June 25, 2008
Ask For What You Want
I want you to only address me as Sir.
I want you to start playing with your clit ten minutes before I arrive, but under no circumstances are you allowed to come.
I want you wearing high heels and a short skirt with nothing underneath.
I want your safeword to be carnation, which means, you can yell no all you like, but I will not stop.
I want you ready to bend over my lap struggling as I spank you. Lift your dress up and turn your ass-cheeks red until my hand hurts. And then you’ll kiss it, suck my fingers, make it better. I’ll scold you for making me all hard and wanting, and you’ll straddle me and ride.
I want your explicit consent. I want your permission and submission.
I want you to know how to draw it from me. I am afraid of my own power. I want you to pull these cruelties from me, to beg for them. I want to take your energy and mine into one huge fireball that I will weild and you will receive. I want your surrender. I want you to make me feel like the biggest, baddest top in the room, even if I’m not.
Can you do that for me?
June 24, 2008
The Question of Cocksucking
I stood at the foot of the bed. Standing up made me realize that my jeans were still unzipped, belt unbuckled, falling around my hipbones. I hedged my bets: would my cock get sucked tonight? Is it presumptuous of me to keep my fly down? I decided: yes. I began to button the jeans.
“What are you doing?” she clearly didn’t agree with my decision. We started laughing.
We weren’t going to fuck, I knew it already. That was okay - I went to see her, to meet her, to hang out, with only the expectation of the company of a smart, pretty girl, and hopefully some flirting.
And oh I got that.
Continue reading . . .
June 22, 2008
Bully
You are face down, ponytail bobbing, wrists and ankles tied to my bedposts, the simple steel I won from my last breakup. Since then, I have fucked five women in this bed. You are the sixth.
Does it matter how I got you here? Whether I wined and dined you, bought you indulgent fruity mixed drinks, a delectable dinner, your body now satiated but wanting other fullness, wanting me to stop fingering my fork spoon knife glass napkin ice cubes and begin placing my hands carefully on your skin.
Or perhaps I simply ordered you over here, sent a car to your apartment and was waiting downstairs when you arrived at mine, paid the driver, removed my dark tie from the tight collar of my baby-blue button down and slipped it over your eyes. Leading you up two flights of stairs without your sense of sight.
No matter. You’ve been here before. Nothing really to see.
I am tempted to rip seams, pop buttons open with force. You know how you bring that out in me.
Continue reading . . .
June 12, 2008
Lipstick …
… on my cock. Red, a mess of it, and on your mouth, wiped to your cheek where I smeared it hard with my fingers. My hand in your hair, pressing deeper into your throat. Under my desk maybe, or in the board room on that big oak table with huge windows that look over the shopping center. Black leather chairs with high backs that roll. Glass water pitcher in the corner. Ice cubes.
I bet the table height is just right. Bend you over it, push the mess of fabric out of the way to smack your bare ass, hard, leave a red imprint of my hand. Tease your lips, thrust my fingers in. Press your cheek down onto the smooth oak wood, hand tangled in your hair. I think the door is locked; there’s a conference call phone unit in the center of the table. Perhaps it’s on. Perhaps someone is listening in. They could be.
In the server room. Against a mess of wires and humming of machines, gasping, fast movements of desire. Your hands under my shirt. The thrill of your fingers. Mouths wet and hungry.
There’s an empty office down the hall. Still the desk is a mess of paperclips, a stapler, binding clips, an empty inbox. Lift you up to sit on the edge and pull myself close, between your legs, in an blue office chair with wheels. A letter opener rips through whatever thin fabric you might be wearing so I can taste you. Your hands on the back of my head, knees bent, head bent back. Shoulders against your thighs.
I can’t look at any of these flat surfaces without thinking of bending you over it, lowering you onto it, lifting my knee to it for leverage. Empty rooms, hidden corners, chairs all become enticing. Wracked with lust. Please, work me over till I’m spent, pull it from me, leave me empty instead of always bursting.
May 28, 2008
Food, booze, & girls
When a banquet is laid out before me, fresh strawberries and glazed pastries and luscious sauces for pasta and spices, herbs, steam rising, I can’t not eat. I just can’t.
Sometimes I wish I had the willpower. It does occasionally get me into trouble. I just came back from a lunch where there were five kinds of potato chips, and I just could not resist the barbeque flavored ones, even though I know they’re not real food, and they’re awful for me - they’re never something I would buy for myself.
But when they’re right there? Just, right there, in my reach, in front of me? I cannot resist.
And booze, too. “Another drink?” My friends ask, poising the bottle of wine above my glass. Well, no - I’m drunk enough, I’m comfy and feeling no pain. But why not? It’s right there.
And then there’s girls.
I know better, half the time. I know it’s trouble to kiss your best friend’s girlfriend, or even worse, your best friend’s sister, or even to kiss this girl who’s been coming onto me all night but in whom I have little interest.
But sometimes they’re all stunning and seductive, and I give in, I give over. I cannot resist.
Does it sound like a cop-out to say I’m rendered powerless against these feminine wiles? I always thought that was such a sexist stereotype: “I’m just a big dumb guy, I can’t possibly be held accountable for my actions once a woman seduced me.”
But sometimes, that’s how I feel. That’s exactly it. I start to feel like we are so well matched, that my soft places are just where she’s hard, that her hard places are just where I’m soft, and that she knows exactly where to stroke my thin underbelly before she digs her nails in.
I cannot resist when she starts giving me those under-the-eyelashes looks of submission and seduction and permission to step in and take her. The way she begs with her skin and fingertips and the way she sips a drink and flips her hair. I can’t not take her down. I can’t not go inside and see.
