That time we brought jealousy to bed

“You’re gonna fuck his cock? Hmm? His young, fat cock?”

He’s sneering and he’s pinning me down, the fleshy part of my arms pinched to the mattress, crucified by his urgently angry knees. He’s been ramming things into my throat: his fingertips, his hostile, painfully erect cock. He’s been ramming things into my face: his open palm like lightning across my cheeks, doubling back on the other side. He’s been ramming things into my windpipe: braiding his fingers around my neck, plying his elbow to produce wheezing gasps.

He’s been stapling my nipples into pancakes between his rough fingernails.

And I’m not flinching in the slightest. I’m not fucking threatened at all.

I’m seeping spillage, leaking lust all over the bed.

“Yes, I’m gonna fuck his cock.”, I crooned, with a wide smirk canceling out the tears in my eyes and salvia on my face, “I’m gonna have him cum in my pussy and bring it back to you, make you watch it fall out of my cunt.”

The anger boils in his eyes, like a spark before the explosion. That anger makes my insides squeal, makes my pussy unravel in desire. I poke that anger with my long, curious stick:

“That makes you so jealous, doesn’t it? That I want his cock so bad? You're so jealous.”

We are smirk-on-smirk, dueling each other into an erotic truce. He thrust his tongue urgently into my mouth, violently, possessively. We kiss like we need each other’s carbon dioxide to live. He rakes my hair through his knuckles, yanks my head back to expose my ear.

“Yes, it makes me jealous. Bring it back to me. Let me see his cum in your pussy”

And like that: we fuck. Hard, raw, nasty. A spiral of jealousy that transmutes into possession that diffuses back into love. There is no more talking, no more negotiation. There is just this blazing honesty on our sweaty skin. We fuck like animals, thinking of this imagined future tryst. We fuck like animals, marking our territory, stake our claim in each other’s flesh.

We fuck like humans, desperately trying to use our bodies and sex to convey the immense size and scope of our love.

A Man and A Woman of Their Words

“I keep my promises” he said, our backs leaned up against the front window of the studio. The glass was cool and it chilled our skin. I was probing him about his intentions, about the whimsical ambivalence of our budding romance.

This was months ago, bordering on years. His eyes were crystal and open; all the pigment in his face rallied behind his claim. “I keep my promises” he said again, in a half smirk, gaze lowered to meet mine.

I only half believed him.

I think about that now, as he exfoliates my back, my breasts press up against the sweaty bathroom tile, moist with the steam of the shower. He does keep his promises. It’s only the discrepancy between expectation and reality that throws me for a loop; it’s only the meandering hiccups of life that interfere with our plans.

At the first cold snap in September I asked him to bludgeon all the dead cells from my soul. He said “Of course”. I went out and bought my most favorite exfoliant to strip my skin clean. The days accumulated until they became months. Until it was really, really cold and my dry, sensitive skin nearly wept for relief. 

“He always gives when I really need”  I think, as his hands undulate down my spine into my ass, buffing my backside until it sparkles red. He spins me around into the lava-hot jets, sweeping the lingering bits of sand from my shoulders. He massages more exfoliant into the sinews of my triceps, the division between my quad and hamstring, into the grooves of my clavicles and the underscore of my breasts. Into soft, yielding flesh between my thighs. His face is stitched in concentration; the exact face he makes when he loses himself in his carpentry while distressing wood. He catches me looking at him and gives me a quick but real smile. He goes back into deep focus, swirling his hands on my naked body. 

My lover loves losing himself in actions of care. And when I’m the object of his care it feels like I’ve never been loved before. He keeps meticulously cleansing me, methodically, adoringly. Buffing my skin until I’m pink porcelain, smooth as glass.

He kisses me sweetly when he’s done. The bathtub sloshes with excess water, with the weight of my oldest layer clogging the drain. My skin slightly throbs, all the nerves on the surface recharged and wide awake. We towel off, both flushed with the luxury of a deep clean, our eyebrows perked in satisfaction. 

It’s always casual in my house. We’re casually naked, in our talk and in our bodies, our limbs and language strewn about the couch. I command him to inhale two lotions, letting the best scent win the privilege of being slathered. His fingertips dip into shea and wander into my calves. Those glossed fingertips knead into my thighs, into my hips, into my ass. He spends so much time on my ass you would assume it’s the thirsty part of me.

