Tachycardia
Posted on July 24, 2009 in Kristen, poetry | 16 Comments
Sublimation
Posted on April 20, 2009 in Kristen, stories to turn you on | 3 Comments
It was the build-up and release from this weekend that has stuck with me well into today’s Monday afternoon.
The way we rock together, slow and sweet, the way the friction between us builds and rises like waves, then cresting and crashing, leaving a perfectly smooth beach full of tiny worlds in its wake.
How I can feel it swell palpably between us. Sometimes it is something I can touch so easily that I feel I can cradle it in my hand, mold it into something new.
And it builds. Oh god it builds. Clinging to each other and we both start holding our breath, crying out, at the same moment, precise sounds from our throats in ecstacy and pleasure, pushing all the way to the edges of our bodies, into each other’s.
Two moments:
The quiet build before she began thrashing under me, arms spread wide like wings, grasping at the edges of the bed, mouth open throat open chest open, until her back curled and she cried ohhh god with such purity that I still feel her syllables reverberating in my chest every time I think of it.
And then coming. Inside her, again on top. (I could have her any way I want and that’s what I want: her legs wrapped around my waist, my hands gripping her shoulders, so close to her, so I can feel her mouth.) I loose track of how many times she’s come, can feel myself getting close and shift positions. She can tell I’m close when I start moving my hips like this, faster I think, maybe more shallow but still intense, precise. I’m still not exactly sure what I do to make it happen, but it’s starting to get easier. Every weekend now, though not every day. Challenging when I can start to tell that she’s paying attention and thinks I’m close, I get self-conscious, but when I can tell what she’s feeling and how much she likes what I’m doing and that she’s lost in it all, I can let go too, and that’s what happened on Saturday, she started coming, again, crying out, oh I love the way she sounds, and it was enough, just enough, just what I needed to tip me over the edge and I felt it hit my clit, shake through my pelvis in waves, tumbling through me, through both of us, each time I slid in again, and again, she felt it too, I could feel the pulse of it between us, pure energy, unblocked and unhindered, just flowing, sweeping, rippling, with uninterrupted ease.
Protected: I imagine watching you
Posted on April 17, 2009 in Kristen, poetry | Enter your password to view comments.
Holding Back
Posted on April 15, 2009 in Kristen | 12 Comments
I’m restraining myself. Holding back. In so many ways that feel so unnatural, like stopping an object already in motion, changing trajectories when the path is already clearly cut in front of me.
A runner in a crouch waiting for the gun to go off.
A horse behind the racetrack doors, hoofing at the ground.
Even my friends are commenting on it lately. “You’re really restraining yourself here, aren’tcha,” my buddy from Seattle commented last week. He’s not used to seeing the emotions so heavy in me without the extensive expression.
“She’s just … I have such … I think I …” I swallowed, started again. Can’t finish those sentences. “Ilikeherlots.”
He laughed. “I can tell!”
It’s hard, I continued. Scary. Frightening when my body remembers what happened last time these emotions ran through me, what happened the last time I thought I could be with someone, last time I saw the future stretch out in front of me, paths parallel and touching and intertwining. I know how that ends. My brain knows that is still possible and wants it to be possible and aches for it to be possible and pretends like I can operate from a place where I still believe that is possible, but my body stops me cold. No, no, danger, danger. Don’t feel this, don’t like it, don’t fall, don’t.
Especially when my instinct is my chest broken open, heart wide and deep wine red, bursting, fingers spread wide, arms spread wide, head thrown back and laughing, five-points spread, everything aligned.
But part of me thinks, I know better now. I can’t do that, yet.
So instead I say, “I’m holding back. I can feel myself holding back.”
Kristen wrote to me yesterday: “The thought occurred to me that you might not be able to open up to the extent that you want to with me, that I might have to be “heart practice” or something, but that you wouldn’t ever get all the way there.”
But that’s not it. I know I can open up how I want to. I’ve done it before and it feels like my natural instinct here, like I am fighting against it constantly. I can do it. It’s just not time yet for me to unleash what I know I’m capable of, the full expression of the feelings I am already feeling.
