Secrets & taboos

...I want to tell you a secret...

...because I want to gauge reaction to something I'm interested in writing about/exploring.

Recently, something really unexpected but very, very hot made its way into my sex life. I’ve found myself role-playing with a friend in a very sexualized manner. Our relationship is extremely flirtatious, very explicitly honest and yet only on the cusp of concretely sexual. We have made out and groped each other but never had sex (...that's a complex story as to why. But it's mostly because we looooove the prolonged tension.)

Today we had phone sex. And it was one of the hottest, most psychologically intense experiences I've had in a long time.

It's because he was a little boy and I was Mommy.

To hear all that vulnerability in his voice, to hear that perverse mixture of arousal and tension because we’re playing with such dangerous ideas was so fucking hot. Words cannot encapsulate this. It was just so incredibly sexy for him to ask mommy if he could cum and responding with “Yes, baby, cum for Mommy. Be a good boy and let Mommy hear you cum baby….”

This is so taboo. Like the ultimate incest taboo.

I've spent a long time in BDSM cyber circles and the Daddy/girl dynamic is alive and well. People identify as "Daddies" or "baby girls"; those are viable labels in such social networks like Fetlife (that's like kinky Facebook, if you didn't know). In broader strokes, "dominant male/submissive female" is overwhelmingly the most prevalent and seemly accepted dynamic. Mommies and little boys seem so few and far between in what I've come across. There is no option to label yourself as "Mommy" or "baby boy" on Fetlife, despite being a kink-website with a multitude of options for specifying your quirks. As such, the Mommy/boy dynamic seems to be sequestered out of the public view, even amongst the kinksters. The “Mommies” I have seen appear to actually look like real life mommies: overweight, saddle-bag titted, matronly and old.

This is not me. I'm 29, vivacious and have an ass like granite.

To be a mommy seems freakish, even among the freaks. To be a little boy seems pathetic and less cherished than being a “baby girl” to her adoring “Daddy”.  And that is not what my very-sophisticated-friend-turned-momentary-little-boy feels like at all to me. I love him for his strength, his intuitive ability to handle the many layers of the human psyche, his independence and his mind's flexibility. To have him personify the complete opposite of himself--to be timid, to forfeit all his worldly experience--is what makes it so fucking hot. It's hot to expose a side of him I didn't know he had.

I really want to go down this twisted-as-fuck road. To allow it to shake up my morals, drag me out of my comfort zone, and bond—on such an eccentric and intimate level—with someone else. To write about it, expose it, savor it, exploit it.

But, it's hard for me to place this experience, hard for me to conceptualize its appeal to people beyond myself. "Dominant female" is something that fits me better as I grow; I've developed beyond the original naiveté I possessed when I first started exploring submission and BDSM. But Mommy? I never thought I could find myself fleshing out that role--coddling the vulnerability of a grown man, pretending to make his sexuality something new and delicate and off limits and getting soooooooo wet doing it.

My kinks are evolving and something about it is a little unnerving; I am on such feral and psychologically penetrating territory. It’s a little scary.

But I suppose the one thing that has stayed so steadfast in all my time exploring my kinks is this: fear makes me wet.

Atomic Anal & Other Deaths by Pleasure

If I could knight his dick with any name, it’d be “Atom Smasher”.

 

It’s because so often his cock insides me conjures a feeling of “undoing”, of being so utterly riddled with pleasure that the very molecules of my body will combust. I’ve straddled his cock and rocketed into my umpteenth orgasm and then skidded to a halt mid-thrust. He looks at me with that adoring face—that face that makes my heart skip—and asks me if I’m okay, if I’m in pain. It’s never ever pain that stops me. It’s the distinct sensation that I’m about to lose all control. Lose command of my everything and become a sweaty heap of guttural moans, contorted expressions, and permanently forfeit the ability to form declarative sentences. When I stop, it’s only because my next orgasm is imminent and I sincerely can’t contextualize whether or not I can die from such intensity. When I’m on top of his cock like that, it’s feels so good the ends of my hair seem to be singing. When I’m on top of his cock like that, it’s feels like my entire body is about to completely dissipate, dissolve, nullify itself because bodies aren’t made to withstand the magnitude of that kind of pleasure.

