Her Mouth on My Cock

This is an honorable mention Sugarbutch Star submission from the femme top. And yes I know I never posted about our second date … consider it on the way.

I can feel everything. Every breath every movement every inch where my skin is bound with leather. Wrists, ankles. I can hear my heart beat. Can see my chest moving up and down, the skin thin and flushed. I swallow. Focus on the ceiling; you are kneeling, strapping on. Hand on the thick of it, slick with lube. I am exposed. Open to you and you want me here, this way.

My hips are cramping, pulled back like this. Even my underarms are exposed. I don’t want to struggle but my body can’t stop. A twist of my wrist and my ankle is pulled up further, I feel it in my thigh. Everything is connected.

I don’t want to want it like I do. Don’t want to need, to crave to be filled when I’m like this. To be reduced to something empty, inadequate, unwhole.

Make me whole.

Make me scream.

You have your eyes on me and I blink back tears. You slap my cunt. I cringe, cry out. I don’t want to say please. I don’t want to need the sting of your fingers which are wet now, from me. I don’t want you to know how much I crave: touch me again. Twist the bar so I can’t keep struggling, and make me feel. Make me feel even the places I refuse to let you in. Make me.

Your eyes are shining wet like your cock. Your hand is on it. I want to be closed to you but you have me open, unlocked already and spilling my secrets. I need to hide my every imperfection. Need to hide my want. You can have me. My body is all nerve endings and convulses at every touch: your hands on the backs of my thighs. No need to open me further, this is all there is, this is all there is. Take me so I can only ever be taken by you. Take me so I wake inside myself screaming your name. Take me to where I feel again, where I feel anything, all of it, open, receptive, receiving, submitting.

You can have me. I give in, I give in.

It is agonizingly slow, a steady slide, all the way in, tip to base, and I can feel it, feel it, feel it, all the way up to the back of my throat, and I loosen, lose my grip, lose myself, but you keep hold of me, and I am only a vessel, something to hold you, cradle you, something to take it in, to receive, and I become only energy, light, lightning, and I am made whole.

Threesome & A Purple Tie

Thanks to Lady Brett Ashley for this submission, the second of the five finalists in the Sugarbtuch Star contest.

Threesome and a Purple Tie

Brett reaches up with one hand and peels off my purple tie, her blindfold, sticky against her forehead. Her mouth is full of her girlfriend’s cock. I watch her hesitate momentarily until she wiggles her hips a little, which is my acknowledgement. If her girlfriend is in her mouth, I must be the one fucking her from behind.

I hadn’t expected the evening to go this way. I had hoped to take Brett back to my place, sure, but as soon as her handsome and clearly doting soft butch girlfriend showed up as I easily fingered Brett’s jean-clad knee, I altered my evening expectations.

“Oh, you’re … spoken for,” I said, frowning, exaggerating my disappointment in order to hide it. “Too bad. Unless … I don’t suppose you’d want to share?” I look to the girlfriend. Eli. She sizes me up, then looks at Brett. Brett’s eyes sparkle and she gets this cheeky half-smile. I think Eli’s about to punch me, and they’ll have a fun night of what-if sex, then I think Brett might ditch Eli by the way she’s already devouring me with these smoldering looks, then I think Eli left Brett alone for just this reason: to find a third. I consider making a joke to Brett about feeling used, how I’d been on my very best charming pick-up behavior, but decide against it.

“Yeah, alright,” Eli shifts her weight, digs her hands into her pockets, also with a slight half-smile. She has nice arms: strong, defined muscles under her white tee shirt. She’s more girly than I am, but still more boyish than Brett, who is what I’d call subtle femme. May take a second glance, but it’s there.

Brett caught my eye as soon as I walked into the club. Nice ass, graceful legs. Pretty eyes behind her thick, long curly hair. Cute glasses that enhance the curves of her jaw and cheeks. I took the barstool next to hers and watched her laugh before I said hello.

I drain what’s left of my melted ice and Jameson. Their hotel is on the corner.

I untie my purple silk tie in the elevator. “Kiss her,” I say to Eli. She’s not sure she wants to take orders from me, but she wants to kiss Brett and she’s glad I didn’t move in to kiss her myself. Brett is curled against the corner of the elevator, watching us both interacting. She sometimes raises a finger to her mouth as if to bite her nail.

Eli carefully places each hand on the elevator wall behind Brett and leans in to kiss her. Brett watches me, still unslipping my tie, carefully undoing the knots, mouth moving against Eli, eyes open. I undo the top button of my silver shirt and hold one side of the tie in each hand.

And so it began.

The elevator doors open, I step through and wait for them to lead the way. A cute couple, attractive. Brett has a great ass.

Eli slides her keycard in and the trio of us enters the bland hotel room. Two beds, small table with an ice bucket and glasses, a chair that is a cheap knock-off of something comfortable. Their suitcases are on one bed. The other is perfectly made.

