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.

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 work in progress

“You’re such a good boy, telling mama all that. Mama’s so proud of you baby!”

That’s what I croon, seconds from orgasm. His knuckles are plunged, front and center, to the mecca of my juice. His eyes are hurricane blue, lush with arousal, locked onto the approval on my face.  He’s such a sweet little boy, telling mama of his travels. And I overflow when my baby is honest, when he tells me where his hands have wandered.

We’ve been playing this game called radical honesty. It starts like every other game: with dueling wit and eyebrows perked, all parts of us alert and mischievous. We chatter until the talk turns visceral. Until our psyches are inflamed and open for whatever form the exchange might take. But this time, after we have kissed until my face is red from his stubble, and after his belt has streaked my skin, and after I sweetly lie and tell Daddy I will only ever want his cock and no other boys, and after that lie makes his cum bubble onto the outer lips of my pussy, that is when the real game begins.

That is when we play Emotional Russian Roulette.

That is when Mama pulls her pussy apart, legs sprayed with not an ounce of shame, fingers undulating over her hungry clit. And that is when his baby floats to the surface, even though I can see that little boy all the time, thinly veiled by his grown up 55 year old man movements. I call him out with just “Baby” and baby responds always with a soft variant of  “yes, mama, what do you need?”

He’s such a good little boy, smitten with life. He’s jovial. Loving. Kind.

Curious.

It’s his curiosity that gives him the most trouble, that poor little boy. 

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. 

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.