I looked yesterday, I have ten emails to her in my drafts folder, from heartsore ramblings about missing her to links that I think she should read to poems I haven’t finished to lists of what I want to do to her. Instead, all I say is, “I’m holding back.”
But what that means is this: desire. I can’t say I want to hold your heart on my tongue, poised, sweet and succulent, so I say I’m holding back. I can’t say I am catching the first train to your house right after work and I know I’ll have to turn right around and go back home in order to get any actual sleep tonight but I have to, I have to, see you, even just for a few minutes, to see the light behind the blue of your eyes and smell your skin and taste your mouth, so I say I’m holding back. I can’t say I’m ready, I can hold you, bring it on, so I say I’m holding back.
But I aim for that expression of these feelings. And every week, every month that goes by [we just passed the four months on the 13th, officially the longest since], every weekend of deeper exploration of each other, I get closer. There is a softening around my heart. There is more confidence in my own space, more healing of the old wounds still weaving and seeping.
I can’t not hold back right now. But I’m also moving forward with lightning speed, thick walls cracking and falling into rubble, shaking sometimes with fear but looking it all right in the face, eyes wide open, wide open.
Protected: The Good Kind of Unbearable
Posted on March 23, 2009 in Kristen, poetry | Enter your password to view comments.
Wait for me on your knees.
Posted on January 29, 2009 in Kristen, stories to turn you on | 45 Comments
Two weeks ago:
I arrived at her place late – I was delayed, but I won’t go into that – but still in time for dinner.
I don’t remember what she wore, what I wore. I remember what she made for dinner: caramelized onion and gruyere tart with roasted broccoli, and peanut butter & chocolate pudding for dessert. (And she made scones in the morning.) I remember her lived-in kitchen, the way she looked at me with passion and want, the way her body felt under my hands again. I remember I brought wine.
She gave me the quick tour of her apartment.
“I want you in every room before the weekend is through,” I said.
“Even the bathroom?”
“… There are ways.”
I started with the kitchen, before dinner was even ready.
*
The next morning:
On her bed, after hours of fucking, in the bright light of midday because her room has no curtains. I study every inch of her.
Inside her, on top of her. Riding the waves of energy between us, sometimes strong and steady, sometimes collapsing to kiss her neck and whisper sweet nothings. Not so much “oh you’re beautiful, you feel so good” as much as “you little slut, you feel my hard cock in you like that?” – though the former is sprinkled into the mix, too.
We come down together from a peak, panting, I’m shivering from my body’s own heat and sweat in contrast to the cool air, and rest against her, still inside.
Her legs around me.
Her arms around my neck.
And she shifted, and suddenly I was coming, right then. Don’t mind the tantric-hippie moment here, but it was all energy, her pelvic bowl opening to catch me, pull me deep inside her. I can still feel how the contractions shook me, eyes rolling back, so sudden – and it started from stillness! – so sweet. Gasping in her ear and shuddering.
We lay wrapped in each other for a while after. Talking touching, fucking more, her insatiable body able to take more, more, more.
And then: “I’d like your fingers in me. Would you do that?”
She nearly froze, as to not disturb whatever was aligned for this delicate moment. “Now?”
“Please. Now.”
We shifted, I took my cock off, she got on her side next to me, hand on my thighs, between my legs. Gentle and sweet and slick.
“I know you said inside,” she whispers, mouth close to mine, “but I want to feel you.”
“Feels good. Don’t stop.” I whisper back.
Slowly: her fingers in me, pressing deep and stretching full, my hand on my clit, calling it my dick in my mind, and keeping my eyes open, watching her, as long as I can, until I come, screaming, hard and big, a release a year in the making, and pull her close against me.
*
Later:
At 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.”
“Yes,” she says again with her breathe out, chest shuddering.
I want more.
“Get off me.” I say quickly, pulling away and pushing on her body. “Down. On your knees. Now.”
She does. Slides onto the floor and I unbuckle, unzip, pull my cock out. “That’s right, suck my cock. Oh that’s good. Yeah, that’s so good.”
