for better leverage.
I stretched my hands over my head, mouth gnawing at the bedspread. She had me at just the right angle and I was close to coming from her cock alone, a way in which I never come.
She felt it. “Put your hand on your clit.”
I did, but couldn’t get the right spot, the right release. I had no precision with my hand, felt like some big paw and all I could do was thrust against it.
I came nearly twice this way – I built up high to a thick peak, but without the precision of orgasm. Still, some sort of muscle clench and release.
She turned me onto my back and told me she wanted to see me come, wanted to feel me come around her cock, told me to do it, told me to remember my sweet revenge of topping her. It was all a blur, a fog, completely slowed down and every moment, every sensation happening at the same time.
I yelled out, screamed strings of obscenities, as I am prone to doing. She stood, my legs off the bed, then layed her body over mine as I came closer and closer, built up into a thick peak of sensation that gripped me in waves, moved through me. We both collapsed, wrapped up in each other for a sweet second, giggling and breathing heavy, moaning, still getting hold of my own body.
And, suddenly – “Roomservice!” – at the door.
I shit you not, the timing was that perfect.
I felt like hiding. Stripped, spent, and exposed, she scrambled for her slip – which she had removed to reveal amazing lingerie! black lace bra, garter! how could I not have mentioned that yet? – and answered the door.
She kept herself together beautifully and set down the roomservice she’d ordered, then scrambled back into bed, laughing.
“I can’t believe that just happened!”
“Me either.”
She put her arms around me, still on my back, and we laughed and grinned and I turned her over so I was on top and touched her skin, the curves of her hips, realized I had barely touched her body this whole time, barely felt her skin, and desire welled up thick in me to watch the way she would open, give in, give over.
“Put your cock back on,” she said. I did. “On the bed, on your back.” And she straddled over me, lowered her small tight body onto my cock and bent her head back, touched her clit.
God, oh god.
I was close to coming again, the way she rocked her hips back and forth, the curve of her neck exposed and vulnerable, one hand behind her as she knelt and rocked and slid against my cock. Oh it was gorgeous to watch. I thrust my hips in rhythm with hers. Brought mine up to meet her, pulled back, pressed.
She warned me she was close. Asked if it was okay – of course – and came, hard, let loose and ejaculated, my belly suddenly warm and wet with such a gush of liquid, and she shuddered, convulsed, collapsed.
My grey silk tie was soaked, practically ruined.
We kissed, held each other. I felt close to her, so close, under her skin, in all the creases of her.
But we were out of time. I had a flight to Alaska to catch. She rushed me into the shower, thankfully, and had a portabella burger waiting for me when I got out, the roomservice she’d ordered, complete with the most delicious wedge-fries I’ve ever had. That burger was about the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, let me tell you – there is nothing like food after your body is desperately fucked. I don’t even like mushrooms, but this was so luscious, perfect, flavorful. We split it in half and shared it, kissed, chatted on the bed as we gathered up our things, got dressed. She had a slice of chocolate cake, too, and we ate some of it with the rest of the strawberries, then, reluctantly, left the sanctity of our hotel room, and checked out.
She drove me back to the airport, dropped me off at departures.
“So, you want me to pick up your dry cleaning? The kids and I will miss you!” she joked. We kissed, and I teared up.
There’s something here. Something magic, something already under my skin. I didn’t beg to see her on the return trip, but I prayed she would want to.
I got back on a plane, headed off to see my family for the holidays, thinking of her, writing about her, the whole way.
The poll will officially close at midnight PST tomorrow, friday.
I know I haven’t done a very good job selling my topping Mistress DateDyke, but that doesn’t mean I’m going down without a fight.
If she wins by a margin of more than 30 votes, she gets my ass, too. That’s the deal. But she’s gonna have to earn it. I’m sure, by now, she knows that.
If she wins (i.e., gets to top me) by more than thirty votes, I have agreed that she gets to fuck my ass, too.
That’s the new deal.
Uh, so, you’re gonna help me win, right?
It has also been pointed out to me that I didn’t sell my topping her all that well in that last post. That is probably because I still have this vision of her ordering an entire roomful of people around while I was in Seattle, and, for whatever reason, I wanted to be kneeling in front of her with my hands on her leather boots, saying, “yes, ma’am.”
Now, though, I am telling her I want her in lingerie, garters and a bra and a thong, tall tall boots, blindfolded. Waiting for me on that hotel bed.
At that, she laughed. “I don’t think that’s what your readers want.”