But really, when we’re fucking, when I am gasping and idiotic and hell bent on orgasmic suicide, I just call his cock “Magic”.

Magic Cock, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass. OH FUCKING CHRIST. My motherfucking ass. There was no way either one of us could have known when we first met that his cock was made for my ass. The first time we had sex, it happened to be anal and it was like I had never had an orgasm before. Anal sex is not necessarily a frequent landmark of my past: yeah, booty sex happened but not with such frequency and vigor. This man puts his cock in my ass and my whole being seizures, flushes, grinds like no tomorrow. He makes me shameless, undulating greedily in a cesspool of sensation. My pussy swells with so much pink arousal it’s like it’s in full bloom. I seep down between my cheeks. I get so wet we seldom have to use lube.

Magic Cock Atom Smasher, my favorite cock in the world.

He tells me that when I cum I always look so surprised. As if I didn’t see it coming. As if I’m a beginner to this newfangled world of sex. But it’s true. I’m flabbergasted by his ability to make me orgasm so lethally. I’ve been carrying this booty around for nearly 30 years: when the hell did the secret extra clit appear in there?! He jams his cock so deep inside my asshole, pushing to the hilt. While I slow-grind in overstimulation I can’t stop from pouting over and over again “I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand! Why does it feel sooooooooo good? Why, why, why, whyyyy?”

Why, baby? How, baby? How is your cock made of magic?

He humors me with answers, sometimes, as I’m humping and frenzying on about not understand my own body’s capacities for pleasure. Later on, he sends me links about female anatomy and how the internal structure of the clit is a much bigger, dynamic set of nerves than just my pink nub. He plunges in extra deep and moans in my ear “Because I’m fucking your clit, baby”. He’s severing my most sensitive and blissful parts in half. I slide back down onto him and he whispers to me sweetly “….Because you love me…”

Oh. Yeah.

Yes, that.

I love him. Adore him. Get so oozy with oxytocin the minute he’s in my line of vision. He makes me feel so safe, so secure, so sexy with his words and caresses. More than that, he gives me so much space to be myself and that just makes me want to get close, close, close to him. He’s one of the sweetest souls to ever touch me and that’s why it’s so hot when he drops his guard a little and roughs me up. When he digs his teeth into the honey spot of my neck, when he yanks me by my hair, when he grunts and groans and penetrates me mercilessly when he’s so close to cumming. All of that’s sexy. When he cooks me the perfect steak, massages my aching muscles when I overdid it lifting, when he strokes my hair and kisses my forehead post-glow. All of that’s sexy. When we talk about the laws of physics and the quirks of perception after he’s brutalized my ass with spankings and poundings. All of that’s sexy. All these things accrue into one undeniable imprint: I love him for possessing so many facets, for his sweeping mind and open heart, for having the ability to get me to thaw.

He makes me relax and melt down my thighs.

I like our sex best of all because we never know what’s going to happen. We just follow the sensations, with no rush or predetermined destination.  It’s about exploration, about experimenting with the pressure and position of our mouths and hands and genitalia. The way he looks at me when we explore like that makes me feel so beautiful, so coveted, so valuable. He gazes up at me while he’s slowly working his fist into my pussy like I’m the most blessed, slutty, perfect woman he’s ever seen. It makes me ravenous and unapologetic. Pleasure is here to be had and I’m gonna get it.