And she is so good at this. Lips pursed, tongue flicking softly, eyes looking up at me, hand gripping the base of it and sucking hard into her mouth. I take hold of her hair. Pull her up by it and shove my fingers in her mouth. I like how her tongue gets wide and flat. I like the gulping noise she makes when she swallows.
“Up,” I say, and stand, pulling her to her feet. “Take these off.” I tear at her clothes and so does she, pull her shirt over her head and her jeans, socks, undies off, then embrace her briefly for kisses on her swollen mouth. I bend her at the waist, swift, over the dining room table.
I start spanking her, hard. Harder than I usually would without warm-up but she’s warm, the blood rushing through her, veins dilated already, I can see it in the flush of her skin and in the response each time my palm makes contact, landing with a satisfying smack. She’s moaning and squirming off the table, wants her pussy touched. I haven’t even felt how wet she is yet, how have I resisted this long? She’s pushing back against me so hard, her torso is nearly off the table. She lifts herself up and stands, presses back into me, reaches back for me.
“Who said you could get up,” I growl in her ear and bend her over quickly, her palms landing hard on the table to catch her. “Stay there.”
She likes direction. And oh do I like to give it to her. I like it even more when she does what I say.
She stays put. Breathes. I pause, run my hands down her back and thighs, tease her cunt only slightly with my fingers on her soft hair, then bring my arm back and down in a smack right to her cunt and she gasps, winces, sighs. I go slow with taps more than slaps and build up to a couple sweet ones, hand landing just right, her body responding, so smooth and open.
I keep my tongue unlocked throughout. I wish I could recall better now what I was saying. [Kristen, if you remember any particular good phrases, perhaps you could leave a comment, or tell me?] I know she wanted to be called names, so I began a narrative about how much she loves sex, look how wet you are, you like it when I hit you don’t you, slut. Bad girl. You like this, look how wet you are, feel that?
… And by time I got about to there in the talking I couldn’t wait, I had to have her, I was practically growling with lust.
Still unzipped and unbuckled, I pulled my cock out, only to realize: I left the condoms in the bedroom. I try to keep one in my back pocket so I have it at the ready, but I think I hadn’t replaced the one we used earlier.
Mouth next to her ear, bent over her: “I want to fuck you, but you’re going to have to wait,” I sneer a little. Then … yes. Let’s make her wait.
I pull her up from the table and cradle her close, her naked body against me, still fully clothed. Kiss her tender and run my hands along her skin.
“Now: down.” I command. “On your knees.”
She didn’t quite respond quickly enough, still looking at me heavy-lidded and getting her brain to catch up with the sensations in her body. I push on her shoulders. “Down.”
And she slides to her knees. I take a fistful of her hair. “Put your hands behind your back.” She does, eyes shining, blinking.
“Wait for me. Be right back.”
I walk the ten or so paces to her bedroom slowly, deliberately. Pick up two condoms from the nightstand. I hear her cry out softly. Can feel the desire rising between us, even from the next room. I pause a moment. Feel the dominance rushing through my body like a drug. Quickening my blood pressure, the pump of my heart. I can see her so distinctly in my mind, kneeling. I breathe, put my hand on the wall for support, to gather myself.
I have no idea what I’ll do when I get back to her. Fuck her, eventually. But I want to play first.
She’s waiting so nicely for me. Knees apart, head down. When I approach she looks up at me with such fierce submission my knees go weak: eyes heavy, smoky, dark; mouth and tongue swollen.
Cock at the ready, I press it right to her mouth. “Suck my cock, again, while you’re down there,” I say, and touch her cheek, her forehead as a sweep her hair back, palm the back of her head.
She does. Takes it deep and long with the first stroke in. I start groaning, moaning, pressing into her farther, down her throat. “That’s right, so nice, feels so good,” I’m babbling but I don’t care. I have her tipped backward and she’s left her hands behind her back, I’m throwing her off balance. My hips start thrusting – she gags a little with the depth and breathes hard with her mouth full. I don’t let up, but keep shoving my cock in, down her throat.
I nearly come. Can feel how her mouth and throat would tighten as I pulse and shoot. But I can’t, I can’t quite get there, just not quite enough, so frustrating. I pull out fast and shove my fingers in her mouth before she can notice her mouth is empty, kneel down between her legs and push her back onto the floor, lower my mouth onto and cock into her beautiful body.