Have I mentioned that she’s a grassroots organizer? She’s threatened to organize a voting block.
And yeah, I am hard and wanting with the ideas of submitting to her. A new place to be in, I don’t ever remember getting this worked up at the idea of bottoming to a femme. Yowza.
But, underneath it, all this talk just makes me want to take her down all the more.
I want to twist her arm around her back and shove her against a wall, kick her legs apart, fuck her until she comes, dripping down her legs and leaving a mess on the concrete at our feet. (I hear she’s a gusher.)
I want to feel my cock at the back of her throat as she swallows it in the car in the parking lot at the sketchy by-the-hour hotel.
I want to finger her while she blows me.
I want a fistful of her hair.
I want to split her open with that huge new cock of mine.
Like a watermelon, she wrote.
I want that look in her eyes, on her face, when she wallows in it, gives her body over to me, drops, opens. I want that stroking of her skin, after, when she’s shaken.
I don’t want her to be disappointed.
-
Fuck a girl’s ass with a strapon (is it still called pegging if it’s two women, or is pegging unique to a woman strapped on fucking a guy?). I’ve done plenty of ass-play, but somehow the women I’ve been with have never actually been comfortable enough with it for me to be strapped on. I have, however, fucked a guy this way, once upon a time.
-
Stingy toys, like a cane. I’d like to leave some marks. I’ve used a cane before, actually, but I don’t own one, and I’d like to experiment to feel more comfortable with it
-
Receive – and give – a cutting
-
Role-play out in a bar, pretend we don’t know each other and pick each other up. I suppose that has a lot of variations (resistance, convincing).
-
Sex in central park, sex in every girl club in new york city (the bathroom, the back room, the alley, the deserted dancefloor, wherever), sex at work. After hours, in an empty office, wherever. I’ve done that, actually, though not at my current job.
-
Play with knives. And yes, I think I’d like to be the one holding the knife, although that could be negotiable.
-
And, last but not least, recent events have told me that I need to practice my flogging & rope bondage.
You are face down, ponytail bobbing, wrists and ankles tied to my bedposts, the simple steel I won from my last breakup. Since then, I have fucked five women in this bed. You are the sixth.
Does it matter how I got you here? Whether I wined and dined you, bought you indulgent fruity mixed drinks, a delectable dinner, your body now satiated but wanting other fullness, wanting me to stop fingering my fork spoon knife glass napkin ice cubes and begin placing my hands carefully on your skin.
Or perhaps I simply ordered you over here, sent a car to your apartment and was waiting downstairs when you arrived at mine, paid the driver, removed my dark tie from the tight collar of my baby-blue button down and slipped it over your eyes. Leading you up two flights of stairs without your sense of sight.
No matter. You’ve been here before. Nothing really to see.
I am tempted to rip seams, pop buttons open with force. You know how you bring that out in me.
Instead, I make you wait. Drag the thin fabric of your shirt along your skin, slow as I can. You can’t see, but you can feel me, my breath on you, my hands, my rough thumbs waiting to dig bruises into your upper arms, stomach, hips.
My collection of floggers hang from a swirl of Victorian iron on the wall next to my bed. I choose my favorite: black, thin leather, red deerskin flanks in the center. My name is carved into the handle: z. e. d.
You’re stripped aside form my dark blue schoolboy tie around your eyes. I know it’s not foolproof, other blindfolds are more efficient. I don’t mind the glimpses you steal.
You see me strip down to loose, soft cotton jersey boxers and an a-shirt. Have to have my arms free if I’m going to beat you, after all. My cock pokes through the single button in the boxers. You like it when it does that.
I smell like summer and sweat, and I’ve been drinking tequila again, on the rocks, just a little. You smell sweet. Fresh. Clean like linen. My mouth waters and I imagine my tongue tracing the curves of your lower back, up to your shoulder, the back of your neck.
I stand gazing for too long, and you begin to squirm.
“Be still,” I say, and put one hand on your ass, trace it down to the back of your knee. “I’m going to hit you now.”
You let out a puff of air that is a whimper and a sigh. Your skin tenses and you try to counter by keeping your muscles calm.
“Relax,” I say, “or it’ll just hurt more.”
I want you to count to fifty, but wonder if that’s too many. I like flogging with an end in sight. Otherwise I go into that physiological trance state where I find rhythm and forget to stop.
I begin counting in my head. One – thump. Two – thump. Your muscles begin to open but still wince just before the leather makes contact.
Five – thump.
Six – thump.