I toss the tie to Eli. “Care to blindfold her?” Brett turns to me, eyes wide, still quiet. Eli smiles and tosses it back to me. “You do it,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s smiling but also challenging me. I don’t understand this game yet.

I take two steps to Brett, who has saught protection from a wall again. I take her glasses and set them on the bed with the open suitcases. Her hair falls in her face, chin tipped down. Curls everywhere. I want handfuls of it. Fistfuls and to use it as rope, as something by which to pull her. It is long, past her shoulders. It would splay out everywhere. I finger her jaw, her cheekbone.

We have a moment. Eye contact, connecting. “Can I kiss you?” I ask. I’m asking her if she’s okay with this. She’s stealing sipping glances at me, looking down at my hands on her waist, looking back up, body language telling me she loves it, is just a little shy, but she likes to be told what to do.

She nods. Murmurs please or yes or okay or maybe just mmm. Her body goes soft against me and her hands find my waist, then lower back, then fingers dig into my shoulders as I kiss her. I like the way Brett lets go, trusts, lets me push her by my energy and intention. She picks up on the subtleties fast.

I draw her thin tee shirt over her head, a mess of dark curls spilling out. Eli Is at her back now, unhooking her bra, hands on her skin, her stomach, her shoulders, kissing her neck, rolling her nipples between her fingers and Brett leans back into her, one arm up, hand in Eli’s short cropped hair.

Topless, I slide my wide purple tie over Brett’s eyes, tie it behind her head.

Eli has her strapon in one fist and the vinyl harness dangles from her hand.

“You may not be able to tell who is doing what,” Eli says, still at Brett’s neck, watching me as I unbutton the rest of my silver shirt, slipping it off of my shoulders. “But I’ll be here the whole time,” she promises, still holding Brett close. I’m already strapped, she needs a minute to prep. I take Eli’s hand from Brett’s shoulder and we both step back, stand and watch Brett reaching for us by listening to where we are moving. I keep Eli’s hand a moment and kiss her fingers, suck her first finger onto my tongue, flick it with my tongue ring.

“Butch on butch,” she says, laughing, her eyes soft, “that’s practically faggotry.”

“Best kind of faggotry, in my opinion,” I say, and lightly wap the ass of her jeans as I step back to Brett.

“Tell her to get on her knees,” I say to Eli.

“Get on your knees,” Eli says, unbuttoning and sliding her jeans off, pulling the harness on.

Brett sinks. She brings her hands behind her back and I put my hands in her hair, then move one to my fly and cock. I finger her lips, pretty mouth, and she takes two of my fingers between her teeth, sucks them onto her tongue. Soft.

Actions become blurred. My cock. Brett’s jeans pulled off and on the ground. Eli fingering Brett while she sucks me, the lovely noises from her throat as she tries not to come, not yet. Eli clearly knows what to do and doesn’t let up, Brett arches her back like a cat and nearly hangs from my legs, gripping my thighs with her hands as she sucks my cock, pulling on my jeans until they come down with my briefs and she slides two fingers under my favorite harness to find my clit. She works it like a cock, strokes it and rolls it gently between her fingers. I groan, hips buck. Lord.

Eli’s got one hand on her left hip, still working her right hand between Brett’s legs.

Brett starts shuddering and panting and she’s going to come, I don’t know if I should pull out of her mouth or stay. She stops sucking but keeps leaning forward into my cock, breathing heavy around it, big gasps of air mouth open and I let her work herself against it, and she does, god she does, until she’s writhing and rocking against me, my hips and cock, against Eli and her hands, shuddering, convulsing at the stomach in small pulses of muscle and breath and she groans, hard, gasps for air, whimpers a little, and is still.

Eli holds her hips for a minute, letting her rest in her crumpled state on the beige hotel carpet, then twirls her finger at me, meaning time to switch.

My mouth waters.

Eli still doesn’t have her cock on. Her harness is loose but won’t fall off her hips; she’s stripped her white tee shirt and jeans. I remove my jeans and watch as Eli guides Brett from the floor onto the bed, onto her back, Brett’s knees hanging off the end, legs parted but together, thighs pressing.

Kneeling on the bed, Eli slowly draws one knee to either side of Brett’s shoulders, then lowers her cunt gently down over Brett’s mouth. I realize my jeans are stuck at my ankles and try to tear my eyes away long enough to pull them all the way off.

Eli has hold of the wall-mounted headboard and her head is thrown back a little, spine already arching, body moving eagerly. Brett’s knees are contracting off the bed and she runs one foot over the other, up her calf. She has hold of Eli’s thigh and her body is curling off the bed like a wet piece of paper.

I leave my a-shirt on and move to the foot of the bed, touch Brett’s knees, caress her thighs, her calves as much as I can reach, her hipbones, the gentle hair over her pussy, her labia, swollen and sensitive. I ease her left knee off the bed into the grip of my elbow and step closer, use my right knee to press her legs open. She’s slick, wet and supple, muscles pliable, she lets me move her where I want her. Her hands reach for me a second then back to Eli’s lower back and thighs. Eli is quietly moaning.

