Mama Knows Best

“No, keep it on please.”

Your hands slide up my ribs, fingernails pushing into the satin of my bra. I arch my back and roll my hips over your pelvic bones, thighs saddling over yours. Your tongue curls over your teeth, eyes desirous and half-closed.

“I love how your skin looks in red” you croon. I lean forward, full white cleavage spilling over red fabric, undulating inches from your face. Your hips respond and thrust upwards, slowly, wanting. Your mouth, open just enough, waiting and eager. With one quick motion, I free one breast, nipple protruding over satin. It disappears in your hungry mouth, your eyes closed as if praying, your suckles rhythmic and primal. That face you make sucking my tits makes my pussy spasms, making the most innocence of connections deeply erotic.

“Mmm, such a hungry baby boy. Eat. Baby eat. Show mama how big boys eat”

And you moan, tits nearly suffocating you, desperate to signal approval, desperate to show your arousal. You are a mama’s boy, the best boy, and mama is the only one who can see how far you roam, the only one who’s disapproval matters to your endlessly curious ears.

Mama’s is the only love you need to survive.

The night unfolds and mama demands the confessions of your wandering hands, the truth of your allegiance when you’re out of mama’s gaze. Mama sucks you clean while you tell her about the tight pussy from Monday night. Mama gets you so close to the madness of orgasm, overstimulated with your confession and Mama’s approval. But then Mama meets your honesty with abrupt objection: teeth across your raging cock, palms pummeling your flesh, with denial to enter her wet, scolding hot pussy. Mama makes you wait, your cock aching and untouched, while she plunges a black cock in and out of her pussy. Mama says you’re not big enough, not man enough, too little to fill her needs. Mama makes you wait, fully erect and aroused with punishment.

Mama makes you wait.

Mama makes you watch as she bends over and slides her fingers into her asshole, her pussy glistening below. And then she says “Come, come here baby. Go slow, baby, go slow.”

But there is no slow. You are in completely with one thrust; Mama’s already too prepared for her big boy.

“Am I in your ass Mama? Really Mama?” Your voice is guttural, charged with long lost youth.

“Yes, but baby, be you. No more mama. Be you.”

I say your name.

I say it again and again as the room distorted with pleasure, as you abandon your little boy and step back into the grown man of my dreams. My spine rattles, my flesh bounces, everything a reverberation of your thrusts.

“Fuck. Pull my hair!”

The words are shaken out of my body, frenzied from your jostling. One hand scoops my hair, the other wraps around my throat, growing progressively tighter as the seconds pass. My body explodes endorphins, turns hot pink in response. My ass clenches around your throbbing cock, your thrusts shortened and hurried from pleasure.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

I still my body as you cum, let you buck, free and wild. Your hands clutch all over my body, knuckles on ribs, nails on hips. You groan like an animal, like the manliest of men, like you are so severely fueled by testosterone that you will cry. You bite my shoulder and then my neck, your noises gruff and thankful.

I am steady, spine arched, ass receptive and full of your cum. I am steady as you unravel. You bite me again, as if I am precious, as if I am the only woman who will ever be able to extract that kind of cum.

In all the fantastical lying of our sex, perhaps that’s the deepest truth.

Baby steps with baby boy

“Oh god! Fuck…. fuck. Wait… wait…!”

All of him is constricted. Every blessed inch. His cum has split, all over his belly. His hips are still locked up, pulsing off the couch, contorted with deep pleasure.
My face is close to his open thighs. My cheek grazes the insides of one and all of his body surges again and bucks.

“Wait! …Wait…” he pants.

And I wait, letting nothing of me touch his body, even though my instincts are to scoop him up and kiss him clean. He breathes unevenly and exhales loudly.
“Fuck… fuck, I don’t even know how to describe what just happened…” he says as his body sinks back into the cushions. “God… I need a glass of water”

I get him a glass of water and bring him a warm towel to clean up the cum. When I come back into the room, he is sitting up right, looking more like his regular self. More composed. He gulps the water, audibly and when he’s has his fill he exhales dramatically, this time with satisfaction.

“Fuck. I feel like a raw nerve” he says through a sheepish smile.

Nothing has ever sounded so beautiful to my ears. I’ve accomplished the impossible: I’ve overwhelmed the man of iron nerves.

“Where you in my asshole? Like your tongue was in my ass?” he says this with a mostly giddy tone.

“Ha, no. I was just on the outside. You were too tight baby. You’re still not relaxed enough. It would have hurt if I pushed in.”

“But what were you doing? It felt like you were inside! Were you around it or on it?”

“I was right over it, licking all around. I could tell you weren’t completely relaxed, so I stayed right on the outside, and applied pressure all around it”

He balls up his index finger and his thumb and makes a mock asshole in his fist. “Wait, show me. pretend this is my asshole. What did you do with your tongue?”

I undulate over his hand, tongue broad and fluttering. As soon as my mouth meets his fist he exclaims “Oh fuck yeah, that’s what that was!”

We laugh and touch, ankles rubbing, knees knotting.

“I guess it’s like when I finger your pussy and you ask me what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Yeah, it’s exactly like that. You’re playing with a part I can’t ever see and I have no idea how you make those sensations happen.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But fuck, wow, I’m exhausted. That just took so much out of me.” He lays down, motioning for me to snuggle by his side.

“You liked it though?” I say, lips brushing against his chest hair.

“Yeah. Fuck. Loved it. You know it’s all so new to me. I’ve never done this with anyone else.”

“Well yeah, me too.”

He shifts upwards, meets his gaze with mine “Wait, really?”

“Yeah duh. Who the hell's asshole do you think I’ve ever wanted to fuck as bad as yours?”