“Mr. M.” I coo through half-closed eyes and an open smile, “What are you doing?” I’m belly down on the couch, arms cradling my ultra-relaxed head, wet tendrils clinging to my face.

“Senorita S.” he responses, his syllables guttural, charged,

“I’m about to worship your ass.”

He slips to the side of me, his haunches in my periphery. The edges of his teeth graze my right cheek, his tongue trailing in the midst. He bites mouthfuls of flesh, playfully, greedily.  Then he kisses the transitory imprints, as if excusing his impulses. I can see his lower body; can see how the tension and excitement spread through his muscles, all the way down to his earnest, flared toes. But that is not the best part, or the most vivid marker of his desire. I can hear his pleasure in his inhalations as he pulls apart my ass, pressing his face closer; I can hear the surprised delight of his exhalations as his tongue wanders down my crack.

And I am soaked through; pussy completely saturated from all that sensual sound.

“God I love opening you up like this” he says, a rush of cool air circling my asshole, mingling with the wet edges of my pussy. I love it too, when he holds me like that, exposes me like that. I love it when he spreads me apart; when he looks at all the places I cannot see and tells me that they are beautiful.

His tongue is on my perineum, slinking upwards, slowly, menacingly. His fingernails dig into my spread skin and I hold my breath as the warm, wet contact of his tongue meet the tight, unexplored territory of my asshole. “Fuck” I say, under my breath, melting in pleasure. “Fuck.” He probes my asshole with his tongue, savoring the rawest part of me, as if it’s sustenance, as if it’s sacred food. His licks are loving and long, deep and devoted. I think this could make me cum. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as coveted as this.

And it makes me remember: I made a promise. Months ago, bordering on years.

It’s an unofficial one, an implied one. Because he never corrals me into promises, never tries to put parameters up with questions. It’s been years now of me teasing him with my history of anal sex, with the knowledge of my past sexual exploits. And he always gives me the same clear, blue gaze of intrigue, the same open face of yearning when I tell him one day soon it will be his go around.

He always keeps his promises, I think as I slip away from his curious tongue. I hop onto the carpet, skip into the hallway, throw open the closet door  with the magic of anticipation fueling my limbs. There is the lube, waiting. There is my hand, oiling up my pucker, before bouncing back into the living room to eagerly tell him the day has finally come.

I lay down on my belly, ass pricked up, spine curved and ready. The lube oozes onto his cock, his cock glides between my cheeks. There’s that initially gravity of tip-on-asshole and the fervor of taboo start to swell my pussy even more. He pushes the head in with the gusto of a teenager, with the bravado of a man who is justly claiming his reward.

And it hurts.

Not enough to stop the theatrics. Not enough to wane my enthusiasm. Just enough to shift the opening ceremonies. I saddle onto his lap, guiding his cock up into my ass, letting him view every inch of emotion registering on my face. His eyes are so blue, so alive, so excited with the novelty of the experience. I rock slow, building a fire in my hips. “Yeah baby, like that” he says, gripping my curves, feeling them dance between his palms. He thrusts his hips up to meet mine, pushing and pulling with my cues. 

And my pussy is melting. It’s spilling onto his pubic hair, labia full and fuchsia with desire. His mouth opens, reaches for mine. My hips slip back and forth faster, like a belly dancer on speed, making his cock hit all those delicious places in my ass that make me feel insane. There is so much adrenaline churning through my pelvic bone, spiraling through my pulse. When I look at his face, I can see it’s happening inside of him too—this overwhelming flood of sensation, an unbearable urgency of pleasure from fucking my ass.

His eyes are growing fire, the same color blue inside of a low flame. I love that color, his color, the rarest color on earth; I fall in love whenever it’s cast in my direction. It makes me remember that I am the first. The first woman to give him her ass without hesitancy, without shame, without unsubstantiated teasing. The first woman to unapologetically joust his intellect into a sweaty truce, the first woman to tell him he is always free to wander after wonder. The first woman hardy enough to tolerate the emotional force of her promises to him. There is so much in life, in our independent, evolving lives, that asks me to be brave, that demands that I be patient and kind. There are so many things to contend with, mundane, imagined and substantial. But I am the first of so many of those things and I can see that register in his eyes as he plunges his cock deep inside me, asking me in pressured speech if he can cum inside my ass.

