How my deviance works

At the bottom of my lingerie drawer, there is a ball gag. It is rubber and dense, opaque and black. An old lover bought it for my birthday, when I craved muteness and a deluge of saliva. We never used it and I’m not sure why. In the past few years my curiosity for it has nearly disappeared. So now, it just sits, in a tangle of panties, at the bottom of my lingerie drawer.

Today, while putting away laundry I saw its black curve poking out beneath the thongs, saying hello. And I thought:

I want to wrap that ball gag I never used in pretty pink paper, nestle that bundle in a tiny gift bag. I want to give it to my current lover. I want to tell him to use it on his other lovers, but of course, that he is free to use it as he wishes, that he can enjoy it or store in his underwear drawer, untouched, if that suits him too. 

But really, what I really want is for him to use on her.

I want her mouth wide, tongue curved behind the gag, cheeks taut underneath the straps. I want her eyes vigilant, skin heightened in its sensitivity. I want her hair free and wild, the bulkiest part of her unleashed like an oil spill on the bed.

I want her almost naked, splayed like the letter x, wearing only the gag that was wrapped in pretty pink paper. I want her waiting for his touch, mouth agape and full, mute with want.

Mute with lust.

Mute with what could have been mine.

I want her to put that gag on willingly, excitedly, because he gave it to her, simply with a smile and a small phrase “I thought you’d like to try something new”.

I want her to put it on to please him, wet from the assumption that this gift was solely his idea. I want her toxically aroused, oblivious to the symbolism, pussy drenched with how much she trusts him.

I want the hush of his bedroom air circulating the liquid of her lips. I want his eyes locked on hers, his patience chipping away her resolve. I want her body to squirm, hips rising, trying to expedite the contact of his tongue between her legs.

And I want it to be implausibly slow. A slow standoff between their eyes. A slow silence between their lips. A slow spread of his palms. A slow spread of her pussy. A slow whine fumbling from behind the blockade of her mouth.

A slow slather of tongue on a muted pussy, confounded on the bed. A slow trickle of spit, sliding down her face, the sloppiest reaction, thick and urgent, cascading down her neck, pooling in her clavicle.

I want it to be delirious, feral, charmed. I want her expansive when it’s over; I want him hallowed when it’s done.

I want it to be all the things that it will never be sitting in my underwear drawer. 

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 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.

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.

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?

I want his digits

…Those hands, those hands, those hands…

Those hands build things. Those hands make things, draw things, paint things, do things. Those are the hands of a pursuer, a doer, a shaker and a bustler. Those are the hands that leave wounds on brambles.

Those are the hands of a fighter. 

Those are hands of a guerilla artist, a craftsman, a challenger.

Hands. That. Do.

Hands that are dense with the scars of doing. 

Hands branded with wear, etched with exploitation, hands that are real because they made choices. 

Hands that are nimble from the constant movement, hands that are electric with inspiration.

I want those hands jammed up into my slippery, craving cunt.

I want those hands yoking the nape of my neck, knotting knuckles in my hair.

I want those hands grappling all my flesh, searing urgent red imprints all over my whiteness.

I want those hands probing the open welcome of my mouth, want those hands spreading the cleave of my ass, want those hands slowly rounding the winds of my curves.

I want those hands translating their vigor into my mounds, into my psyche, into the tender roves of my thighs.

                        I want those hands to steel my nerves.

I want those hands to do what they do: unapologetically, willfully, mightily, consuming and absolving.

I want those hands to clutch my body with a definition I’ve never felt before.

I want those hands hungrily digesting my figure; want those hands to chisel carnal hysteria from my motions.

Those hands, those hands that do.

I want them on me, in me, under me, spellbinding me. I want them obsessed with playing my body like a melody that won’t stop coursing through his fingertips.