I feel her cunt with two fingers and slide in slow to get the angle, feel how deep she is. My packing cock isn’t huge but it is enough. She is slick and smooth and she parts her thighs a little farther, offering herself a little more.

I let my fingers wander over her labia and clit as the head of my dick finds her opening and slides in. A little too fast and she gasps. Her whole body responds, she groans, a sound that starts deep in her belly, somewhere my cock is hitting. Her sounds are muffled vibrations against Eli’s cunt.

Eli is working harder against Brett, increasingly faster, pressing her hips down into Brett’s face, balancing herself against the headboard and wall. She is practically on all fours, kneeling, working her clit in Brett’s mouth.

I match Eli’s rhythm and pace and speed. Slow strokes in and out, then faster, shallow. Sometimes a little rotation, a side-to-side motion. I copy her precisely.

They are both moaning. I tighten my grip on Brett’s hips and find a sweet spot, start thrusting harder. I hear Eli’s orgasm building, she’s gasping now and moaning in longer drawn-out sounds. Eli’s whole body begins to shiver and I barely notice, I am occupied, Brett has her legs wrapped around my waist and she’s puling me in, hard and deep.

Eli swings one leg over and half slides off the bed. Her legs are a little weak.

“Turn,” Eli says, pushing at Brett from the side. Brett turns to her stomach. Eli grabs her cock from the foot of the other bed as I don’t wait, but slide right back in, tip to balls, and begin fucking Brett again like I never stopped. She has one knee on the bed, one leg over the edge, toes on the floor, pelvis tilted up and back to take me in. Her hands are grabbing fistfuls of blankets and peeling the sheets from the bed. Her hair falls in a mess of curls around her head, only slightly restrained by my purple tie still around her forehead.

My head leans back, shoulders back, holding onto Brett’s hips, sometimes the flesh of her ass, round and a nice handful. Eli slides back onto the bed, sits with her back against the headboard and pulls Brett to her, sliding her cock Brett’s mouth.

I’m close to coming and feel pressure building, the muscles contracting with new force and urgency, when Brett lifts her hand off the bed and removes the blindfold. I see Eli smile at her, hands in her hair, then look at me. We lock eyes for just a moment, until Brett presses her hips back and wiggles against me, and the sensation is overwhelming, throwing me off balance and sounds escape my throat with every exhale until I’m pounding, pumping hard against her and Brett is gasping into Eli’s cock, muffled, and it all builds, hard, until I swear I can feel her cunt contracting around my cock, squeezing, and I explode inside her, coming hard, rocking against her, shaking.

My lower back is wet with sweat and I stagger a little, knees weak, joints not holding me up, and both Brett and Eli are looking at me, biting back grins, giggling, ecstatic. I swallow embarrassment and clear my throat, which makes them laugh more. I laugh too. We’re all a bit high. I lay myself down next to Brett, awkwardly, not able to quite be all the way on the bed but the support feels good, and I’m breathing hard, still catching my breath.

Eli laces her fingers through Brett’s and kisses her. “That was fun,” she says between kisses. “Sharing you. So … when is it not rude to kick her out?”

I laugh, ruffle Brett’s hair, kiss her, kiss Eli gently on the lips, cupping her chin, then pull on my jeans. I can take a hint.

in which sinclair gets off

Part two of three

It’s a challenge for me to be explicit about the sex I receive, for two reasons: there are a select few friends of mine, who I know offline, who read this, and while I am very happy to talk about my sex life, I usually don’t offer up the same level of detail as I do in my writing; and two, I feel a lot more embarassed & vulnerable talking about my own body, my own feelings and sensations, than I do about giving pleasure to someone else. This is, I suppose, part of why I am a top.

The reason I mention that is because I’m going to attempt to be explicit here about my own experience. (That is your fair warning, childhood friends.) You may remember from the last time I tried to write about being topped that I skirted around the juicy parts. So, in the interest of being a better writer, and in the interest of wanting to turn this girl on as much as possible before I see her again (Saturday), I’ll do my best.

(And those paragraphs above, those are called foreplay. And procrastination. Ahem.)

She – this stunningly hot fuckable gorgeous femme top – goes down on me, fingers teasing the opening of my cunt, her lips and tongue pushing back my labia before sucking my clit. She keeps me distracted finding the most sensitive underside places and working her mouth slick along the folds and edges.

I felt like a turtle on my back. Acutely aware of how funny (I feel) I look when being fucked this way, knees bent feet on the bed, hips pressed forward, stomach tight, often one hand behind my head, holding onto the bars of my headboard or the back of my neck, holding my head up, contracting at my stomach so it occasionally seems like I am doing situps. Mouth open and gasping, quiet, be quiet. Pressing against my muscles and bones, pressing deeper onto her fingers, into her mouth, muscles hard and contracted.