The leather makes a small whoosh through the air. I’m being gentle, mostly just a tap, letting gravity pull the tassels to your skin, your ass, your thighs.
Whoosh – ten – thump.
Whoosh – eleven – thump.
I begin to throw a little more arm strength into the flogger and you grunt with an “uh –“ wincing a little stronger.
At fifteen I pause, run my hand, fingers, palm, along your skin. Tender where I’ve hit you hardest. You inhale sharply and arch your back to the touch, like a cat.
“Your skin looks beautiful,” I say. “It’s beginning to pinken, a little, at the edges.” My mouth is at your neck and I kiss you a few times, find you panting, tongue swollen.
“More, darling?” I ask, an offer and a question. You turn your face toward the sound of my voice, bite your lower lip, and nod.
“Oh – yes – please – ” you manage.
You do beg real pretty. I’ll never forget your legs wrapped around me that night I refused to slide inside you until you begged.
You’d said, finally: “Oh baby, your cock is so sweet, so sweet and hard, fill me up with it, baby, shove it in me, please, pump it in me, let me milk it, let me squeeze it hard till you come inside me, oh please I want it – I need it – I wanna be filled up – please put it in, please.”
It was the way your eyes flashed on that last please that did it to me. Finally sent me over desire’s edge to where I had to take you.
Tonight, I’m ready to hold out.
I switch up my rhythm so the flogger first hits my back over my right shoulder, then your back and exposed ass, then I catch it with my left hand. Easier on a Saint Andrew’s Cross than lying down, but I like the way it stings my palm. Plus I can gauge the strength of the blows this way.
Shoulder – ass – hand. Twenty.
Shoulder – back – hand. Twenty one.
Shoulder – ass – hand. Twenty two.
You’re writhing a bit, whimpering at the blows, occasional head back open-throated gasp when I land somewhere particularly hard.
Shoulder – back – hand. Twenty five.
I decide to go to thirty. Your skin is reddened to how I like it, ripe, your hips are making these nice S-curves and I want to fuck your ass.
I increase not just the muscle power I’m putting behind the flogger but also the velocity. Harder. Faster. You cry out. Twenty seven. You gasp and cry out again. Twenty eight.
I grab your hair, a neat twist in a ponytail, and lift your head slightly, my mouth by your ear. I drag the flogger along your inner thighs.
“Quiet,” I mutter.
You sigh and shudder. “Bully – “ you whisper, not intending for me to hear you.
I want to growl, but instead I push your cheek to the soft sheet and hold you there by the back of your neck, aiming a few blows between your legs.
Leather on labia. My favorite.
You’re whimpering again. I loose count and take five, six quick whaps to your cunt and inner thighs. You are making noises that sound like exquisite agony.
I step out of my boxers, they’re in the way, lube up my cock from the pump on the bedside table and moisten two fingers, then kneel between your thighs and lube your asshole, fingering the crack of your ass. I slide the thumb of my left hand into your slick wet cunt and can feel your clit under my index finger, so I set it there and rock it gently back and forth. The heel of my hand spreads your labia and tilts your pelvis back and up. Serves you to me like a feast.
You moan. The blindfold has slipped over your head and you’re watching me from over your left shoulder.
I slide one finger, then two, into your tight asshole while leaving my other hand still, fingers inside you. You groan a little and press into me a bit harder. Slide those fingers out and I touch the tip of my dick to your tight hole and you swallow it, open to it, and I can feel the muscles stretch and pulse when the head of my cock pops in, the shaft of it sliding easier through the tightest places.
You are still moaning. Sounds from your mouth as you grind back into me and wiggle your hips against mine. You’re almost on your knees and elbows now, hands gripped around the ties that hold you to the headboard. Lower back arched, still a little pink.
I let go of the cupped grip on your cunt and find your hipbones with my palms. Push you from me and pull you back so I don’t have to clench, just you, pulling your ass down onto my cock, feeling the resistance in your tight hole. It’s so good fucking you this way. Thighs and ass clenched, clit rubbing against the base of my cock every time I thrust inside. Easing forward so my thighs hit yours. Working in and out faster, a little, harder, my body an S-curve from knee to stomach, not just in-out but rolling against you. You are open-mouthed screaming into the pillow and asking for more, harder, oh god, fuck me, fuck my ass and I slap against you, once, twice, both of us groaning.
My head rolls back, my back curves, slapping against you harder as my orgasm comes closer, the resistance of your ass offering me tight pressure every time I thrust inside. My hands still hold your hips, your ass, the sitbones of your buttocks as my cunt pulses, cock fucks.
