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 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. 

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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A letter to my lover, on the 1 year anniversary of our sex

My love,

The mysterious has always intrigued me. If there is depth beyond the obvious, I want to keep staring deeply into it, dumbfounded with its complexity. To feel stupid, I think, is the quintessential situation in which I feel most vibrantly alive. It’s an experience that humbles and simultaneously terrifies me.

That’s what happens, I think, when you make me cum the way you do. I become beautifully and frighteningly stupid.

I’ve never cried from orgasm before. But I think that experience is really just a concise example of what happens almost all the time when we have sex: I’ve never before felt what I feel when we have sex. Crying is just one manifestation of your unique effect on me.

You overwhelm me.

Mentally, emotionally, physically when we do the sexual things that we do. It is so much sensation that you overwhelm me spiritually too. I used to play around with this idea of “overwhelmed-ness” in a lot of my past sexual shenanigans. That sense of overwhelmed-ness is probably what compelled me to explore D/s in the first place, although in the initial stages I didn’t have the language or experiences to corroborate that hunch. The idea of a dominant completely trumping my rationality and my body in sexual acts seemed to encapsulate something that every part of my being desires.

But rough sex and power exchange are only small dimensions of this ethereal yearning of “overwhelmed-ness”. Those experiences were both enjoyable and worthwhile but they never seemed to penetrate as deeply as my experiences with you. What’s interesting is that I never even knew I was missing such a critical understanding of sex until we started having it. Kink and BDSM infused so much joy and profundity to my life that I couldn’t imagine there being “more”.

Our sex is “more” and when it’s happening I’m almost always rendered inarticulate while simultaneously being flooded with intense intuitions and sensations. It’s as if all the secrets of the universe course through your body into mine but I literally have no tools to convey any of it.

It’s in this way that our sex brings me to the pinnacles and pains of mortality. To be able to feel the immense pleasure you give me, I have to have a body. I have to accept there are parts of this body that I can’t activate the way that you can (such as hitting my gspot just so), so I have to accept that pleasure is partially dependent on a partner. When you make me cum, it literally feels like energy is surging through all of me, in my cunt and out my mouth, in my ass and through my scalp. It feels like I’m drowning in too much of everything. It feels like your hands and cock and kisses are portals to things I can’t understand—the catalysis that start a trans-dimensional revolution that I didn’t see coming.

But after all that pleasure, you overwhelm me to the fringe of my mortality. And what I mean by that is that I become acutely aware that our sex is a bodily act that represents something “beyond the body”, something spiritual and electric, something bigger than being human. To reach this understanding immediately post-orgasm, just makes me shake with unease: we have fatal conditions called humanity. That’s why I cry: the sheer magnitude of that realization cripples me. There is so much I don’t understand in this universe and even something as mundane and essential as sex has depths that I know nothing about. Post-glow, sometimes, I feel acutely how insignificant I am within the larger picture, probably because while orgasming I am so totally swept up into pleasure that I feel like all of me has merged with the environment. That is not to say I don’t feel necessary in this universe, just so insignificant my smallness becomes terrifying.

These ideas seem so far away from sex. Who thinks of death and the excruciating meaning of life nanoseconds after cumming? I guess I do, even if I don’t do it deliberately. I think this is the primary reason why I cried yesterday. It was this feeling of “it’s over” and the ultimate “it’s over” is death and somehow this sense of hopeless momentum dragged up the awareness of fatality.

You had mentioned something about being vulnerable yesterday and maybe that’s a secondary part. The feeling of vulnerability is most concentrated on the realization that my experience of our sex is not the same as your experience as our sex. Of course, this is a phenomenon that happens in every context and happens to everyone. For me though, the depths of feelings, ideals, ideas, and symbolisms that our sex conjures in me make me feel nearly hysterical: the depth makes me feel achingly alone and desperate to try to explain it afterwards.

You experience the sex differently, of course.  And I know on an intellectual level that this difference in experiences doesn’t mean you don’t highly value our sex in a similar fashion to the way that I do.

It’s just sometimes when I am gripped with tears, riddled with intangible syllables, overpowered by the limited precision of my perceptions, I feel very much like a crazy bat-shit-insane freak for crying when it’s something as simple as friction between your parts and mine.

I realize now that I guess I have always had an inherent desire to digest and symbolize my experiences after they’ve occurred. In a way, it is not enough to just experience them. I want to unpack them, explain them and transcribe them.