I slide in easy. Easy, slick. God I love the way she takes me in. Deep, deeper, I keep her pressed open all the way, laying back, legs spread wide, hands grabbing at my shoulders until I grab her forearms and hold them above her head. Perfect leverage. And I thrust, fuck her hard, burn my knees against the hard dark wood of her living room floor.
Damn, the floor is hard. No give whatsoever. I haven’t fucked her lying on a floor ever – I’ve forgotten how it feels. She can’t squirm as much, she doesn’t slide as much, stays where I put her and the impact is harder, I do like that. But there’s less give-and-take, less sensuous connection, and goddamn my knees are going to be wrecked after this, probably it’s the sheet burn from earlier more than the floor itself, but I’ve got to change positions.
I lose myself in the hard impact of cock against cunt for as many strokes as I can muster before I lift myself up, sit back on my heels, and breathe. She’s vibrating, head lolling side to side.
“Get up,” I say. “Bedroom.”
I change cocks when we get to her bed, and pull the two lengths of rope from my bag. She sits near the pillows and reaches for me as I sit on the edge of the side, and I kiss her but don’t move.
“Look at you, all ready. You really are insatiable, aren’t you. Slut. You can’t get enough cock, can you.”
She moans, drops her head. I bring one hand between her legs and the other keeps stroking my cock. “So wet. What, you want me to fuck you? You want it? look at you, can’t think of anything but sex, but getting filled. Can you.”
I slide two fingers in and watch her face. “You want it, don’t you.”
“Yes,” comes out in a small breath.
I know she does, I can feel it. I want to hear her say it. It turns her (and me) on to hear her talk and I want her to do it more. “Tell me.”
“I want it.”
“You want what?”
“Your cock. I want your cock, please, fuck me, please.”
I lean in to kiss her and take my hand away. “No.”
She whimpers.
I pull out the rope. She hands me her wrists, I secure one, then the other, to the bed frame, fuss about the tightness and my poor knots (I really need some better techniques.) She is writhing. I could fuck through steel, I’m so hard. I can’t make either of us wait any longer and I position myself between her legs, slap her inner thighs to get her to open up. We’re both so smooth and slick and desperate for it, we can’t wait, I can’t stop myself from plunging in, hard as I can, hard as I dare, and fucking, thrusting, pounding into her, kissing her face and neck, hands in her hair, on her chest, pulling her nipples and sliding my arm underneath her to grab at her waist and shoulders.
I’m babbling again. Her name, dirty things, take my cock, slut, you’re so tight, I love to split you open like this, and she comes, twice, three times, I loose track and she doesn’t collapse yet so I keep going, reach between us and slide my fingers along her clit and she gasps, bucks under me, I feel her tighten so hard around my cock that she nearly shoves me out of her and I work to stay inside. She’s holding her breath so I keep my hand and hips steady, hard, and then she shudders, body quaking, and I feel her squirt while I’m still inside, clit quivering under my fingers as she pushes my cock all the way out and lets out the breath she’s been holding, a gasp in for desperate air, and comes hard, shaking.
I watch. Witness. Feel her body quiet, tender and open. Holy, holy. (Holy shit.) Feel her breath as I lay my body against hers, holding tight, touching everywhere.
“Hey,” I say after a minute, lifting my face to see hers.
She sighs and opens her eyes, fingers trailing along my shoulders, on the back of my head. “Hey.”
And we nap the afternoon away, sunlight streaming through the window, though it’s cold outside we’re warm in her room, satiated, spent.
