This Unknown Mistress

Filed Under how to turn me on | 1 Comment

cydytame095.jpgI have a fantasy that centers on a woman who knows my body better than I do myself. In my fantasy, her voice tells me to touch myself, how to touch and where.

“Use your left hand,” she says, “and peel back your labia like the pages of a book. Let your right finger tease with a gentle pain the tip of your clit.”

I hear her voice, a sweet rosé of a voice, purrs in my ear.

“It feels good, doesn’t it.” Less a question than a statement. She knows what feels good. She always knows.

In my fantasy, she watches.

In my fantasy she tells me when to arch my back so that the finger, the toy or the cock – my fantasies are liquid and swirling with possibility – rubs against my g-spot. Or so that it doesn’t.

She can be cruel, my fantasy woman. Her voice, her knowledge, make me impossibly wet, improbably swollen; she makes my cunt flower forth like a Georgia O’Keefe lily.

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Lend Me a Hand…

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cydypotd072.jpgLend me a hand. Not, however, just any hand. A hand blank and devoid of nuance, a hand blunt-cut as a cheap cigar, a hand without delicacy simply will not do. Nor will one too effete, too wan, too limpid and limp with lack of use. This lines of this hand cannot belie the power of its touch.

Give me this hand, a hand clean and manicured, but not too well-manicured. A hand that neither has the anxious red-ragged cuticles of the recently audited nor the great scooping nails of a Long Island goomah.  Give me this hand with its sensitive touch and tensile strength and knowing fingers. Give me this hand. Perhaps it’s attached to you, perhaps it’s not. Perhaps you just want to watch.

What I want from this hand is quite simple: Finger me. Ply my pussy lips apart like  the stuck together pages of a Maxim at Riker’s Island. Run a fingertip down my slit and cleave me like liquid rosy sand. Let those digits linger like a party guest. Tug on my labia like a shade. Pinch and roll them like a hand-rolled cigarette. Spread my pussy open like a peach.

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In Praise of Bathhouse Fornication

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cydypotd041.jpgIn our culture, we place a great emphasis on sex as part of a loving and stable relationship. In fact, we so privilege sex with someone we love over sex with someone we do not, or don’t as much, or don’t conventionally, or exclusively, or whatever, that it’s pretty much an accepted idea that sex with your beloved is/was/will be always inherently vastly superior to sex with the one you love less, if at all.

Moreover, the notion that sex with someone you love, and love exclusively and have sex with exclusively, is superior to sex with someone you don’t has such acceptance in this culture that we tend to consider other kinds of sex as not merely inferior, but somehow, well, wrong.

Morally wrong, sometimes. But also immature, unhealthy, a possible misstep on the way to the beautiful fullness of monogamous adult sexual health.

Bollucks.
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