Maybe that makes me a pushover. My buttons get pushed and I respond, knee-jerk reactions. But I want, I ache for it when it get close to me, like my teeth starting to sting and my tongue starting to water when a beautiful china plate with German chocolate cake gets placed in front of me, knife and fork in hand.
How could I possibly walk away?
May 19, 2008
Break-up Aura
I could have taken her home. She asked me to. Said her name was Drea. She didn’t like the whole thing, Andrea, it was too common. Drea was edgier. It clearly fit her better.
She ordered a gin and tonic at the bar, making eye contact with the bar tender, flirting; the bar tender was providing extra-strong gin and tonics, Drea was kind and grateful and seemed genuine, and already a little flushed from the alcohol.
She was sitting with friends, but before returning to them she noticed me nursing an already half-empty Jameson on the rocks, and said, “So did she leave you, or did you leave her?”
I smiled into my drink, thought about this. Tipped my glass enough to knock a piece of ice into my mouth and sucked it. “Not exactly either,” I said. “This is my usual drink.”
“Oh it’s not the drink, it’s the … well, forgive my hippie moment, but it’s the aura. Break-up aura.” I considered this and looked at her.
She, like the rest of the fashionably-conscious girls in Manhattan, had pulled her spring fashion out from her storage locker. Her legs were encircled in a flowy skirt with many layers, maybe a wrap-around, with a big flowery pastel pattern, aquamarine and salmon and honeydew and peach and beige, petals askew and overlapping, and she wore a white tank top, silver glitter and sparkles at the neck, tight and round over her breasts. Her cornsilk light-brown hair was layered just past her shoulders; she kept tossing her head to keep it out of her face, but gently as to not disturb its positioning. Not so edgy, maybe; but she had an energy to her, a way of slicing through things, a sharpness that made her more than just an uptown Andrea.
She took my silence for recoil. “Your heart looks broken, that’s all,” she said, and shrugged, making to pick up her drinks and turn back to her table, but giving me one more chance to respond, attempting eye contact, searching my face for - something - what? - and waiting.
“You’re not far off,” I said. “That’s one way to say it. But it’s been a very slow separation, not the shatter-crunch I’m used to. This was … like a buttonhook needle in the sternum, an unraveling, fiber by fiber.” I’ve been reading too much Sarah Waters. She nodded, as if understanding, sympathetic. Touched my hand as we chatted. Flirted. Gave me the eyes.
It didn’t take long for her to take me to the back, to our own booth in the shadowy corner, tongues damp with another round. Her hand playfully pushed my shoulder and made an excuse to feel the muscles of my arms and wrap her fingers around my wrist, as if checking its girth.
“You have beautiful hands,” she said, and took one hand in both of hers, pulling my fingers back, exposing my palm. “Long fingers.”
Her hand moved to my thigh without any fanfare. My hand tangled in her hair at the back of her neck and her tongue was tangy, sweet and strong with gin.
She would have taken me home with her. Wouldn’t have hesitated to have me follow her into the restroom and let me finger her, fuck her. But as she attempted trick after trick to get me off, get me interested, I could only think that her mouth wasn’t as supple as yours, wasn’t as soft, and that she tasted nothing like you.
May 17, 2008
Let go, just let go
I adore the sounds a girl makes when she’s being fisted. Gutteral, that’s why that word was invented, to describe the sounds from her mouth, her throat, her chest, her belly, her cunt. Such deep noises coming from the center of her.
It didn’t start as fisting. It started as me, strapped on, fucking her, her on her back, me above her, her knees bent, pulled back, held to her chest, calf on my shoulder. But there was some place in her I wasn’t reaching, she kept pressing against me to make my cock hit just the spot, my cock which was really her cock, her strap-on, because I did not come prepared. Her cock wasn’t very large. Slim and decent, sure, but nothing I would call thick.
I turned her onto her stomach. Hips bent over the edge of the bed, toes on the floor. Spread her open with one hand pressed her hips up into that perfect little spiral curve and slipped a finger inside. Two fingers. Just to find the angle, the placement, the mark where my cock would be going. Instead I found her open, so open, opening wider as my fingers moved deeper, three fingers, four, slid in so easily and still hadn’t filled her. I didn’t ask for her permission, didn’t tell her what I was doing, I assumed she could feel it and I tucked my thumb under, pushed inside. Easily. Slid in to my wrist.
And she was filled. With me, my fingers, my palm, my thumb, my wrist.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt a girl’s cunt open like that before. Lock-and-key open. Dark clouds parting to reveal blue sky open. There is a certain point in the … orgasm arc that they do tend to open deeper, pull my hand cock tongue in even further, but oh so rarely do I feel a girl making a space for my fist inside her.
What a feeling: my whole hand inside her body. This hand, the one I’m using to type. Such connection happens when I can feel every ripple of her body from inside. How her hips gyrate and buck. How her stomach contracts. The noises from her mouth that begin where my knuckles touch muscle and press.
I took her clit in my left hand and attempted, tried, cajoled, but I don’t think she came. She certainly had a release, of some sort, but I think she may have been generally too overstimulated. That’s just a theory. An observation.
Slid out of her slow. I didn’t want to let go of her for a long time after.
That was definitely my favorite part of Saturday night, though the caning, the candle wax, the rope binding, the orgasm that nearly made me cry, and the pigeon family nested on the balcony were also very notable.
I can still hear her whisper, in my ear next to my cheek, her skin so fucking smooth, “let go. just let go.”
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