“Yes, baby, fuck. Cum inside my ass!”

Fuck. This is his first time, I’m his first time. The acknowledgement shoots through my veins like heroin, tussles all my nerves with love. I cum, like a blathering lunatic, grinding shamelessly on his trickling cock, hips feverishly entranced in his hands.

We hop back into the shower when it’s over and laugh under the stream of heat.

We are dried off again, snaked together on the couch, naked and softly breathing. The side of my face is engulfed in his chest hair, like wild grass on a suburban sunbather’s face. It obscures my vision, caresses my lips when I speak.

“How do I smell?” he interprets. He knows I love his scent, his visceral, virile scent. The question makes me burrow deeper into his body, eyes hidden by the curve of his armpit. The scent only gets stronger.

“How do I smell?” he asks again, a laugh waiting behind his smile. I laugh for him and squeeze him, playfully protesting, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

We lay there and I breathe him in. I don’t want to talk about how he smells. I don’t want to tell him that it’s delicious, that his natural scent is the strongest comfort on earth. Don’t want to tell him that his scent makes me want to move mountains, makes me want to be his champion until my dying breath. Don’t want to tell him that something as ethereal as his scent gives me more security than money, education, or experience.

I don’t want to tell him that I wish there could be a promise that his scent will always be there. Because I could battle pink slips, foreclosed mortgages, terminal illness and whatever other meanness life throws at me and I could do it with grace if his scent was there at the end of the day.

I don’t want to back him up into a promise he might not be able to keep. I love that he is a man of his word.

So I don’t tell him how he smells.

It is in withholding that I realize: he is also, despite all the odds, the first.

No man has ever penetrated me, like this.

The metamorphosis of skin

I dressed up like a high class whore. He slapped me across the face. It was sharp and sudden and my instincts flew to the surface in defense. I became the unfearful. I became the girl who can stomach the pain without a flinch. I became the defiant one who glares her prosecutor in the eye, refusing to react with weakness.

I did not plan on becoming that girl. I did not suspect he could yank her out so immediately. I did not think she would manifest as such as I hinged my corset together, as I slinked into high heels. I did not think I would ever see her again.

He resurrected her. But she dissolved fast. Because then soundless tears fell, turning my face into a ramshackle charcoal sketch. There were tears like inky punctuation marks. I’ve reached a point in my life where I am more alive than numb. Alive with tears, alive with contrast. Alive and bleeding mascara on the floor.

My kink-tastes are evolving. Pain has been such an integral part of the exploration; the impetus, actually, of the exploration. But the pain has started to shift its hues, started vibrating in a pitch that is hard to hear. How this evolution impacts our playdates after dinner, I’m not sure. I suspected yesterday that he needed a stomping ground, an arena that could mirror back his prowess. His tastes are violent, cruel and real, when he feels like that. And so often I love him like that. But the pain has started to change its definition in my skin. It’s started to be a thing that dwarfs needs I cannot seem to every directly address.

In the end, it seemed a loving thing to do: to sacrifice flesh to his wishes. To let him leave his mark even it burned and left my face and figure distressed. 

The Seduction of Sinews

We’re playing, because we play.

He’s the Father and I’m the contemptuous catholic tart splayed on her knees, suckling the body of Christ. Absolutely nothing can distract me from this role-play; I’ve been begging for it for months.

But then I touch his legs. They’re rock solid, so taut with muscle.

I can no longer pretend to be a 15 year old harlot. His legs are the most masculine thing in the universe and they’ve frozen the air in my lungs with the sheer force of delighted surprise.


*He’s such a fucking man*.

That’s what my cells say.


*I’m drowning*.

That’s what my pussy says.

His legs are so manly there is only one thing for me feel in response: thoroughly, deliciously womanly.



We finish our role-play, him fucking my face, arching his hips far into my mouth. He cums hard and I wiggle him deeper in so his cum hits the back of my throat. We both collapse on the floor, laughing. Our play always ends with ripples of laughter between us, a shared exclamation of gratitude as much as disbelief. We kiss and I look down to notice the tiniest glisten of cum dribbling from his cock.

“Oh wait, let me get that…” I kiss that sliver off his cock before he can even react. His laughter comes out more robust and enthusiastic: “You are unique!”