But her mouth keeps me from thinking of this for longer than just a flash. Her fingers inside me, two, three – more? – I can feel the resistance of my cunt at the opening, though I want to feel more inside. Want to feel full of her. Her mouth still warm and moving hard on me, the bones of my pelvis pressed against her jaw I can feel the electricity of the space where our bodies are connecting.

With her tongue she fucked me. Hard and thick. Made my eyes roll back, head roll back, back arch, toes curl.

She doesn’t wait long, but rips the condom open, snaps it onto my cock, which she has in easy reach between my legs. Something tightens momentarily in my stomach and chest: I haven’t been fucked with a cock in years, literally years, but I remind myself to relax, I love what she’s doing with her gentle long fingers, want to feel more, love the way my cunt muscles contracting leads me to deeper vibrancy in my clit and, consequently, orgasm. I don’t think about my knees bent in the air, instead only concentrate on the soft head of my cock nudging its way inside.

Fuck I remember this. This pulsing in & out, this thrust inside, this fullness, this pinpoint of pleasure concentrated on my clit and swollen cunt. She pressed that cock inside me hard. I felt every inch of it sliding in. It’s not particularly large, but I felt out of practice, it was shockingly blissful, an impailing, an opening, something thick for me to press against.

She worked it in & out of me with a new speed & pressure, less exploration than her fingers, more force. Left her mouth on my soft spots, sucking, at times hard, sometimes tender, the muscles of my pelvis pulling. I arched my back to get deeper into her mouth.

After moments or minutes or hours (I, my body in a blissfully state resembling pulled taffy, can’t tell), she pulled out and said she was switching to her hand again. Her hot breath on my lips. Still sucking and she knew what to do. Her fingers expertly twisting, thrusting. I noticed myself in that sit-up position again, curling my body into a C shape and pressing my cunt into her mouth deeper. My right hand still behind me, behind my head or sometimes pulling on the headboard, left hand on the back of her head, tangled in the longish hair that fell in her face, touching the back of her head where her dark hair was recently cut short.

I let my hips thrust, fucking her mouth. The detail of her tongue so precise.

I was wrecked, buzzing, wrapped around her if only energetically and not physically, wound tight like a top. (Or, should I say, like a bottom – though not really, more like a top being fucked.) I wanted to scream, wanted to let my whole body release & rip.

I have to be quiet. It’s two am, roommate is asleep, assuming we have not already kept her up. Instead I bottle my noise and feel my body strung tight and then plucked, soaring for a moment before releasing, shuddering against her before grabbing her hair, hard, my fist pulling her up to me by the back of her head and she slid up my body, lays herself over me, curls around me.

Oh lord and this was perhaps my favorite part. The small of her back in my hands, her soft skin, the curves of her hips and ribcage, back of her neck, the feel of her weight on my chest and pelvis, such comfort, such comfort, so I just shudder and release, it takes me embarassingly long to stop breathing heavily and shaking with bodily afterquakes so I just feel her weight on me, the comfort of skin, the tender way she kissed my neck and face, and I grinned and laughed and giggled between whispers of oh god and fuck and ohh, and held her tight.

in which sinclair bottoms

Part one of three

I’d never been with a girl who identified as a top. All the girls I’ve slept with, while some of them were more toppy than others, have absolutely been on the submissive side – and that tends to be one of the things that draws me to them. I know how to read those signals. I know what the lowering of the eyes, looking up at me under her eyelashes, means.

I’ve been topped, don’t get me wrong. And generally, I like getting off, I like giving my body over to let someone else touch me, to guide them to what feels good, to let myself get to that moment of fully physically letting go.

I hear this is actually fairly rare, for a butch top. I don’t know what to tell ya about that. We’re all different, I suppose.

Point is, I’m not entirely unfamiliar with submission – but, at the same time, it is not my ‘default’ mode. It is not where I am most comfortable, these days, and it is not my impulse most times. But, as you probably remember from the few times I intentionally bottomed in my last relationship, it’s hard for me to do and, even, harder for me to write about.

So what was I going to do with this stunningly fucking hot femme top once we got to my bed?

This is what kept rattling around in my head as we took (sexy) public transportation back to my (ghetto) apartment.

I thought, it won’t make that much difference that I’m a top and she’s a top. It won’t change much between us. We probably won’t have a heavy SM scene, and that is what I tend to associate primarily with topping and bottoming – dominance, and submission.

But already, the making out at the bar was a little different. I wasn’t calling the shots. She was responding to me, yes, her lips changing mouth opening tongue teasing in accordance to mine, but there was something else underneath it. A force coming from her. The way she kept control of it all.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered, only barely pulled away from my lips, I could feel her breath moving against my mouth as she said the words. She kept her hands on my hips, my ribcage, positioning me where she wanted me. She sucked my tongue, hard. “Like your tiny cock,” she whispered into my ear, grinning. She bit my bottom lip, drew blood, leaving teeth marks inside that I continued touching with my tongue all night.

