Pussy Talk

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Whenever we're apart Apr. 8th, 2008 @ 07:20 am
Images, sensations, memories percolate up from my subconscious all the time: the hunger of your kisses, the impatience of your fingers, the greed of your tongue when my thighs are spread over your face, the way you make me stand or kneel or hike my arse up, the delight you take in bending me to your will, the ecstasy in your eyes when you enter me, the rage in your face when you pound into me, the sound in your throat when you come.



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A salute to Pepys Apr. 4th, 2008 @ 11:25 am
Up betimes, and to my office, working on the next chapter of my book and paying some bills. By and by I went for a shower, paying particular attention to trimming my legs, underarms, and privates against an assignation this afternoon. Lord, the time I had getting myself dressed in the scanty black lace underwear that my lover so enjoys, without my husband's knowledge! But with cunning and patience, I did manage it, though I doubted, without grounds as it so transpired, that my stockings might be revealed through the fabric of my trousers. Lunch with my husband and some pleasant discourse concerning the next stage in his yardworks, then I to the Town by bus, where I did meet my lover in the hotel. And there he did have me dance and strip for him, and did baser ma chose and tocar mes mamelles and demander me presenter to him a la derriere. He then did la cosa con much voluptas, he besa also ma venter and saw the pink thereof. I did permit him to hazer todo et quicquid amplius as he desired, et je su nulla negat. With much sorrow we parted, for su amo with todo ma corazon. Then to the bookshop, that I might have purchases to justify my time away all the afternoon, and home on the bus to supper, which was a fine striploin of beef and burgundy to drink. Up late writing in my book while my husband watched television, then to bed, reading myself to sleep with my new edition of Pepys' diary until it startled me awake when I dropped it onto my face. I do believe it is the most delightful book I have read these many years.



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Samuel Pepys wrote about his philandering in a signature macaronic which blended Latin, French, and English to produce a kind of erotic code.

Pepys' diary is online at Project Gutenberg but it's such a huge work that you should have a system for getting at it. It may be more accessible in yearly chunks here. Click "Coded Passages" for all the salacious stuff.

Alternatively, the indefatigable Phil Gyford is posting the entire diary online as Sam wrote it, day by day over the course of nine years. Phil is about half-way through, so you could catch up quite easily. This labour-of-love site includes reader comments, a custom encyclopedia, and related articles, all seamlessly interlinked, searchable, and simple to navigate. Brilliant work, Phil!

Note that the diary text on both of these sites comes from Project Gutenberg, which publishes the late 19th-century transcription of the diary now held in the Pepysian library at Magdalen College, Cambridge.

The current gold-standard edition of the diary, a tour-de-force of modern literary scholarship by Latham and Matthews, is available in an abridged form in paperback from Penguin as "The Shorter Pepys", which, at 1000 pages, represents about one-third of the original. This door-stop tome is the one that fell on my face. For all sorts of reasons, it's instructive to compare this version with the Victorian transcription.


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Body prayer Mar. 10th, 2008 @ 07:39 pm
He asked, Is there anything we can’t do today?

This was before the collar went on, and I love him for asking beforehand, because once I’ve asked for my collar, all the choices are his. I simpered a bit. I said, Maybe not ass today? I’ve been gassy.

Truth is, I wasn’t sure if I had completely eliminated and I dreaded the embarrassment of a mess. This is just how it is: these are the inevitables that play on one’s mind when ass-fucking is on the agenda.

He smiled as if to himself.

Later, bundled onto the bed on my knees and clutching at the sheets, I realised in an instant what that smile meant.

Not that the realisation arrived in any coherent form, because when he fucks my ass it’s as if he erases, stroke by tender stroke, all conscious reason in me. There is yielding and opening, there is a feeling of inexorable occupation, there is the other rooting in me and becoming one with me. There is joyful possession and proud ownership. There is power exchanged: surrendered, taken, returned.

He has noted that I go to “another place”, what we used to call a different headspace in my psychedelic youth. It’s true. When he fucks my ass, my body goes still in the same way the mind goes still in meditation, open and relaxed, yet alert and one-pointed, focused on the single ineffable fact of his cock right there. It’s a state approaching bliss, and I now understand what Toni Bentley, the ballerina who wrote a memoir of anal sex, meant when she wrote that her lover’s cock in her ass allowed her a “moment of immortality.”