I am unique, because now we’re in the bathroom, and I’m curled on the floor watching as he gets dressed. He’s wearing those briefs that accentuate the tight lines of his quads, the powerful curves of his hamstrings. In this light, in this lowered position, I can see the explosion of muscles compacted in his calves. Every inch of his legs are coated with soft taupe fuzz. My hands start to trickle the outlines of his legs, my kisses start littering love all around the back of his thighs.

“Are you flexing? Holy shit? It’s so tight” I’m kissing his calves and only stop to ask that. He’s not flexing, this is just how much testosterone laden tissue is in this man’s body. I’m convinced he’s made out of marble, covered in warm flesh.

I am nearly out of breath with excitement, touching his legs. This must be the feeling of unearthing long lost history. This must be the feeling of pure elation after months of exploration. I am a woman and I’ve just discovered the manliest feature on earth.

My fingers massage the outside of his hips, the inner sinews of his thighs. Everything about his legs are complete opposite to mine. Everything about this moment is the sweetest depiction devotion: he’s standing, watching my adoration in the mirror. I’m indulgently stroking his legs and then lose myself in unrestrained kisses.

Hours could be lost massaging and kissing these legs. I could spend hours kissing places I never would have thought erotic: the back of his knees, the groove of his Achilles heel, the crease that defines his ass from his legs. We don’t have hours, we just have these minutes. He lets me caress my kisses and fingertips along his lines for only a handful of moments before concealing his most sexy feature behind jeans.



Life is so strange and beautiful. We played today and it was supposed to be the fantasy I’ve waited half my life for. But I can’t stop thinking of the afterglow: I could spend days on that floor worshipping his legs.

The tender core of Cordelia Teal.

He lapped up all the spills, falling from my heart, leaking for my mouth like a sponge yielding it saturation. He lapped it up and the connection beamed through him like a sun split blessing for having sentiment sense.

I’m a fighter.

I am more fighter than artist.

More fighter than educator.

More fighter than female.

More fighter than human.

And when he laps up all undulating overflow of my soul, I want to fight to contain myself, want to fight by creating mountains to excuse the mess. I fight nothing but my own demons in his absences and I convince myself that exaggerated space is necessary protection. This is game I’ve played my whole life, a game of perpetual lose; a warrior’s scampering for cover, for freedom.

He walks around with his eyes lensed in beauty. And when he looks at me, swept in the formulas of aesthetics, I do not understand what he sees. When he looks at me and he says I am beautiful it is as if I engender the rules of design quivering with a pulse. I do not understand what he sees, only know that the moments he calls me beautiful, he relishes the acknowledgement; he radiates validation as if the discovery of beauty is the impetus of his existence.

I do not understand what he sees. I just have to trust what he sees.

And it is exactly that place that I am most weak.

And there it is again. The impulse to fight.

I want to fight to prove that I’m strong. 

Paintings by Reuben Negron

These are so good.  They scratch my voyeuristic itch. More here: http://www.juxtapoz.com/erotica/dirty-dirty-love-reuben-negron

Insufferable yearning

I want things that maybe you can't give me. I want your skin on mine, the heat of your pulse mingled with mine. I want to savor your body with slow, intuitive kisses, smoke out all the divots of design on your flesh. I want to linger in communicative touch, caress all my secrets into your sinews. I want your exhalations filling up my lung; want the length of our bodies to merge in precision, hips and knuckles perfectly aligned and tangled. I want the cool, alert taste from your mouth, want the warm, silvered electricity trickling from your cock. I want the deep utterances of your concentration permeating the room, penetrating my ears. I want the coils of your pubic hair careening my tongue, brushing against my eyelashes. I want the delirium of your hips pumping into mine, the delirium of internal mechanisms rotating under your key. I want the sharpness of your clavicles against the taut of your traps, above the virile bulk of your chest. I want the earthy hues of your body hair flecked with prismatic sweat, radiating pheromones. I want your juice, all your juice, all the effort and love and history it took to make that juice, to flood every piece of me until I drown. I want to be forever open to your advances, open forever for you and only you, malleable and pliable just for you, begging forever to fill me, overwhelm me, with the expansive illumination of you. 

A game of proportions

Fuck your other lover because you’re missing me.