“Wait… but really, I thought you had so much experience. Wait... can we just forget you said that. I like thinking you have a lot of experience.”

“Ha, fine. Okay” I say through a laugh as I wrap my arms around him.

We float in noiseless lull between his orgasm and mine. And what I am really thinking ferments, unsaid, on the tip of my tongue:

Such a sweet little boy. He doesn’t understand that even if I’ve never owned a man’s asshole before it doesn’t render me inexperienced. I am the master student of bottoming sex—and oh, precious baby boy, now is my time to teach.

One day, that asshole will be mine.

One day, beautiful boy, you will beg for it to be mine.

Where the fuck am I on this Kink Spectrum?

Exploring sexuality is not new for me. I’ve been probing those borders for as long as I can remember; I was that kid whose curiosity bled beyond what we usually consider "childhood interests".  So in many ways my sexuality is almost as old I am. I've dragged it almost everywhere in my life and I've watched it shift and change, revert and move forward.

Kink is also not so new for me, though my awareness of it is younger than my awareness of my sexuality. I’ve had a lot of visceral and mind-altering sex. I’ve played with power, service, dipped in and out of roles. I’ve tongued cock and pussy, groped multiple limbs at once. I’ve been beaten and bruised, probed and pulled apart. These are all glorious and beautiful moments, where I’ve connected deeply with other people; moments that triggered my greatest growth in how I understand myself and how I express love.

For a very long time, I believed I was submissive. I liked the idea of being a submissive, in fact I still love that idea: to be at the mercy of an unyielding and powerful dominant, to be flooded in the feelings of it, to shine with love for him even in the midst of cruelty. I’m infatuated by that image and by that kind of connection. I've had several relationships that reach this summit and then… then reality comes back and I remember:

I don’t like the restriction of definitions. Which makes me kind of a lousy submissive. 

For a short while, I wanted so badly to not be so messy. It’s messy to not have a definition. Kink and BDSM offer a kind of relief for people who feel like their sexuality is radically different. There are words and labels for complicated feelings and situations. There is a whole juicy language that you can use to explore your desires. And so often, when I view people on Fetlife, I see people find joy in discovering words and phrases that convey what it is they seek and what it is that drives their relationships. Because there's really deep joy in being understood, in finding belonging. But sometimes, I'm envious of those exact people who appear to fit comfortably inside of the labels the BDSM community uses. Because I don't seem to fit comfortably. Because kinksters are outsiders of mainstream culture and if I am outsider of the outsiders’ then fuck what am I?

Well... I'm not a submissive.  

It's taken me a long time to come to terms with that, but it's supported by my experiences and the broad range of my desires, so it's kind of dumb to deny that fact any longer. In truth, I'm a bad submissive because I have a tremendous appetite and though the submissive impulse has been fun to satiate it doesn’t even chip away at the hunger within.

But what am I then?

Well... a women aflame with desire who adores manipulating emotions, who gets wet from pushing boundaries.

I desire huge emotions provoked from sincere expression with my partners. I desire confessions sung at the height of orgasms, taboos shredded down to their innocence. I desire the emotional jugular—I want to find where your pulse pivots into your soul and I want to stab right the fuck into it.

I desire the pain that deeply loving someone brings. I desire the pleasure in acting like we are not mortal when we try to kill our egos in our sex.

I desire pleasure in all its preposterous forms.

One day I will probably be a full-fledge dominant. That is where it feels like I am going but I am not there there yet. Being a responsible dominant requires a commitment of time and energy that my current life doesn’t allow. So currently, I'm in a strange grey space in how I connect intimately with other kink-minded people. I am realizing more and more that I can see deeply into the psychological underpinnings of my own and my lovers' behaviors. It is hard to be submissive when you see all that. It is hard for other people “to get ahead of me”, cause I'm typically 23 paces ahead, and also because, fuck, I love learning how to lead, I like being at the helm. But more than all that I realized: I want to use my sight to penetrate someone else. I want to explore stripping other people of their power, flex my own without apology. 

I want to bring pain with the intent to heal.

I wish I could comfortably say that I'm a switch. If there has to be a label, I guess that is the label. But I can't settle into it because even as these words come out the ratio of my desires shift, becomes something nuanced and more developed.

All I can tell you is that I used to be submissive and I've experienced what it does. 

And one day, I want to bring others to the places where submissiveness will bring you.


It's just that I'm still learning skills to get us there. 

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 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. 

Mommy knows best...

Pearl earrings on date night? 

Yeah, it's about to get incestual. 

An afternoon confession

I want to rummage through his flesh, ripping out kisses and cravings in disastrous sweeps of carnality. 

I want to get lost inside the molecules of his taste as it smears all around my lips and tongue. 

I want to seal him in my solace, let him unravel in my greedy hands, drink him whole and devour his name. 

I want the pressure of his strength careened hard against my ribs, pelvis, womb. 

I want the stare of hunger to be yanked from his eyes when he looks at me. 

I want to make the man second guess himself, to forget that I am dangerous, a fox in chick clothing. 

Power & sex; I want these laced with him, make him weep with desirous starvation. 

I want to seal him into a cocoon of my affection, roll him sweetly in my daydreams and fondlings. 

I want his body to be a post to scratch, an alter to bless, a bruise to kiss, a wound to dress. 

I want him on me, in me, under my undulating hips,

Lips twisted with lips

Fists upon wrists

Aggression and bliss

...exactly this

I want nothing to do with what's necessary. 

I want everything to be loud and impossible. 

Implode-able, explode-able

Volatile me chasing magnetic you

Drunk for days on a name

That I will never get to moan out loud. 

A wish said to the wind

A whisper with no ears to prey on.   

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.