It’s a prayer unspoken, a prayer of the body, articulated in every mute and trembling cell. The orgasm is unexpected and breath-taking in intensity: after the stillness, it rises up with a roar and submerges you, like a tsunami.

We talked about it after. He described the different sensations, for him, of entering the ass compared to the cunt: it’s smoother, closer, more sensitive to the movements of his cock, but more than his own pleasure, he likes to watch my reactions when he fucks my ass. He enjoys conveying me to that other place.

I said, I thought you wouldn’t, when I asked you not to….

There was a slight “humph”, and that smile again The smile that says, You are my fucktoy and if I want to fuck your ass, baby, I will.

Well. Amen to that.


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Jubilate Cock Mar. 2nd, 2008 @ 04:46 am
My instructions were to sit on his face reverse cowgirl and, while he licked and sucked me, to tell his cock how big and beautiful it was. I was not permitted to take his cock in my mouth until I came.

That’s the context for this piece. The exercise got me thinking---afterwards, of course, because I can hardly form a coherent thought with my lover’s tongue in my cunt and his cock in my mouth---of writing a kind of paean to his lovely great cock.

Here 'tis, framed up after Christopher Smart's famous excerpt from his Jubilate Agno which begins “For I will consider my cat Jeoffrey.” Not that I’m a cat-lover, but I’ve always loved this quirky eighteenth-century piece. Then again, what’s not quirky and loveable about eighteenth century Eng lit?


Jubilate Agno, a modern excerpt

For I will consider my master’s Cock.
For he is a servant of the living Goddess, duly and daily servicing his whore in the name of Her who created him.
For he is fit for purpose and perfectly formed for his appointed task.
For at the first glance of the glory of the Goddess in the east he worships in his way.
For this is done by shape-changing which he performs in ten degrees.
For first he droops coyly against his master’s thigh with head turned and eye closed.
For secondly the sight of his whore makes him stir in greeting.
For thirdly the scent of his whore sets him nosing about for sustenance.
For fourthly his shaft erects like a pillar of the living Temple.
For fifthly the head of him gleams like a ripe plum.
For sixthly the balls of him throb with a spirit which demands exorcism.
For seventhly he turns and opens his whore to his pleasure.
For eighthly he buries himself in her.
For ninthly he empties his spirit into her.
For tenthly he softens and shrinks within her.
For in his morning orisons he loves his whore and his whore loves him.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For he is of the tribe of Bull.
For the Savage Cock is a term of the Sacred Bull.
For the sight of him makes his whore’s mouth water.
For the taste of him makes his whore’s cunt drip.
For the smell of him makes his whore’s arse prickle with a thousand lightning pricks.
For he is lord of her every orifice.
For he is an instrument for her to learn passion upon.
For he is long that the length of him may feed her greed.
For he is thick that he may make her eyes round with fear.
For he is rigid that he may plumb her without mercy.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For he is quickest to the hot mark of any beast.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that the Goddess is his whore.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is hated by the virgin and the wife.
For the former abhors filth.
For the latter refuses his entry.
For he is good to think on, if a whore would express herself neatly.
For by stroking him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived the light of the Goddess shoot from him in liquid fire.
For the fire is the spiritual substance which sustains the souls of both man and whore.
For the Goddess has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For although he cannot fly, he is an excellent burrower.
For his motions within the body of his whore are more than any other beast.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can fuck for life.
For he can come.




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Weekend post-mortem Feb. 26th, 2008 @ 05:59 pm
Poker faces don't come easy for me. I had to try hard not to look too exultant during the Monday morning chit-chat as we eased ourselves collectively into the week with the usual weekend post-mortems.

"So how was your weekend?"

"Oh---"

Flashbacks:

Naked and on my knees before my lover, with his fist in my hair, his vibe clenched between my thighs and his cock shoved firmly against my soft palate.

Upended on the bed while his cock stretched my ass to screaming point.

Pushed onto my back for a savage missionary, until he decided to pull out, spurting hot darts of liquid pearl that splashed on my belly and breasts and face.