Gloaming
Posted on January 2, 2009 in poetry | 4 Comments
I want you in the gloaming, in the grey
light of near-dusk, anxious to fade
the brightness of morning, midday,
the tragedy of sunset back into the
dim tones where we no longer strain
to see. I want to trace lines on your
skin until I find my fingers touching
paper, want to grip your hair until
it is all fallen. No twilight trysts,
though we do continue on through midnight,
through constellations, through antique
blue at five am before the sun remembers
itself an idea again. I want you without
shadow, without sun, without brilliance,
without cover, without cost, and there
we will soil crisp sheets, turn sugar
and heat into salted caramels, discover
the perfect angle of shoulder that becomes
landscape. I’m no cartographer, but I could
be; I long for a protractor, walking stick,
compass, to explore hidden openings to wet
caves I never knew I fit inside. Your eyes
glow willing in the gloaming. Your fingers
on my forearm, the grey light is pause,
poised, darkening, as fireflies begin
to rise from the ground. As we spin away
from the sun I want you, still, not reaching
or retracting, simply motionless with
anticipation, one singular breath at a time.
Partially inspired by Alice Elliot Dark’s beautiful story “In The Gloaming,” partially by the song Living in Twilight by the Weepies which I’ve been listening to on repeat for many days.
In response to what you want
Posted on December 23, 2008 in Kristen, stories to turn you on | 6 Comments
I would love to watch you dance.
From the way that you fuck I can imagine how your body would move, all sweet s-curves and slow gyrations: there is such precision in your physicality, such openness. I can see the way you’d raise your arms to float at shoulder-height, eyes heavy to the floor or on the bodies around you, so tuned in to the music, the beat, the rhythm. You’re aural that way, I can feel it in the ways you speak with your body, a language all to itself I am just learning to interpret and read under my fingertips like braille, waves of energy rising falling.
There is so much you can tell about the way someone fucks by how they dance, and the way someone dances by how they fuck; but I’ve never seen you dance. Still, I can imagine how your torso slides and arms carry out the movement, how you can pop your hips to accentuate strong moments.
I would try to keep up with you on the dancefloor just as I try to keep up with you when we fuck – you carry me high and I follow your guidance, despite that I am making the choices. It is your body that dictates my choices, your breath, your responses, the precise way you gasp “oh god” and start to shake. In dance it is the same: I take your lead and match your rhythm until we are so synchopated that I can move you, can create variations on a theme and read you well enough to know you’ll follow where I lead.
It’s all energy. Building and releasing, swirling between us.
More literally:
I will sit at a table sipping whiskey while I watch you. Gently finger the shaft of my dick through my slacks and remember the last time I made you move like that.
You take a break, breathless, and come over to sit on my lap, straddle me, your short skirt hiked up, my hands on your thighs, you can feel my cock against you and let yourself grind up and down for a minute, your arms around my neck, mouth on mine.
(Just the thought makes me harden.)
This is maybe when you say “I gotta pee,” or “please baby, fuck me now,” or I say “I need some fresh air,” or “goddamn you,” and I’ve had enough waiting. I take you out back to the alley or to the filthy club bathroom – the men’s room. On your knees on the dirty tile. Cheek against a brick wall as I make you moan.
I’ll whisper things against your jaw, your neck, that make you squirm. Look at you, all ready for me. All wanting. I can take you wherever I want to, just how I want to, can’t I.
I want to hear you breathy in my ear again. Feel your hands grip my shoulders, thighs grip my hips as you cry out, scream, come.
We’re just getting started
Posted on December 20, 2008 in Kristen, stories to turn you on | 5 Comments
I spent the day alone in my room, recovering, remembering.
Her skin in the morning, golden, glowing. Her eyes as they increasingly tired last night. Her hips as they hinged open. The ways I held back, the ways I gave in.
My mental recap is increasingly romantic, but really it is raw desire. How does she do this to me?
I won’t tell you much about this date. There is no scene to report, no interesting beginning-middle-end with links to the toys I used (though I did go through three cocks). I won’t speak of the ways I took her, the ways she opened and clenched tight. The tender places we both touched and from which we backed off (too too fragile). I won’t speak to her mouth, her mouth, her near-perfect mouth and the way she tosses her head back, mouth open, this half-circle arc, when she comes.
I am starting to understand her tells, the signals that her body is poised on the edge of orgasm, the ways I can slow and prolong the explosion. I have felt her come dozens of times now, I have completely lost track. She counted six the last time we were together. Last night, I counted one in the bathroom at the club and one against the door of my apartment before we even got to the bed, then two this morning, despite her swollen cunt and aching hips’ protest. What happened in between was a blur, and clear as the winter blue sky that greeted us when we woke.