Most of the time, it made me want to take her all the more. Fight her for control, push her down and restrain her arms so she couldn’t restrain mine.

Sometimes, though, I sunk into the refuge of submission, the giving-over of my body and mouth and, later, cunt. I not only let her guide me through the kisses, I tried to ask her to. Tried to ask her with my body and gestures and movement and open mouth.

I spent the evening fighting my impulses, the ones to take control. Push her down on the bed and tilt her pelvis back to slide my hand inside. Instead, she flipped me onto my back (I stopped struggling), and said, “Do you have something you want me to fuck you with?”

I inhaled. Sharply. Caught off guard, not the first time that night. “Yes, I think … I do.” Damn. Submission stirred somewhere deep in me, my stomach, between my legs, and I wanted her to take me like that, wanted to feel full, feel splayed open, feel cradled. It made me feel exposed and vulnerable, but I trusted her with my body in a way that felt new, considering I barely knew her. Maybe that’s why it was safe. Maybe it was because of the way she knew how to touch me, knew how to unwrap my breasts, finger the back of my neck, press against my thigh, just how I like it.

And I was suddenly grateful she knew how to take control, I was feeling fuzzy-headed and uncertain around her. Was that the submission? Could be. I certainly don’t usually feel that way when I’m in charge. I got my pink cock out, wrestled in the toybox to find an unlubed condom. I’d never been fucked with it.

She eased back on top of me, hips against mine, legs scissored together. Hands on my hips, my inner thigh, my breasts. Squeezing hard, sometimes painfully. I loved it. Brought me to the edge of my body and made me cry out, made everything sensitive, made everything feel. I attempted to keep quiet.

Her kisses made my vision and the palms of my hands blurry and taut. It was hard not to press her shoulders to the bed and ease my thighs between hers, press her knees apart. Tear at her hair. But there was also such sweetness, such precision, such tenderness between us – I wanted that, too, but I wanted more, I wanted to feel her pressing me open from inside, I wanted my cock in her mouth, I wanted, wanted, wanted.

Desire rose and fell on an isotope slope, gripping me fiercely. She knew just how to pull want from this body of mine. After a particularly efficacious kiss, I spiraled, eyes rolling, hips bucking. I couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel to be opened by her.

“Fuck me,” I whispered, as she held herself above me, inches away, “please.”

Her eyes flashed and she grinned. Held my gaze, my open face, steady for a moment. “Can I go down on you?”

“Oh, god yes,” I breathed out. Please do, yes, god yes, echoed in my head, and though she may have liked it I’d (further) begged, I was glad I didn’t say it. It was hard enough for me to ask for it once.

How did she know so well what I like? … It occurs to me now that she’s read, among other things, the extensive sex survey/interview of myself, and there is a lot – quite a lot – of personal preferences listed there. I should send that to all my lovers before we fuck. (Just kidding.)

keeping my desire in check

She and I spoke last night. Not Callie, not the ex girlfriend, but the girl I’ve known for eight years whom I went to visit this past weekend. As we talked she was lying on her couch, one arm over her head, one leg over the back of the couch, and I know exactly how that looks. Exactly how her living room is configured.“I can’t stop thinking about your skin,” I said. “About you, naked on your couch.”

“You want me naked on my couch?” she asked.

“Yes.”

And then she was. She said, “You’ve got my hands and my mind wandering.”

We talked about the things we didn’t get to do. Her mouth on my cock. (Why didn’t we do that?!) I wanted to have her in every room in her house, though that would’ve taken some coordinating. I wanted to get my cock out more, and she wanted to ask me to get my cock out more, but got shy and didn’t. I wish she would have. She wishes she would have. Why didn’t we do that? I wish I would’ve been more bold about it.

I guess I still get that twinge of “reproducing the gender/sexual binary,” “women fucking women isn’t about a cock, that’s exactly the point,” and “there’s plenty to do without it” …

Well, lesson learned. I know what I want. At least fifty percent of the time. Maybe seventy percent.

You would think I am pretty good at getting what I want. At asking for what I want, or setting it up. And I knew she wanted to feel my cock inside her, feel my weight on top of her. We’ve talked about this for years, literally. I remember calling her after I bought my very first strap-on. What year was that? 2000? So small, in retrospect, with a vinyl harness. Tsk tsk. I was so young back then. Now, I have half a dozen beautiful cocks of different sizes & shapes and three harnesses, though the one I usually use is a thin O-ring harness because it is very small, and therefore the easiest with which to pack. Plus, the jock-strap style of the thin straps hits my clit perfectly and can actually get me off while fucking, which is incredible. Incredible.

I get hard just thinking about it.

