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. 

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.

The tender core of Cordelia Teal.

He lapped up all the spills, falling from my heart, leaking for my mouth like a sponge yielding it saturation. He lapped it up and the connection beamed through him like a sun split blessing for having sentiment sense.

I’m a fighter.

I am more fighter than artist.

More fighter than educator.

More fighter than female.

More fighter than human.

And when he laps up all undulating overflow of my soul, I want to fight to contain myself, want to fight by creating mountains to excuse the mess. I fight nothing but my own demons in his absences and I convince myself that exaggerated space is necessary protection. This is game I’ve played my whole life, a game of perpetual lose; a warrior’s scampering for cover, for freedom.

He walks around with his eyes lensed in beauty. And when he looks at me, swept in the formulas of aesthetics, I do not understand what he sees. When he looks at me and he says I am beautiful it is as if I engender the rules of design quivering with a pulse. I do not understand what he sees, only know that the moments he calls me beautiful, he relishes the acknowledgement; he radiates validation as if the discovery of beauty is the impetus of his existence.

I do not understand what he sees. I just have to trust what he sees.

And it is exactly that place that I am most weak.

And there it is again. The impulse to fight.

I want to fight to prove that I’m strong. 

Paintings by Reuben Negron

These are so good.  They scratch my voyeuristic itch. More here: http://www.juxtapoz.com/erotica/dirty-dirty-love-reuben-negron

Insufferable yearning

I want things that maybe you can't give me. I want your skin on mine, the heat of your pulse mingled with mine. I want to savor your body with slow, intuitive kisses, smoke out all the divots of design on your flesh. I want to linger in communicative touch, caress all my secrets into your sinews. I want your exhalations filling up my lung; want the length of our bodies to merge in precision, hips and knuckles perfectly aligned and tangled. I want the cool, alert taste from your mouth, want the warm, silvered electricity trickling from your cock. I want the deep utterances of your concentration permeating the room, penetrating my ears. I want the coils of your pubic hair careening my tongue, brushing against my eyelashes. I want the delirium of your hips pumping into mine, the delirium of internal mechanisms rotating under your key. I want the sharpness of your clavicles against the taut of your traps, above the virile bulk of your chest. I want the earthy hues of your body hair flecked with prismatic sweat, radiating pheromones. I want your juice, all your juice, all the effort and love and history it took to make that juice, to flood every piece of me until I drown. I want to be forever open to your advances, open forever for you and only you, malleable and pliable just for you, begging forever to fill me, overwhelm me, with the expansive illumination of you.