I'd licked his spunk off my cheek like ice-cream.

With some effort, I affected nonchalance. "Good, thanks. Really good. Yours?"




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Enter, a guest Feb. 5th, 2008 @ 05:12 pm
A special treat for Fat Tuesday: a piece by a guest writer.

Enjoy! I know I did.

And so did he.

*******************

My mistress came for me, moaning, screaming, clutching at the sheets with hands like claws, lost in pleasure while I bulled her and worked a vibe deep in her ass.

How many men could write that? How many would like to be able to write that?

But I can. The image of it is burned on my brain. My beautiful mistress. My whore. My darling, coming as if her soul is being turned inside out. Dear God, she is so beautiful, so amazing, so wonderful. Long and pale and slim and elegant and soft and sharp and clever and eager and hungry. Such a gifted little slut. So damned good at coming. Once she starts she can’t stop. She lets me draw orgasms out of her one after another, a stuttering cascade of pleasure like the pearls I stuff into her sweet cunt and drag out again on a long, coiling string of joy. She loses herself completely. She falls down into a trance of joy. She’s not in control. She can barely respond to what’s happening to her. It is wonderful to behold.

We had three amazing hours on a big snowflake marshmallow of a bed with a view out across the harbour.

“I want vanilla” . That’s what she said.

Normally the correct response to a properly trained fuck-slut like my baby is: “Who cares what you want? This isn’t about you.”

Whores don’t choose, you see. But there are rules. The first and most important rule is that, no matter what I might say, it is all about her.
I am her lover. I don’t just fuck her; I love her. That means I have to fuck her really, really well. There is no greater joy, believe me, oh believe me, than fucking a woman you love to orgasm. Unless it be fucking her to orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. It is restorative. It rebuilds me and heals me and remakes me. It is sex magick at its finest.

The second rule is that, when she wears her collar she cannot choose but obey. She belongs to me body and soul to use as I please and she cannot take the collar off. Only I can take the collar off - but only she can put it on. It’s her choice. It’s her free will offered up. It’s her gift to me. And she wasn’t wearing her collar so, if my baby says: “I want vanilla” then vanilla is what my baby gets.

I waited for her in a nice hotel room - a really nice hotel room. Eventually, she arrived and we kissed and I held her and I soaked up the scent of her and she made me strong again. And I got her naked and licked her and finger fucked her and she came with her fingers gripping my hair and she sat on my face and came again and she straddled me and skied on my cock, sliding along the length of it, clit-fucking it until she came again and we fucked and we fucked and we fucked every way you can imagine; belly to back with her sitting on me on the edge of the bed while I watched in the glass of the TV screen and she screamed and moaned, my cock in her mouth, the vibe in her ass, in her cunt, teasing her clit, her nipples filling my eager, hugry mouth. And we showered and I held her, soft and naked and beautiful against me under the streaming water, and we did it all again.

Every time, all through it all, no matter how I longed for the sting of my hand on that soft, white arse, I landed not one single spank on her. My baby wants vanilla, my baby gets vanilla.

Instead, we rolled on the bed and ate mango and pineapple and fat strawberries that stained the sheets blood red and we lay close and drank elder-flower champagne and munched on Turkish Delight and read poetry to each other, Shakespeare and old Omar. It was the most joyous day of my life.

At the end of it all she said: “I brought my collar. I wish you’d spanked me.’’


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Jan. 26th, 2008 @ 04:55 pm
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Night thought Jan. 23rd, 2008 @ 06:48 pm
It's ten o'clock. Dinner is over and you've retired to the bar with your colleagues for a round or two of nightcaps.

No-one knows your secret, the selfish pleasure you're keeping for yourself: no-one knows I'm up here in your room, your little whore, naked and collared on the bed, waiting for you.

I'm aching at the thought of how hungry you'll be when you come through that door and how thoroughly you'll enjoy me: how painstakingly you'll amuse yourself with your compliant little cockslut and how rigorously you'll drive your panting little fucktoy through her paces.




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How it happened Nov. 26th, 2007 @ 06:39 pm
After so much waiting and wondering and worrying and wanting, it finally happened, and it happened so easily and so naturally that I could hardly believe my lover was...there.

