Posts Tagged ‘packing’
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.Read More
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.
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.
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.
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.
Yep, it’s the Goodfella from Vixen Creation’s Vixskin line. I have yet to come across any cock that is superior to the texture, feel, realistic-ness, and quality of the Vixskin.
(Is it just me, or does the Goodfella always remind you of The Godfather? It’s just the g-f- thing, I know, but every time I read it or write it I think of Brando’s famous scratchy voice.)
The Goodfella really should’ve been included in my write-up on packing cocks 101, and would have been in tight competition with the Silky as The Best And Most Superior And Most Comfortable Cock That You Can Pack AND PLAY With On The Market Today.
Just to be clear, I still think the Silky is the best it is more comfortable to pack with. The Goodfella can be a little pokey in the pants, in my expeirence. There was some question about which one was larger, and they are nearly identical in size. The difference is that the insertable length of the Goodfella is shorter than the Silky, because the Goodfella has balls and Silky does not. But, on the other hand, the Goodfella has balls and that is pretty damn cool.
Have you noticed that Eden now has a few new categories that rate their dildos – rating (number of stars out of five, based on the customer reviews), popularity, and material safety. Material safety, this is a big one. If you take anything away from my reviews of sex toys, it’s to be careful about the materials that you are inserting into your precious parts! They are not all the same, and some of them are harmful to you. That’s bad! So I love that Eden’s got some more visibility about safe materials in the products they sell.
Silicone, glass, metal – those are completely sterilizable, and the best. Then watch out for things with phthalates, that’s the really bad material.
I just got Vixskins packing cock Goodfella from Eden this week – it is made to pack with, so its very bendable, and it has balls that aren’t flat, but rounded, and made to sit in front of the O-ring on the harness. I guess there was some confusion about how to get the cock into the harness, ’cause Vixen made this video demonstrating.
So far, though, I’m not too impressed. It doesn’t fit in the standard O-ring, so I’ve had to get out a particular harness with a larger ring in it – and y’all already know I’m in search of a good new harness, so it frustrated me.
Also, Goodfella is really small! Look at the video again – her fist is nearly as long as the cock, and her fingers easily wrap around it. So, yeah, maybe it’ll work packing, but the Silky is longer and thicker – though it doesn’t have the balls, and it’s not silicone.
I should have included Goodfella in my packing cocks 101 review, but I didn’t realize it was so possible to pack with it. I don’t think it’s quite as comfortable to wear in the pants as the Silky is, but I’m still testing it out. We’ll see how it goes.
I was just speaking about packing cocks, so now I’ll throw you a little review of the Undercover Harness from Babeland.
I’m in the market for a new harness. The harness I’ve loved for a few years now is slipping from it’s #1 ranks because it’s not staying tight enough, so when I had the chance to check this one out, I jumped at it.
I need a new good one.
I’m skeptical of two-strap harnesses, because I like how thin one-straps (aka “g-string style”) hit my clit while I’m fucking. But I love where my cock sits in this harness:perfectly over my clit. It’s slung low, and feels great.
It’s comfortable going on & off, no buckles, pulls on like undies. There’s something appealing about that, I guess because it doesn’t take as long to mess with and pull taut and get it sitting just right.
Great for packing under clothes, since it’s smooth, no big buckles to poke into tender or fleshy places.
At first, I thought this harness was going to be too small, as the elastic was tight and even cut into my hips a bit. But when fucking with it, the elastic was even a bit too stretchy (or maybe I fuck a bit too hard) and I didn’t feel the precision that I like, the straining against leather and feeling it pulling and pressing against my hips. I like it to be this push-pull dance of pressure, not just me and my sex partner, but me and my cock, me and my harness. There is some of that with this harness, and it does have a nice push-pull part because of the elastic.
There are some great things about this harness and I’m glad to have it, but it’s not quite The Perfect Harness. I’ll keep looking.