Fuck her hard and raw; fuck her until the juice runs dries, until the static overruns the charge. Fuck her until she’s limp on the bed, dissolved under your hips, a victim of your yearning for my body instead of hers.


Fuck her like she’s never been fucked before; bombard her with the insistence for me.


Fuck her while your body screams out for me, clamors and perspires for me. Every thrush, for me. Every utterance, for me. Grab her flesh, her taunt, unyielding flesh, and listen to your palms whine for more, cry for the plum flesh of me. Plunge your knuckles in her curls, lose your digits in her dark, and sense your eyes craving golden refraction of lights, the halo that belongs to me. Drag her mouth to your ear and let her heaves underwhelm you, let them coax you into internally scripting my language in your head, fevering your semen with my feral memory over the immediacy of her docility.



Fuck her like she’s never been fucked before, with my silhouette haunting your periphery, with my impact menacing your brain, with my scent subtly lingering on the sheets.



Fuck her, mercilessly. Fuck her, unapologetically, with the urgency of how much you’re missing me. Fuck her. Fuck her to alleviate the need of me.




Fuck her because of me.

Cum Slut; a biologically screaming for impregnation

I’m fertility on fire.

I’ve been having daydream after daydream about his cum.

His cum: crawling through the pores of my cervix, trickling the tapestry of my womb, the excess slowly seeping out the pink curled edges of my labias. A trillion daydreams about his cum, oceans of it, graffiti’ing my uterus, filling me up, ballooning belly and breasts.

A trillion daydreams of his cum for a trillion babies, as if my only use was to reproduce, with my tits swollen to 3x their usual size, oozing gallons of milk for months on end. Somehow his cum is only intoxicating if it retains its ability to hijack my biological function. Overthrow the ruckus of my cycle.

Engrave your name in my womb.

Lately, I’ve been masturbating thinking of him cumming at the top of my pussy’s slit, on the fuzz of remnant pubic hair. He’ll scoop a thick finger-ful of his seed between his index and middle finger. I’ll pin back the layers of my cunt with my hands, creating an unobstructed pathway dripping with impatience. He’ll turn the juice upwards, coaxing his fingers into my spread lips, massaging his cum into the far end of my pussy with deep, methodically thrusts. He’ll suck my clit as my pussy muscles forcefully pulse, extracting all that cum off his fingers, internally sucking them clean.

I cum so hard thinking of that, thinking of his burrowing cum ceremoniously cemented into my cunt. I cum so hard thinking about blooming with his baby. And that’s fucking wild. That’s fucking insane. Because I don’t want another kid. Lord fucking no, not another kid. I know what kind of sleep-starved care goes into a little kid. I know how unglamorously unsexy it is to birth new life.


But my feral fucking fertility doesn't care. He can jerk me around by the hands of my jangling clock, gladly, menacingly. Make me a slave to my dumb biological imperative. My body wants gallons and gallons of his cum, want 60,000 of his offspring as proof of purchase.



I am fertility on fucking fire.


It’d be the end of life itself if I really got pregnant but my body does not give a fucking damn. I cum so hard, the hardest that I’ve cum in a long time, envisioning him getting me pregnant.

The Perfunctory Idealism of the Orally Regressed

This is getting hard—explaining the wild, gut wrenching intimacy swelling between us.  There’s so much nuance to our dialogues and dalliances, so much gradation in the courtship of two highbrow hedonists. The explanatory words are the most tedious part; the immediate experiences are always visceral and fluid.

But, ever the sucker for punishment, here goes my masochistic mining:

While I’m driving I notice there are renegade trees, over here and way over there. Traitorous trees. Those impatient upstarts are coppering with biochemical fire even though it’s mid-August in NY. When I see them, my heart fucking ruptures the steeliest sorrow. Sunshine is not forever is what that color says to me. Winter is on its way and my heart goes into spastic shivers. It doesn’t matter if the temperature cleared 80 today; doesn’t matter if we’ll get the muted bloom of harvest and brisk cleanse of October wind. I’ve already witnessed the decay inside of life.

The last russet tree I pass lacerates my heart but then, in a flood, an image dresses the wound. He and I, fist in fist, shoes muddled with soft earth, the smell of crisp vegetation. He and I. Acres of farm land, miles of rusted mountains, unabashed nature.  Laughter in exaggerated scarves. Slow, wet kisses during the 4 pm golden hour. His scent chilled into my pores for days.