She told me this morning (open, open, so open) more of what she’d like. To be hit across the face. My cock in her mouth again. More of what I did the first time, more power, more dominance. And I felt suddenly self-conscious: it’s true, last night, though I was in charge and in control and calling the shots, I took the vanilla route, barely moved out of missionary position once we reached the bed except that one time on her stomach, more fucking and less dominance, out of fascination in the exploration of her body. And she is just so goddamn receptive: everything I did, she told me exactly how it felt, what was working, how to go deeper, with her body and moans and breathing. I couldn’t resist that, couldn’t tear myself away from the simple singular act of getting her off, making her come, hearing bliss escape her lips again.
With someone new it is always a challenge to understand the way they like to be touched, to be taken, what will unravel them at the last minute, so that is what I spent the night learning.
And she never stopped me. That turns me on in ways I cannot describe – that every time I went for her thighs, every time I worked my hand or cock between her legs she was wet, open, wanting. Even if she’d come just moments before – why would I stop when she could do it again right now?
So I allowed myself the indulgence of getting her off, over and over and over again.
But I won’t forget that she wants more power play, more sensation play. I won’t forget she wants to be hit, wants my palm on her face (how could I), wants my cock in her throat.
She’ll learn, too, that struggle brings out the force in me, that she can push me to take more by giving less, now that we both know how she wants to give over. Now that we both trust our impulses to give in. It’s harder to force when there is no resistance. She’ll learn how to play my power as I’ve learned to play her body, like an instrument, like a tool that could be a weapon in the right hands.
We’re just getting started.
“I’m kind of … insatiable.” My First Date with Kristen
Posted on December 15, 2008 in Kristen, stories to turn you on | 39 Comments
I could’ve fucked Kristen for a few more hours at least. Was just hitting my stride, just beginning to feel confident in the ways her body turns on and gets off. Like how when she gasps more she may actually mean more friction – how she has the type of orgasms that means she can squirt.
Which is why I kept going for orgasm number two, three – because I wanted to feel her do it. I suspected she could.
(I was right.)
I hadn’t planned to take her back to my place, but that didn’t stop me from cleaning my room on Saturday before the date. Unlikely is not impossible. And if my room is not presentable, it isn’t even an option. I like to have options.
I could fist her, I think. She opens in a way that makes it seem possible, makes space inside. I would like to throw her around more, too – she’s small, and so receptive. She went where I put her, stayed, made space for me to enter, to take. My favorite kind of bottom, surrendering.
*
At dinner:
She’s wrestling a little with a femme identity. “Femme and feminist sometimes conflict,” she started to explain.
“I understand that. I saw butch and feminist as conflicting when I started figuring this out for myself too. I was a feminist first, and most importantly. And when you take misogyny out of masculinity, what’s left? Societal roles teach us those are one and the same.”
In case it needs reiteration, I firmly believe that femme and feminist can be simultaneously occupied. In fact, in some ways I think intentionally choosing femme is inherently feminist – as I think Leah said at the Femme Conference, femme is a way of making “girl” not hurt. Femininity can be inherently painful under societal hierarchies and rules, and to recreate it in ways that actually buffer the hurt instead of deepen it is so incredibly powerful.
She talked a little about the ways femme is misperceived, especially as an invitation to men. This is definitely a huge difference in the development of the butch and femme identities.
We barely scratched the surface of these conversations.
This was foreplay.
*
After dinner:
Suddenly Kristen stopped walking and back-stepped.
“Did you just lose your shoe?” I laughed.
She gave me a small smile. “Uh, that’s embarrassing.” I held out my hand so she could balance on one foot, slip her high black heel back on.
“Nah, not embarrassing,” I said, hand against her back as we started to walk to the bar again. We’d just come from dinner and needed a darker, more comfortable place to make out. “It happens to me all the time.”
She shot me a questioning look. “Really?!”