When it’s time for him to cum, I’ll lay down on my belly, hips rattling upwards in anticipation. The tip of his cock starts to part my pussy’s lips and I know as soon as he’s in all the way it’s going to take so much resolve to not scream. There’s something about how his cock feels inside me in this precise position that makes me feel so full, that the span of him is brushing up against my cerebellum. So deliciously fleshed out and all I can manage to do shriek like a banshee. His thrusts get longer and more fluid as his body pushes down along the length of mine. I arch my ass up into his relentless thrusts and together we create a dizzying momentum. We are skin on skin contact from head to toe: our feet intertwine for better leverage, our hands encircle each other’s, his torso slides all along the curvature of my back. We are in a world of sweat and sounds as his head lowers close to my ear. He’s grunting harder, his breathing agitated. I am totally enclosed in his passion; an immaculate microcosm of carnal noises and the fragrances of our sex. It makes me squeal and moan too loudly. His hands wrap themselves around my mouth, suffocating the brunt of my racket. He pushes in so deep as I scream into his palms, slobbering from both ends of my body.

I’m always so enamored by his abandon when he cums. He thrusts into my pussy violently and holds it there, body completely constricted with assault of his orgasm. He sounds so hot as he’s writing his name in my womb, moaning out all his tension.

He’ll collapse onto me when the last of his cum is spent. We’ll stay that like, body stacked on body, limbs and genitals knotted up in the velvety afterglow. My vision is obscured by the tangle of my hair, his biceps framing my shoulders, and the delirious shadows of our sex. Our panting starts to become more regulated, more satiated. He withdraws his magic cock and I pout and plead:

"...oh… please stay… "

It turns out that that kind of pleasure will not kill me. It will only make me so intoxicated with his efforts, with his cock, with his mind, that I’ll be rendered to unbearable vulnerability. It will only make me want to be the most shameless, indulgent slut in the universe. It turns out that it’s not really his cock that is magic.

It’s his heart.

My favortiest boy-toy is coming over...

...and I am writing lesbian prose in the dark ;)

A body in motion, stays in motion...

Testicular Scent; .an .avalanche

So few times it had happened that she was nearly overcome with awed paralysis: this was exactly as she imagined. This was the place she had adored for so many hours in the sprawl of her brain. And now, she was here.

Below him, under him, kissing, licking, gently and controlled, the slight raised ridge of skin that welded the sack of his testicles shut. Licking, kissing, right here and then right there, the place where diaphanous hairs branch out in wiry helixes. It would never matter how many women prior or how many women afterwards would find themselves looking at him from the testicles up. Looking at him the way she did now, as she pressed deeper into her kneel to lengthen the reach of her tongue. It would never matter because they wouldn’t feel what she felt here. No women would ever match her unblemished delight to experience this part of him.

Through her kisses, a nuzzled smile transmitted her joy into the velvety micro-grooves of his scrotum. Kissing right here, was almost too much for her composure. Her tongue caressed the origin of that scent that riddled her heart beat with such yearning. Breathing in right there, with a depth of inhalation keen on digesting his aroma direct from its source; to gore her senses in the hopes that his smell would never abandon her. Breathing in right here and knowing that in this moment, it was his scent that was oxygenating her bloodstream.

It was his scent that was sustaining her life.



The Peculiarities of the Couch; a doppelganger in the most improbable of places

I’m not actually sure why I’ve come here, as we’re saddled thigh by thigh on the couch. He’s showing me the artwork of his mentor but I’m noticing the pressure of his leg against mine and the sensation of compact security haloed around me from my seat. He’s talking about something I’m not listening to and almost lackadaisically, my hand lands at the base of his neck. “Uhuh, yeah that’s amazing…” I say mechanically, masquerading the nonchalantly flirtation of my fingertips as they commence massaging his scalp. His breathy exhalation reveals that I’ve infiltrated his attention. It’s in this place that my hands start to say everything that festers in the depravity of my heart.

I know that I can court him with the malleable texture of my affection, with the heat generated from my brain to fingertips. I can weave oceans of words into touch. I can luxuriate in all his skin’s warmth, translating emotions into sweeping sprawls of caresses. I want to make him feel good because that makes me feel good. Nothing is as empowering as being a transmitter of pleasure, to coax the beast out of his sleeping haven with glimmers of hedonistic hope. 