You can feel it in me. “Do it,” you say, “come in my ass, fuck me till you come, do it harder, thrust inside me – “ and I groan, yelling oh god oh god yes, fuck, and shudder against you until I’m spent, throw my arm around your waist and collapse on top of you, kissing your neck, your shoulders.
I breathe heavy as my body calms, then slip out, untie you. You curl next to me, knees and arms between us as we both lay on our sides and I gently finger your wrists, ankles, the places you were bound, and your back, shoulders, ass. Places I hit you. Tender.
“Alright?” I ask. We gaze at each other.
You smile. “Course.” You hold my cheek in your palm and I kiss your thumb. “You?”
“Mmmm.” I manage. Spent. You didn’t come, this time. “I’ll make it up to you in the morning,” I promise, grateful you’ve let me take what I’ve been craving. I’ll give you whatever you want.
You run your fingers through my short boy hair. “Damn right you will,” you say, and pull the covers up over us both.
Jacks on 
Lenore on 
Shereen on 
Follow-up: I’d Like To Fuck Her Ass
Okay, some clarifications:
1) Kristen has made it very clear that she’s game to try anal sex, from the beginning, from the very first conversation. That the idea intrigues her, even. She’s very GGG in bed, and if she expressed that she wasn’t so into something (and there have been things she has said she’s not so into), I’d drop it. I’d never push her to do something she didn’t want to do.
2) We talked about this before and after this post went up, and she was a bit concerned I hadn’t made it clear that she was into it. And, I don’t think I did. Is this clear yet? She has expressed an interest in trying it. But even with both of our expressed interest, we still haven’t quite done it, and I’m not sure why exactly. I thought we’d talked about it various times in depth, but given this post, and the many reader comments, I am realizing we really haven’t delved into it very deeply. I also think my own nervousness is a factor, and the ways that having sex focused on me is really hard for me, which is, ultimately, the main point of this post. Yes, I couched it in other things, because it’s hard to have attention on me, my needs, and my shortcomings. I guess that worked a little too well.
3) Asking for reader contribution here was for two reasons, but NOT as an attempt to convince Kristen that it was a good idea. Not for peer pressure, absolutely not. Not for me to be able to point to and say, “See! Comment #4 says it hurts, but eventually you like it! Just try it!” Hello, no, I don’t do that. The purpose of asking for reader comments was because a) sometimes Kristen feels – and I do too! – very validated seeing her own trepidations and hesitations shared by other people, and I thought that perhaps if someone expressed their own experience with it in a way she identified with, we’d have some starting points to discuss the parts of it that were making her – or both of us – nervous, and b) because I like it when readers express their own experiences. I love encouraging that to happen in the comments on this site, I love reading about it, I love how some people that I know well will write a thesis on a particular topic and share their knowledge and write about their story, sometimes things that they haven’t (or won’t) share on their own blog even. One of my favorite posts lately was the “share some sex thing you’ve done / you wish you’d done / you want to do this summer,” because whoa, I have some kinky readers. Y’all are awesome. Asking you for advice is a big big way to encourage those personal stories of experience, so that is what I did.
4) The comment that said “focus more on her pleasure and less on your cock.” You’re a bit misguided. For one, she is into it. For two, I always, always am focused on her pleasure. I know I have been writing less and less about our personal sex life here, and that’s for lots of reasons, the most of which is that my 9-to-5 job is ending and I don’t have access to my site at work anymore, which means I have a lot less time to work on it. But our sex life continues to be fucking awesome, and I wish I was writing up a story every time. As uh, everybody knows, I am very cock-centric, but that does not mean I am not focused on Kristen’s pleasure – or the pleasure of any girl with which I am sleeping. In fact, I am SO focused on their pleasure, most of the time, that I often bypass my own. This is actually a problem, which is the real point I tried to make in this post, but I think it got buried beneath the anal-anal-anal-make-Kristen-try-anal part that seems to have distracted everyone. And, the point is, there is no shortage whatsoever on Kristen’s pleasure. I guess you’ll just have to take my word for that, unless she wants to jump in and write a guest post, but the girl is spoiled in bed, and she gets what she wants. She doesn’t have to ask for anything twice, any toy she wants I either have or can get for her, and I pay a lot of attention to her detailed reactions and responses, and often can tell if something is uncomfortable before she expresses anything. The issue here is not her pleasure at all: it’s mine. That’s what needs some work, in this relationship, and in my relationships in general.