“Uh, no. Not really.” Too deadpan. I turned to face her, stopping her from walking forward, took hold of her jacket at the zipper with both hands. “No, sorry, that was trying to be a joke but it really didn’t work.” I pulled her a little closer. Even in heels she was still shorter than me. “Do forgive me …” I held her gaze and pulled her toward me. Immediately the kiss was electrifying. Delicate and wanting, full of desire. I’d barely touched her yet but now wanted my hands on her, on her waist in that secretary pencil skirt, her legs in those seamed black stockings.
*
At the bar.
A gin gimlet for her, another Maker’s on the rocks for me. Chatting. The topic was activism, mostly – educating those around us. I feel increasingly bold, be it the good conversation or the drinks or the chemistry or the ways she opens her eyes to look at me. My hand finds her waist, her back, and her nerves are electric and so receptive, her body curls every time I touch her.
She gasps a little. I keep talking. “Uh, I’m sorry – I’m not hearing a word you’re saying.” She looks at me with her eyes half-lidded. “But keep talking, please.” I pull her toward me and we kiss again, sparking at the mouth, at my fingertips where our bodies connect.
*
In the car on the way to my place.
She’s got her legs in my lap and if she wasn’t wearing full stockings I would already have my fingers in her. Her ankles are small and my thumb and forefinger close around one, then I take her instep in my hand, grip her heel. Run my hands up her legs and don’t stop, cup her cunt with my palm, catch her gaze with mine and she leans forward to kiss me again.
Every time I touch her she lets out a moan, quick, with her breath. “You have to be quiet,” I say, nodding toward the driver. I’ve known dykes who were kicked out of cabs for kissing.
“I’m not quiet,” she tells me earnestly, giving me that under-the-eyelashes shy look.
“I can tell.”
And she’s not. At my place I throw her down onto the bed, hold her down when she tries to get up. Peel off her sweater and skirt, shove my hand in after I’ve pulled her stockings and underwear down to her thighs. She’s gasping already. Each breath a moan, each touch connected to the noises she makes. She is so responsive.
It is wonderful to hear.
I don’t know exactly when I pulled out my packing cock – sometime in the beginning – but then switched to my hands when I figured out she comes that way, gspot orgasms, one after another and I love to feel it inside when that happens. Love the way she thickens and shudders, her whole body twisting, so I hold her down, forearm over her chest, my knees holding her thighs open.
I don’t know when it was that I took off my bondage belt and waited for her to slide her wrists through it. I took hold of the loose strap and curled it around my hand for grip, twisted it a little, her arms over her head, on her back again, just so she could resist, just so she could feel the pressure, my other hand between her legs and shoving inside, fast, hard, or slower, massaging and tender, as she thrashed against the pillows again.
Gorgeous.
*
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.
Yes, yes, yes.
*
I could’ve fucked Kristen for a few more hours at least. Was just hitting my stride, just beginning to feel confident in the ways her body turns on and gets off. There is so much more I know I could do to her. I barely got to smack her. Barely used force. There was very little restraint or bondage, very little sensation play, and she could take it, I know she could.
We could’ve kept going. Two hours wasn’t quite enough.
What a wonderful feeling to have coming away from a near-perfect date: that raw potential for more, more, more.
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Photo by Bill Wadman
Sugarbutch Chronicles is an online writing project (aka “blog”) which explores sovereignty, healing, and communication through the personal examinations of sex, gender, and relationships, while celebrating queer sexuality, gender, culture, and identity in ways that are expansive rather than restrictive, liberating rather than limiting.More of Me
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Want me for a workshop or event? Contact PhinLi, my booking agent, and see my upcoming appearances here.
My Work Elsewhere- Interview with Jack Halberstam on LambdaLiterary.org Wednesday, February 1, 2012
- Mr. Sexsmith Says: Get Off While Strapped On on SexIs Magazine Wednesday, February 1, 2012
- Mr. Sexsmith Says: Don’t Worry, Be Kinky on SexIs Magazine Thursday, January 19, 2012
- Mr. Sexsmith Says: Bring Your Average-Size Cock, Just In Case on SexIs Magazine Wednesday, January 4, 2012
- Mr. Sexsmith Says: She Likes My Butch Breasts and I Don’t on SexIs Magazine Wednesday, December 21, 2011
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