Nothing is as empowering as being a woman honing her seductive arts on a canvas of fervent male skin.

We laugh, in a kind of feigned disbelief, as his head droops idly into my chest. Another fragmentary moan escapes in a low grumble for his mouth. At the darkest pitch of that sound, like a harsh exclamation point, his mouth clamps the milky flesh that cascades from my shoulder into my breast. He bites and bites hard, it makes me gasp and coo encouragingly. He takes another penetrative bite through the fabric of my dress, the padding of my bra, to the approximate place of my right breast’s areola. It’s a desirous, greedy bite. On naked skin, he’d christen that place purple.

We laugh, because we are friends behaving as curious friends with mischievous impulses do. There is always something askew about the way our body language synchronizes together like there’s a hidden instinct with no discernible origin. It doesn’t matter that we legitimatize a dozen reinforcements for the platonic fencing; we relocate that line more often than I can count. It’s become a game now, a kind of social chess that makes me eager to see how ingenuously I can conceal my next flirtation.

We go back and forth like this for just 15 minutes. 15 minutes of friendship muddled with distractions and vice.

There’s a demon running revolutions in the core of him; an overcharged impulse to savor the presence of women. I can see this tear at his direction and his commitments.  He’s propelled by sensual momentum and when I touch him it feels as if I am yanking him around by the very sins that define him. Touching him means I can drag him by his demons, seduce him into relieving his unquenchable desires in my hands. It’s so empowering, intoxicating to smear my intuitive touch all up and down the masculine definition of his body. I do it sweetly, calculatingly, just to watch him react and let his guard down. I peel his shirt up and graze the trail of dark hair that trims the well-developed lines  of his abdominal muscles. I look at him with simulated innocence and bite my lower lip as if conflicted by a growing sense of passion. I am not innocent at all. There is no internal conflict. This is how I play this game. I bite my lower lip because I can smell his pheromones. It makes me want to score his scent underneath my finger nails by carving my initials into his flesh.

Because we are just friends but my body jolts behaving as if I forgot.

Because, perhaps, if I remember his weakness is women, he knows that mine is men.

His lips meet mine, lifting his nuzzled face from my embrace. His mouth tastes so fresh and familiar; so inviting and devious, oscillating from the electricity of a first kiss to the familiarity of soul mates. Our kisses never had an uncooperative adjustment, not even the first. Our kisses, much like our exchanges, are about teasing, allusion, craft. His tongue just barely rounds mine and the flavor of his salvia makes my pussy response as if salivating back.

When it feels like he is slipping away from the kiss, I bring him back with my bites and nibbles. I want to devour his mouth a little more, distract him with my kisses so I can keep caressing the silk and fur of his body. Without even having to look I know that the stubble of his chin and lip are reddening the skin around my mouth. It’s doesn’t matter about the aesthetics, the abrasion of stubble makes it so painfully clear that I am kissing a man. A man with rough edges of muscularity and the smooth, deep aromas of experience permeating through his pores.

I kiss him because I like knowing that I shouldn’t.

His fingertips languidly trace the intangible line between my inner thigh and cunt. He takes his mouth off mine and smirks; my scent will radiate off his clothes when goes to see his evening playmate in 10 minutes. I laugh because it’s more likely that one of my renegade blonde hairs will stowaway on his sleeve. He stands up from the couch and pulls his shirt overhead, lingering in front of me shirtless, asking me what I think of his body. It’s so lean, so smothered in linear muscles, so strong and earnest. The type of body that could pick a woman up by her hips and shake her into orgasm. Rugged. Masculine. Beautiful. I touch the thick ridge of his oblique and involuntarily bite my lip. This time I mean it. The uninterrupted view of his torso stuns me into covetous surprise. I want to smoke out all the carnal places that will give him the sweetest pleasure.