Fall.

Him and I.

In fall.

And then suddenly fall becomes a festival and not a fucking funeral. Suddenly I can stomach the tarnishing of impulsive summer leaves.

It hurts admitting this. It’s been my whole life, bunkering down with my own reclusive mind, every single winter. Mostly by choice but not always. He hits nerves that are nestled deep into my core, makes all my limbs soupy and awake. Even if he’ll be here come fall, the whole sentiment of his presence combating the 31 year streak of hating fall… makes me… nervous. Because what does that fucking mean?

Trust me on this kids: he is not “The One”. Or at least not “the one” like Hollywood instructs.

But he might be the most dynamic muse I’ve ever met, extracting so much of my thinking and writing, it all reassembles into something more refined. This might be the single scariest thing that’s ever happened to me (but why? Because the inspiration is so torturously vulnerable or because I don’t ever want it to stop?...)

I don’t have an answer. Just feelings brimming over, drenching me with a new identity that sometimes catapults a crisis. So much of the inspiration comes fuming in luxurious sweeps from our conversations. And then all of that communication triply concentrates and suffuses throughout our sex.

We play fun games.

Sometimes, he tempts me up the stairs by hoisting my pants just a little bit down; a pulse-pinching pause in the middle of my ass. I’m lured by going up first (my favorite position).  And because he leads from the vantage with the best view, observing my exposed whiteness swelled over the top of denim, jiggling with each ascending step. He gnaws a chunk of flesh on step 3, mars the other cheek that inflames like braille on step 5, claws both wads skin  by step 9. By the top of the landing, I am muted with perceptive dichotomy. He’s drags me by a fist full of hair, knees and palms clomping awkwardly on the hardwood, into the swaddled gold light of the bedroom.

“Daddy wants to hurt you, baby. Is that okay, baby, if Daddy hurts you?” He glides off his belt, sneering. I’m kneeling in splayed disregard of the constriction of my pants, a feat not at all possible without the momentum of hyper-arousal. I’m open everywhere: eyes, ears, noses, pores, mouth, cunt, ass, brain. Open everywhere. It's obvious it's okay; I'm fattened for this kill. But he forces me to contribute at all the moments I'm flushed with indulgent idiocy.  

It takes everything, everything, EVERYTHING to verbalize what each singular cell of my body is screaming in unison: “Yes, Daddy. Please?”

“Please, what baby?”

“Please can you hurt me daddy?”

Fuck.

*Crack*

One lash. Two. Three.

By four or five, I scramble, moronically animated. Towards him as much as away from him.

Sometimes he braids the belt around my neck, just enough to make my face tinge into a life-asserting pink. Sometimes he rivets my hands back at the base of my spine, the belt dangling, waiting, in his right hand. Almost all the time it goes like this:

“Where can I hit you baby? Show me where?”

His kindness comes out in rollicking quirks: he sweet-talks my participation in my own degradation. Here daddy. There daddy. Everywhere daddy. And please, my pussy, daddy. Please hit my pussy. Especially my pussy.

Fuck. Especially my pussy.

Especially that look in his eyes when he witnesses my reaction to that searing sting radiating through my cunt, jostling my pelvic bone, resurrecting a feral gutturalness that must have been held over from 3 lifetimes ago. He looks at me like this is the most blessed moment of his whole damn life, the whole sacred impetus behind both of our lives. Especially my pussy daddy.

Sometimes, after he’s satiated the disturbance in his heart instigated by my provocative ass, he lays me down onto his bed, in diluted version of a cradle. He scoops me close and leafs through the lips of my pussy, gently, sweetly. “You’re so wet, baby, what a good girl. Why are you so wet, baby?”

Because it is goddamn psychotic how well you’ve materialize this whole aggression and nurturance bit and the sharp contrast is making my cunt turn to devotional jello! Because I’ve never met a man with this kind of linguistic speed during role play. Because I’ve never been convinced of anyone’s erotic daddy until you…  

But no. I don’t say any of that shit. I barely say anything at all. I croon. I collapse. I meekly squeak out:

“Because you’re touching me, daddy” or

“Because I love you, daddy” or just

 “Fuck, daddy, fuck, daddy, fuck!”