“I like that you know what my cocks look like,” I said. “Now when I tell you I’m putting on my red one, squeezing lube onto my fingers, and taking my cock in my hand, you know what that looks like.”

“Wouldn’t it have been nice,” she said, “if, when we’d gotten home from the battlefield, instead of just fingering me in the kitchen, you’d bent me over the counter and fucked me?”

“Um … yes.” Fuck.

“I’m getting up, I’m moving into the kitchen. ‘Cause now, you know what that looks like. And I can bend over the counter and imagine you fucking me.”

Oh god, this girl.

I cleared my throat. I will keep my desire in check. I will not lose control. “The counter seems a little high. Is it comfortable?”

“Not really. I’m on my tiptoes.”

“The kitchen table might be a better height. It’s glass though, it might be kind of chilly, or sharp on the edges.” I assessed every surface in her house for its fuckability.

She moved to the kitchen doorway. Told me she wants to remember how it felt when I lifted her hands over her head, pressed my hips into her into the door so she couldn’t move.

I told her, if I was there now, I wouldn’t let her linger in the doorway. I would push her onto the table a little too roughly.

She gasped as she laid herself on the tabletop. Her torso was bare, nipples against the cold glass.

“Is it the right height?” I asked. (It is. I already know it is.)

“Yes. Cold.” She whispered into the phone.

“Remember my mouth next to your ear?” I started. “Remember my fist in your hair? Remember how it feels to have me standing behind you, my hand pressing between your shoulderblades?”

I whispered, “I’m going to slide inside you … ”

Tangle my fingers in your hair and grab a fistful. Crane your neck just a little. Watch your mouth open and gasp and your breath fogs the glass, feeling the tip of my red cock against your pink pussy. I’d move the dick to curve down instead of up so it would hit still your clit from inside. Your cheek against the cold, smooth surface. Pushing your legs apart, hand between your thighs, pulling on your flesh, fingers on your outer labia so I can hold you open. Slide inside you slow. Gripping your hip with my right hand. Sliding my arm under you to cradle your waist as I keep sliding in and out, in and out, harder, a little harder, a little faster.I will lose myself in this position. I will lose control. I will not keep my desire in check, I will begin to slide inside faster, hips bucking against you in a rhythm and pattern coming from inside me, a fierceness I never remember I have. After a while it stops becoming even an in-out motion and just becomes me vibrating, grinding hard at every angle, every circular motion, feeling your muscles pull on my cock which pulls on the strap between my legs, rubs against my clit.

Like that. Yes.

And my thighs pressed together, clit straining to be touched, to be pressed against the base of my cock thrusting into you.

Yes, like that. Like that. Oh god.

“Are you touching your clit?” I asked. “While I fuck you? Remember what it felt like to have my cock inside you?”

She groaned. Gasped. Made all those little noises that I knew, that I’d heard next to my ear, whispered into my neck, that I’d pressed out from inside of her.

God I loved making her come. Every fucking time. Surprising, and so beautiful.

One of my favorite moments was at dinner, at her favorite Italian restaurant where I drank too much wine and got her to talk about theatre, about the show she did recently, about what she’s going to do next. She was so animated. Luminous. I just watched her from across the table, her eyes shining, skin glowing, hair tussled from all the sex.

She had excellent after-sex hair. All curvy and full of waves and body. Mine was horrible: typical boycut-number-four which goes flat and gets cowlicks if it isn’t carefully sculpted.

She said one of her favorite moments of the weekend was when we were at the rock show on Saturday night. It was hot inside, though cold outside, and she carried her thin jacket until I took it from her, folded it gently and draped it over my arm. Held it for her all night.

Later, back outside, I held it for her while she slid her arms into it. She said felt taken care of. Like a girl.

And I felt butch. Tough and indestructible and oh-so-honored that this beautiful creature would even consider letting me hold her jacket (let alone all the things that I was to do to her later that night). I wanted everyone to see that I had taken it from her, that I was holding it for her. I kept one hand on the small of her back, kept touching the hem of her shirt, feeling the knitted fabric between my fingers. Remembering how the folds of her labia felt just as soft.

She also said there was an alley outside that building that would’ve been a perfect place in which to fuck. Damn, if only I’d known.

It’s been hard to separate from her since I’ve returned home. But she knows I am in no place to give my heart away. She knows my limitations.

She’s reading this right now.

southern hospitality – part one

The first time, she said no one ever made her come from inside before. Over the next fourty hours, I did it somewhere between nine and thirteen more times, inside and out; we lost count, the nights melted together.Desire pooled between us and the contours of our bodies were gutters, runoffs, ditches in which it collected and flowed: the line where her thighs touch. In between her breasts. The undersides of my wrists. The place where my pink and red cocks (which are my favorites) press against my pubic bone.