But there was no mistake: he was indeed right...there..., comfortably lodged so deep in my arse he had me transfixed, both literally and figuratively. Nothing I'd ever read about arse-fucking prepared me for the Hokusai-wave of blissful submission that engulfed me as he knelt behind me and let me push my way backwards slowly and smoothly, past one or two slight twinges, right up the length of his cock to the bristly hilt, until my cheeks flattened against his belly and I hung helplessly in his hands, quivering and groping and gasping until I came.

The orgasm was different: it began behind and radiated upwards and forwards like the lash of a thick whip through the core of me---a strangely ass-foremost sensation, pun intended, and in no way unpleasant.

When he asked me afterwards what it was like, I was almost incoherent, with no words beyond a ludicrously inept bathroom allusion that fetched an eye-roll from him. Well, it was true! But much later, when I'd had time to think more deeply into my body, I realised that it was just like a first fuck. It was was quite simply and truly another virginity that he had taken and that I had given to him---and he to me, if you must know.

But there's more to it than even that. Arse-fucking is, more than any other kind of penetration, an expression on the one part and an admission on the other part, of possession. Fucking my arse, my lover owns me. He claims as his and his alone a part of me that is off-limits to all but the one who captures it by dint of his passion, his prowess, and his infinite patience.



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Not by you Nov. 10th, 2007 @ 01:47 pm
The room echoed with the smack. I cringed, clearly more distressed than aroused.

So, said M, you don’t want to be spanked anymore?

No, I said.

And added to myself, Not by you.

Effective spanking requires both premise and promise. M has repeatedly failed to grasp this fact, so his half-hearted, muddle-headed attempts to use spanking, or any other form of dominance, leave me cold, frustrated, and hungry.

His “spanking” is often just an isolated horse-slap or two delivered quite ludicrously out of the blue after the conclusion of coitus. He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get that there has to be context: this is a game, this is a ritual with stages and rules, with prescriptions and proscriptions, as fraught with meaning and emotion as a mass.

In spanking, context is everything. Context makes the act of spanking, or belting, or flogging, a kind of ceremony in which both partners give and take so that both share equally, but in different ways, the pain and pleasure of what is admittedly a rather brutal and animal expression of desire.

Spanking is the way my lover indicates his intention to possess me utterly, and bending naked and defenceless over his knee or over a chair is the way I indicate my readiness to be owned. Spanking me, my lover focuses my entire being upon him through the flat of his hand where it strikes my arse, where it leaves me first breathless and numbed, then flaming and screaming with the pain, and finally, aching and slick with a physical need for his cock, for the way it goads me to release.

Whether he’s spanking me, or whipping me with his glove or belt, or clamping my nipples with chopsticks, or figging my arse with a freshly-pared finger of ginger, my lover is telling my body in the way it understands most readily, through pain:

Look, you are mine. This is what I shall have from you and this is what you will give me: everything you have. In return, this is what I will give you: everything I have. I am yours.

That is the premise and the promise.



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Last time, next time, every time Oct. 27th, 2007 @ 10:46 am
A shadowy hotel room in mid-afternoon, the bed a wreck of damp tangled sheets scattered with implements of pleasure and torture: ropes, a thick finger of pared ginger, clothespins.

Our play is all done now and we're down to business.

Buckling my legs up and out to expose what you crave, you hover over me bear-like and diligent, your big square shoulders jolting with each thrust, your eyes locked with mine, unblinking and darkening as you seem to meditate upon yourself sinking to the hilt into a hot juicy squirmy little cock-crazy cunt.

You hammer my whimpers open into screams.

When you come, you have reason to rejoice doubly: your ears ring with your own name fetched whole and dripping from my throat.


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Problem area: legs Oct. 3rd, 2007 @ 05:27 am
As we get older, regular workouts are essential to keep the legs supple and shapely. I find that leg workouts are best done with my lover, as follows:

Warm-ups
I begin by prancing about on stilettos for him before progressing to lap-dancing and stripping. Even though it doesn’t feel like exercise, remember that wiggling out of teeny bits of lace while bending and swaying, bumping and grinding, and strutting about on four-inch heels to a sultry samba beat does wonders for jiggly quads and glutes!