And he responds with open kisses on my shimmying lips. Whispers what a beautiful little girl I am into my mouth, as if directly speaking to my soul. Sweetly tells me how much he loves me. Calls me baby, calls me angel, calls me my special nickname. He gives slow, unhurried swirls on my ultra-alert clit. The tenderest caresses all over my saturated pussy. Micro-spins of delicacy. All that softness, all that deliberately languid torture, churns the whole universe upside down. The most delicate parts of my psyche waft to the surface in dewy response. I am the most exposed, the most visible I’ve ever been in my whole goddamn life. Fuck, fuck, daddy, I’m drowning in your sight.

Sometimes he muscles between my legs as if to worship at the holiest of alters. He kisses the fleshy crux of my inner thighs, the fuzz of my meandering pubic hair, the inferno of bliss between my ass and cunt. He slips his fingers in and upwards. My eyes whip, rotate compulsorily, mouth agape in disbelief no matter how many times he touches right there.

“There’s your little spot baby. Oh, fuck. There’s baby’s spot. Mmmm. What a good girl letting daddy touch right there.”

There are no words now, not even if my life depended on it. I cannot fucking speak when he tenderizes my gspot, when he excavates my cunt in the name of exploration. I cannot fucking speak. Baby’s little spot might very well be the cerebral off-button, the intellectual defense diffusion. All that happens is my mouth, spontaneously, opens even wider, duplicates the cavernous of my cunt.

I scream in complete silence.

Sometimes he comes around to the side of my face, fingers still trickling all those crenulations I can’t see.

“You’re coming to cum, baby? Do you want to suck daddy’s cock while you cum?”

Thank god I no longer need words. Thank god my swelled cunt, rigid nipples, sweating, fevered skin can speak on my behalf. He rubs the underside of his shaft between my lips, lingering crosswise on my teeth, digging his fingers further into my pulsating pussy.

Then he says it. Lines I never in my life would imagine to hear:

“Good girl. Suckle it baby. Take your cock bottle.”

Cock bottle. Of all the words to mercilessly chain down the exact caliber of my sucking, of this moment between two adults, it is that. Cock bottle. Gorging on it with the shameless fervor of a newborn babe. His hand seizes the meatiest part of my hips, the hallmarks of my womanhood, all that estrogenic fat like putty in his palm. Then he tears at both breasts, hard enough to coax out remnant breast milk, hard enough to make me moan through my suckles. Cock bottle. The moment where my mouth regresses to the most elemental drives, becomes intoxicated with life solely through scent and taste. The moment where he grapples the most grown up, curvaceous pieces of me in celebration that I am a woman with her girlhood still intact.  

“Fuck… baby… suckle… just like… that!”

Sometimes he cums, just from watching me take his cock bottle. And when he cums it’s like he is pouring everything he is into me—his orgasm, his triumphs, his failures, his memory, his affection, his courage, his love. Pouring it all into my spastic, speechless mouth. And with his orgasm speeding through my veins, I cum too, like the other half of a circuit, blazing the most delicious light.

All the times, all the time, all the time: we laugh. We laugh, coated in perspiration, dumbfounded from the intensity. And then I make a quip, a wise-crack, to laugh some more but to also prove that I haven’t totally forfeited my voice.

—

Today I saw the unexpected beginnings of a seasonal shift.

And it illuminated this message:

this summer has been fortuitous, full.

It’s only natural to want to preserve those blessings all winter long. 

To the boy who used to come to my window

I felt like ripping out my heart

by listening to the albums

I know braid and pipe your soul.

The ones that dilute my blood with invented nostalgia;

the ones that replenish your bones while you think of someone else.

It’s been years since I’ve seen the whites of your eyes

glean against the flushed blue prism of your irises

As they sparkled in the sporadic spill of headlights,

in the darkest corner of my summer yard.

It’s been years since the fluorescence of your smile

creep over the silent pluck of your laugh

when I laid down the vulgarities of my tongue and soul.

It’s been years since I tried mining the youngest form of you from your oldest habits,

been years since we reclaimed something ageless in the repetition of our sorrows.

You have the woman you were always meant to have in your life

and I wonder often if you’re swept with abandon,

if it feels exactly how you imagined,

if your life unfurled in a spectral orchestration that leaves you breathless.