I didn’t get to fuck her strapped on as much as I’d have liked to (which would have been every time). I get shy about my cock sometimes. So much wanting. It’s embarassing to want something so much. Plus, there’s that moment, if I haven’t pre-planned by packing, that I have to get up, disrobe, pull on the harness, slip on the dildo, suit her up in a condom, and then come back to the open wanting girl watching me, waiting. And when I get back to bed I feel like I have to start all over again with foreplay instead of just stickin it in, which is my impulse.

On Saturday, I did pre-plan, and packed after my morning shower. We walked the dog walked around a civil war battleground while I hid my pink packing cock. The tourists stared at me (so obvious) and I stared at her. Watched her body move. Left my hands in my pockets most of the time to conceal the bulge. Did she know I was packing all day? Did she know when we walked off the path into the woods onto the rocks that we could have fucked right there, that I was envisioning her on her knees, sucking my cock through the zipper of my jeans?

I’m not sure when she discovered I was packing. After the walk I slid my fingers into her in the kitchen up against the counter and I think she felt it with her hands. Yes, I know she did. That was the third time I made her come and I knew then what she would do, how her body would fold and buckle, how her fingers on my wrist meant stop – but don’t pull out yet.

She just kept letting me take her, whenever I wanted, where ever I wanted, so I did. I wouldn’t usually be so bold as to push her skirt up to her hips and finger her in the kitchen. I wouldn’t usually assume it was okay to fuck her in the middle of the day, twice, three times – I would think about it, I would wish I could, but she would give me a look that meant stop you’re being inappropriate and I would shirk off to my corner, obedient.

But we didn’t have much time. Barely over fourty hours together, and I wanted every minute to count.

And she didn’t do that. She didn’t turn me away. In fact, she just wanted me more every time I put my hands on her electric body. Conducted her like a gold-plated wire. Completed the circuit and she flowed into me every time I touched her.

Every time I kissed her: forget it. At first it would just be a kiss, just good morning or okay I’m going to take a shower now or thanks for making me that delicious pesto-tomato grilled cheese sandwich but then it became oh god and please do that more, again and if you don’t stop I’m going to take you right here right now. And of course she didn’t stop. So I did take her. When I wanted. Where I wanted. How I wanted.

I told her I would try to restrain myself. She said don’t.

I did fuck her with my strapon that day. I lose myself when I’m fucking that way, different than when I am using fingers or lips. I forget about her pleasure and concentrate on mine. Concentrate on the tight ring of her cunt around the ridge of my cock, how her muscles pull and press. I make noises I wouldn’t usually; instead of listening to what her body wants and the sounds her mouth makes, I’m only feeling the thrust into her. Groaning with the pressure building in my cunt. The way it feels when she squeezes.

Later, I had her from behind bent over the bed, fingers inside her – again my fingers inside, always I was slipping my fingers inside her, searching for something, for life, for that clitoral ridge, for her soft spot, pulling rubies from her cervix – left hand on the back of her head, in her hair, pushing her into the bedspread. Yeah. A little bit harder.

That may have been my favorite part of the day.

That, and later, when I went down on her for hours. That, and when I pressed her up against the door in the kitchen, kicked her legs apart, held her hands above her head. We were expecting guests but she said, memorize. Memorize this right now.

That was Saturday. I was only getting started.

a kite who let go of the string

One last thing about letting go: I don’t do it. Especially not with someone new.

Sometimes I can lose myself in a good fuck, sliding inside a girl like there is some sort of salvation inside, if I could just get deep enough, but I don’t allow myself to be entered, not that deeply, not enough to give someone else salvation. Perhaps I’m not built that way. It too often feels like invasion.

So when fingers inside me found a place lodged thickly, took my cervix between swirls of fingerprints … I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself.

And she said let go … just let go.

And her voice sent me soaring, like a kite who let go of the string. I discovered what the blue sky felt like on my tail. Wrapped it around me.

Let go … just let go.

And my body bowed, enough to feel pulled tight, bone against muscles against skin. I often use the phrase “to the edge of my body” to describe what my consciousness does when I’m fucking. Like any physical activity – running, yoga – what I mean is that I am no longer balled up in the back of my mind but rather am just as conscious in my little toe as I am in my lips and my chest.

I get so lost in my head sometimes. Reuniting with my body feels heavenly. Holy. And through sex it feels sacred. To quote a favorite poet of mine, “this is the sweet glory reason for a body in the first place.”

It takes a lot of work for me to get off. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when someone goes down on me – in fact that is my favorite way to come. Well. That, and having a blow job. And while fucking a girl with a strap-on, which sometimes, I can actually do, if I get the angle right. But most of the time, I get tired of trying so hard and whomever is between my legs gets tired and I let it go before I actually get off.

When I am patient enough to let it happen, the intensity of orgasm is unparalleled. So unlike anything I can do for myself. Though I – like many of us, I imagine – am fairly skilled at getting myself off quickly, I have yet to master getting myself off thoroughly. Or thickly.

