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.   

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...

Testicular Scent; .an .avalanche

So few times it had happened that she was nearly overcome with awed paralysis: this was exactly as she imagined. This was the place she had adored for so many hours in the sprawl of her brain. And now, she was here.

Below him, under him, kissing, licking, gently and controlled, the slight raised ridge of skin that welded the sack of his testicles shut. Licking, kissing, right here and then right there, the place where diaphanous hairs branch out in wiry helixes. It would never matter how many women prior or how many women afterwards would find themselves looking at him from the testicles up. Looking at him the way she did now, as she pressed deeper into her kneel to lengthen the reach of her tongue. It would never matter because they wouldn’t feel what she felt here. No women would ever match her unblemished delight to experience this part of him.

Through her kisses, a nuzzled smile transmitted her joy into the velvety micro-grooves of his scrotum. Kissing right here, was almost too much for her composure. Her tongue caressed the origin of that scent that riddled her heart beat with such yearning. Breathing in right there, with a depth of inhalation keen on digesting his aroma direct from its source; to gore her senses in the hopes that his smell would never abandon her. Breathing in right here and knowing that in this moment, it was his scent that was oxygenating her bloodstream.

It was his scent that was sustaining her life.