I wonder often:
does she give you enough mystery,

enough permission to periodically wade through misery,

enough electricity to make you rumble and run with your curiosities?

You always had a craving heart, a loyal heart but a restless heart,

a heart that belonged to the navy moon desert and the deepest trees.

You had a heart that needed shelter but needed freedom just a pinch more.

And I wonder, while I listen to the music my senses forbid me to enjoy as my own,
I wonder, does your woman give you all the things you never labeled,
all the things I’ve known all along?

Mommy knows best...

Pearl earrings on date night? 

Yeah, it's about to get incestual. 

The Belt on Tuesday

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Penetrations & Artificial Fuckings

X,

I’ve been walking around thinking “I need to get fucked”.

I do.

I have to be pounded. And for the longest time I’ve been mad because you won’t just fuck me.

We’ve already established that sex between me and you is a complicated picture. One of the reasons I find it so frustrating is that “sex play” doesn’t seem to be off the table; in fact the play aspect of sex is really something beautiful between us. But I realize I am actually a little resentful because playing is often a spontaneous thing and my ability to orgasm is usually not calibrated to happen at a moment’s notice.

I want you to make me cum, I realize. The type of “cum” that only happens from penetration.

But that requires planning, orchestration, and time, at the very least, to prepare for the ordeal. And suddenly making me cum becomes “an ordeal”. It’s not play anymore if it can’t be spontaneous. And is it still even play, if I specifically need you cock inside my pussy? Isn’t that just sex?

So….. I decided, fine, I need to be fucked.

And so I fucked myself with my dildo. But actually, I imagined you were there and you were fucking me with my dildo…

….what would that be like, if he fucked me with my toys? That’s really playful! 

Oh, fuck, I came TREMENDOUSLY thinking about that.

I really do believe deeply that vaginas need to be filled, that there is something biologically and psychologically healthy about filling a vagina to the brim. So I think that’s part of the reason why my body screams: get penetrated for the love of god!

Interesting things started to happen as I fucked myself with my dildo (imagining it was you fucking me with said dildo).

Among them:

-my pussy got super saturated nearly immediately upon penetration. So saturated that I think I’d almost be embarrassed by the extent of my wetness if I had an audience. It was copious and slick and downright messy. It was leaking all between my ass cheeks and slicking up my pubes. There was nothing lady like about all that wetness.

-my pussy got super, super relaxed. So relaxed I think I’d actually be embarrassed by how wide open and eager it was. So relaxed and so wet that you very well might have been able to stuff your whole fist into it (fisting, mmmm, fuck, fisting is delicious but trying to pretend that this was the first time you were playing with my pussy, I just kept thinking: “man, “cavernous” as a first impression is really hard to bear”)

-my juices turned pink. Sometimes this happens, because my fibroid is so close to the lining of my uterus. Sometimes mid-month I spot diluted blood. Sometimes that’s happened during sex and I’m like “Fuck my life that is the most unsexy things ever”.

I kept going despite these mishaps. There have been many points in my life that I never saw the necessity to finish masturbating if I am confronted with the less than stellar aspects of my anatomy. I think I’m grossed out by it.

It wasn’t until about five minutes ago I realized: maybe I don’t understand process of getting fucked or why my body seeks to be fucked in the first place.

I kept going despite these mishaps, only because I imagined you fucking me with my dildo, and I didn’t think that you would stop until I had had my true fill. I kept going until I came, playing with the depth of my thrusts, pulling the dildo all the way out before slowly cramming it back in. I rotated it around the walls of my vulva. I feverishly reamed into the tenderness of my cervix.

I kept going until the wetness regulated itself.

I kept going until the walls of my vagina felt tight and revived.

I kept going until I came.

Something happened in the process of “fucking” myself: my vagina threw a tantrum. It was like it needed to be recalibrated by being defined by penetration. Maybe that doesn’t always mean I need flesh and blood cock. Maybe that means when I’m not having physical sex regularly I have to be kind to my body and train my vag (the same way I train my abs or my biceps).

Maybe I’m gonna have to pay more attention to when my body says “we need to get fucked”.

I guess I just realized for the first time: I can do that myself if need be.

But you should know I’m still learning how.  In the meantime, I’m gonna have to borrow your likeness as the imaginary cock that makes me cum.

-C