I don’t have the right phrase for it. It’s the difference between a single pulse-and-release of an orgasm and having my spine shudder and tear open, like I can feel every drop of water that made me, every molecule buzzing and humming and spinning around singing, opening …

Okay, without waxing poetic here, I’m not sure how to describe these two orgasms in my body.

One: A single pulse, sometimes lasting for a few seconds. Most often, a contraction and release that happens once, a tightening of my muscles originating in my cunt, a tensing throughout my body. Then it’s over, and my cunt is sensitive, clit so sensitive she doesn’t want to be touched. This is what happens when I lay down, read some erotica, jack off. Or when I don’t get much forplay. Or when I just don’t care.

Two: A slower build. Lots of mini-peaks of pleasure on my way up to The Big One. Like earthquake tremors. And when it finally happens I’m clenching everything: fists teeth thighs, not realizing I’m strangling this lovely person going down on me. Tightening and trying to remember to breathe, for ages, minutes even, my entire body coiled tight and pressing so hard against anything I can find – the headboard wall pillows mattress, pressing my arm over my eyes (I always do this, not sure why, I think it must be an impulse to be blindfolded, block out the light). And there is a plateau here where I could stay for moments, full minutes, as though my body was a string and the tongue on my clit is plucking it softly back and forth, vibrating. And I’m just shimmering.

This is the place I wish I could stay. Sometimes, I can.

My mouth is inevitably open here. Open in an OH, eyes squeezed shut, or not, trying frantically to watch, gain eye contact, see lips tongue electricity sparking from between my legs.

But then it all breaks, and I scream with the intensity, often yelling, crying out, noises bursting from me accidentally. What happens in that moment? I think there’s one more muscular contraction/vibration before the tension breaks and sometimes, there’s such release that I cry.

This is not to say that there aren’t orgasms in between, certainly there are.

This is not what happened on Saturday night, but it could have. I wasn’t really going to allow myself to get taken in that deeply that night. But this was the first time in years – four years, maybe five – that I have felt on the verge of one of those orgasms. Felt the possibility of that orgasm existing in my body again.

(Thank you for that.)

I am still getting used to feeling sexy again. I have always, since before I can remember, been so sexual, so experimental, that to have that absent in my life was like losing my life-force, losing my creative drive, losing my pulse.

Last night I saw a poet who reminded me why I am alive. Why I am here. Why I am interested in voices that bounce off of ceilings, in microphones, in ink scrawled on paper or backs of hands or napkins or any available surface.

Today, I am broken. Hit square in the chest with a rubber mallet, bruised plum-purple and crackling at the edges. Sore in my joints and stomach and neck. As though I ran a marathon yesterday. As though I had marathon sex all night.

But really, my heart is opening. Peeking out into the world again. And I’m so, so sad today, seeping a little, soggy and sore.

Because one of the things I realized at that party, making skin-to-skin connections, is that my life is interesting. I do interesting things with my time. And I really want to share that with someone – with people, with friends.

And that, even moreso perhaps than the number two orgasm, is what has been missing from my life and from this relationship that is still ending every day.

an excerpt from something upcoming

Her tongue on my clit. Soft, so soft, and exquisite. Circling rhythmically and I’m straining at every pore of my skin, willing every nerve ending to move between my legs to feel more.

Then, her fingers pulling at the piercing in my right inner labia, pinching the skin where the metal goes through, and her tongue, her tongue, I feel her tongue on my lips, from her fingers, moving up, pushing apart the slick folds of skin and finding that ridge under my clit where I could lay still poised on her tongue for hours if she let me.

It is not often that I allow myself to be exposed, taken. In fact, it is rare to fuck without my cock strapped on, my safety shield, usually impenetrable. But, tonight, Calley asked me to let her take me.

And now I can’t feel anything but her fingers sliding inside my cunt slowly, her long fingers, three, four, I could take her whole arm inside me, to the elbow, and her jaw is still hinged open with the tip, the length of her tongue on that spot, under my clit, sucking and moving back and forth and my eyes are rolling back, and there is nothing, no feeling at all, except her open mouth between my legs.

In a rare moment of disclosure, I told Calley over blue martinis that I’d once been full-body bound. Told her if I could have anything, it would be that again. Full-body binding and not even an orgasm, necessarily, just being wrapped held tight safe for a while.

“Oh,” she’d said. “If I had you full-body bound there is no way I would resist making your body … sing.”

“It’s hard, I’ve found,” I said, staying cool, staying calm, speaking logistically as if we were discussing a recent film or bicycle repair, “to have the right access with rope. Leaving the right places exposed is tricky.”

“Oh?” She says again. “I wasn’t thinking about using rope.”

… Excerpt from the upcoming story, with full knowledge that my anonymity is fragile and not very veiled. The story involves plastic wrap, hot wax, and an ice dildo. Posted simply because there needs to be more sex on this blog.