And now I want to kiss him where his hips meld with his waist. I caress my mouth down the front of his stomach, puckering my lips into the heat hiding behind the elastic of his briefs. He laughs when I kiss right there. A laugh that holds so many words in such a fleeting sound. The evening is quickening, his mistress is waiting. Not enough time for poignant allusions, and definitely not enough time to dapple his manhood with suction and tender kisses.

I stand, kissing his mouth and grazing my fingernails across the broad of his shoulders, careening into his triceps. He makes approving, lustful sounds. He stretches his arms into fresh, navy material; he asked me what I think as he soothes the fabric across his body, admiring its cut in his reflection. The shirt accentuates the ripples of his biceps, the graceful definition of his chest. It’s the kind of shirt that advertises that he would look good in absolutely any environment, any blend of synthetics, any set of crumpled bed sheets across the country. He looks so good because he makes it look effortless.

I tell him it looks just a smidge too tight.

He slips into his bedroom and reemerges in the door frame, wearing a leather jacket, forcing the impression that the girl he’s about to see is young. I tease him about it and when I turn, shimmy my ass into his crotch.  His hands unhesitatingly go up my dress and dig into my hips while I rotate them around. In one fast pull, he yanks my thong and leggings downwards, clawing his nails into my bare flesh.

And then I hear that sound: the metallic unfastening of his belt prongs, the jangle of yearning produced from the shifting of unzipped denim. His cock is at the vestibule of my ass crack, idly rubbing around. Instinctually, I push back and swivel into his advances. For only a handful of seconds, we play around with this blatant transgression of our friendship. “Oh baby I want to but… maybe… when…” he says.

But we know that maybe’s subjective. Maybe definitely, maybe never. I coyly snap my panties back into their proper place, giggling and satisfied with my brazenness. He tucks his member back into the constriction of his grey briefs. We laugh, because we are friends, behaving shamelessly.

At his front door, he kisses me again, slowly, meaningfully. He tells me that he loves me, that’s he think I am awesome. He’s staring at my mouth as he says it, a gleam of appreciation for the complex niceties I bring into his life twinkling in his eyes. I know that he’s a charmer, a seducer with a never-ending stream of adoring words. But for this moment, I opt to believe what he says, and I let him briefly washing my psyche in his magic.

We bound together in our naturally swift paces towards our respective cars. He places his hand around the crook of my elbow, trying to escort me with his cultural antiquities. I cut off his courtship rituals; bothering with contrived formalities doesn’t interest me. On the street, I have no desire for him to soften my hard-head independence. On the street, we blithely kiss and I climb inside my car.

My movements slow once tucked into the confines of my vehicle. I watch his car abruptly accelerate to his destination before I even have the key in my ignition. In this lull of transition, my thoughts are clear, objective. We are so the same, possessing comparable histories of bloody battles fought between freedom and security. We are big egos and inquisitive minds who surround ourselves with people who can stomach our insensitivities, our identical self-preoccupations. We ply similar brands of manipulations to everything around us, tweaking details and intuitively sensing options, employing charm like a Band-Aid when we are too lazy. We have the same intolerance for restrictions on our mobility, our natural needs to wander after wonder, resenting having to justify why. On our good days we craft landscapes of beautiful social harmony; on our bad days, we are mere beasts dressed in tarnished clothes, demanding more and more and more. Everything I hate about him is exactly the stuff I hate in myself. And everything I find interesting about him rest on the hope that, despite our shape-shifting morality, his intent is pure even if he’s hands and mouth aren’t.

Maybe that is what attracts us but also why we will never have sex. We are like con-artists flashing wares and exploits, marveling at each other’s somber skills, but never really revealing the full arsenal because the thrill is in the hunt. Neither one of us is willing to forfeit anything. That is why we’re friends. But it sure is enticing to imagine that we could.

We are so the same.

Except that he is a man, rushing fluidly into the next sequence of his conquest as I watch his headlights slip over the horizon. I am a woman, lingering in my driver’s seat, readying my language, reflecting on my ambivalent heart. I know I must seek rest. I cannot keep rushing on like him. I must first birth all the thoughts he spawns inside my head.