Even if it hurts or proves to be impossible.

Explaining what our sex does to me is kind of a vanity venture: it’s a subjective experience that even with the most sophisticated of metaphors will always just be my experience. I have a hard time deciphering if this is a neurotic impulse or a creative one. Perhaps it’s both.

This is also where I feel vulnerable: my impulse to share and pick apart all the layers of moods that happen in our sex is something that makes me worry that you’ll get annoyed with it. Sex is sensation and a lot of it is immediate. I wonder what it’s like for you to fuck ever inquisitive, listless me: "why does it feel so good? How is this happening? I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand!"[1]

Those are statements that float in and out of our rhythms and they are exactly the kinds of ideas that I try to tease apart when we’re away from each other. I don’t understand how our sex does what it does. I don’t understand how the sexual acts I’ve employed my whole adult life never manifested the kind of spiritual portal your body and my body create together. I’m so deeply affected by the caliber of our time together that it always extends for days and hours after the climax. I honestly have never experienced anything as profoundly awe-inspiring as this.

And part of my vulnerability and hence worry is that my pre-occupation with HOW THE FUCK DOES THIS FEEL SO GOOD is going to be spoil the pleasure for you, that my constant inquiries have left the realm of quaint for pestering.
I don’t think that’s the case, but sometimes, because I often feel capitulated into so many directions at once during our sex, I worry that you’ve peeved I can’t just accept being within the just the immediacy of the moment.

I’ve never experienced physical intimacy like our sex, K. I’ve always thought of intimacy as “closeness”. And I still think closeness is the foundation of that word. But something so unexpected has happened. In the closeness of our sex, there is such a colossal expansiveness. Our sex constellates every aspect of my self—mind, body, spirit—and it’s in this constellation that I realize that intimacy is not just about the duality of you and I. Intimacy is also an submerging into things that extend beyond sense perception and it’s in that immersion that everything is connected to everything. Everything melds in vibrations of pleasure, everything breathes.

It’s not just me and you. And it’s not just one moment on my couch. Our sex transcends so much of what I understand to be existence. It connects me to something higher. And sometimes I am so overwhelmed by it, so overwhelmed by you, that all I can manage to do is embrace how I feel and cry.

I love you, so, so, so, so, much. I don’t understand how you do what you do to me but I don’t ever want you to stop.

-C

[1] I just realized: I love it when you answer/respond to these statements while we’re fucking. I LOVE it when you say things like “Because you love me”, “Because I’m fucking your brain”, etc. One time you whispered in my ear “Because this is the meaning of life” and every nerve on my body washed over with your words. Seriously one of the sexiest moments ever. Can we play around with this idea more? When I start crooning that I don’t understand how it feels so good, tell me something like “It’s because I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever seen” and I swear to god, I might instantly cum!

Jealousy; exercise of social familiarity

(written 4/10/2012)

It floods me. It wipes my compassion clean like a day old baguette mercilessly sopping up gravy. All the tender crevices of poorly protected sore spots are smothered to near irreparable disarray as it course through my bloodstream.  The lot of my triggers is tripped. And when it’s coated all my insides, thick and sloppy, I am stunned into my impressionable, vulnerable mortality.

Nothing ever permeates to such an emotional pitch as coagulated jealousy.  And nothing has ever glittered quiet as magnificently as the pinnacle beacon of my stylized loving. Where there is love, there is jealousy, trumping on toes of adoring resolve. Elemental but compelling, my emotional terrain blossoms like a 2 year old psyche.

From here, tucked under the linens of familiar blankets while nestled on reliability of my couch, it should be safe. A million miles of virtual space fortified by hundreds of actualized mileage stretched between you and me. From here, you cannot see or hear me; you cannot smell if I am recently showered or if I’ve eaten too much garlic. From the fortress of my cocoon couch, safety from your influence seems steadfast. Oh, couch, my enclosure of anonymity.

Despite the padding of distance, it’s the silence that’s the loudest scream, penetrating so deep, nerve fibers repeatedly loop negative feedback for weeks after week. You cannot see or hear me nor know if I’ve refused to shower. But it’s vibrant with all the virtual mileage and three dimensional space sledge-hammered between me: a screaming, sustained silence of disconnect. Disinterest. Dislike. I can hear you the most clearly when you say nothing at all. Your message dissolves my protections. What space, what couch, what blanket.

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...