Aerobic activity
You’re all big girls and boys so I don’t need to spell this bit out. Just play as energetically as you can and remember that for maximum physical benefit, aerobic activity must build gradually until your heart is pounding and you’re both streaming with sweat. Don’t forget to ask politely for some vigorous spanking or flogging, which will do much to improve circulation and combat that troublesome cellulite!

Stretching
Stretches should be done through the whole range of motion to keep leg joints functioning smoothly. This is particularly important for those pesky hip joints, which are often plagued by a touch of arthritis in middle age!

Here are some of my lover’s tried-and-true hip stretches.

1. Gripping her ankles with one hand, hold her legs perpendicular and angled to one side while you kneel and fuck her. Variation: spread her straight legs scissors-style to rotate her hip joints and afford you a truly mouth-watering prospect!

2. Keeping her legs straight, angle them back over her head so that when you slide up into her, her calves rest comfortably on your shoulders. Remember that with every stroke, you’re giving her a lovely stretch through the thighs and buttocks.

3. Fold her up, pretzel-like, with her knees pressed in to her shoulders and her calves caressing your ribs. Note: this move exposes her completely, fore and aft.

4. Pulling her backwards into your lap, skewer her on your cock and bend her forward while you fuck her. This not only effects a good hip stretch, it lets her look between your legs for an awe-inspiring view of your cock driving upwards into her.

For an added stretch through arms, shoulders, and ribcage on all these moves, include wrist restraints.

* * * * *

For your enjoyment, here's a proof-of-the-pudding shot, taken by my lover during one of our hotel afternoons.
( Legs )

Perfecting the practice Sep. 16th, 2007 @ 12:44 pm
“Look,” he said, motioning to his razor on the table.

It’s one of those vibrating types, ribbed and metallic, about five inches long and club-shaped, thicker at the base than at the neck. He likes to use it on me. He likes how I coo and plead and clutch at the sheets when it’s buzzing up a storm inside me.

“That whole thing has been up inside your arse, all of it, right to the flange.” I think I had a right to feel, well, impressed. Not bad for a hesitant and rather wimpy virgin in backdoor activity!

It was Saturday afternoon in a hotel room, the time and place we carve out for mutually restorative play. What can I say? Naked across the bed, we were drying off after what whores call the first service, and what an energetic service it was! Pleasantly sated, with my nipples still burning from the chopstick clamp he’d used to punish me, I was slick with his sweat and leaking a sizeable damp spot of combined spunk and cunt-juice.

In the few times we’ve had sufficient privacy, we’ve managed quite a bit of arse-play: deep active fingering and figging and buzzing. It’s all practice. He’s preparing me for proper arse-fucking, and for that he needs me completely relaxed and receptive in the fundament, bold and eager, with no shame or fastidiousness to impede ingress or impair pleasure.

I’m his little arse-slut in training.

I wonder what’s next. Maybe a purpose-made anal plug from a sextoy shop? Something close to cock size and shape and consistency, something generously tapered and smoothly insinuating, something that will pry me wide open and convey a sense of the eye-popping spread and stretch and depth that his cock will require. Something that lends itself to realistic cock-like movement, to a good thorough faux-fuck up the back end, so that when the time does come for the real act, his great cock crammed and throbbing merrily up my arse will feel right where it belongs.


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Letters, we get letters Aug. 26th, 2007 @ 06:50 am
A reader complains that I'm not "conflicted" anymore.

In a sense, he or she is right.

I'm not nearly as conflicted as I used to be. "Conflicted" to me implies a state of irresolution, a tugging back and forth, an agonising inability to make a decision one way or the other. This is no longer the case with me. I've made my decision, and a rather Faustian bargain it is: I'll fuck my husband because I have to if I can fuck my lover because I want to.

"Conflicted"? Nah, not now. More like "ripped apart".

Whether this state is more or less "interesting", to use the reader's term, depends upon my ability to convey the horror of it---not to mention my willingness even to confront and admit that horror.

In any case, I reckon Tolstoy did a far better job of portraying "just another sad example of the self-proclaimed underclass that is the 'other woman'".

PS I read every single comment and I appreciate everyone's taking the time to tell me exactly what they think.


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Room 112 Apr. 3rd, 2007 @ 06:52 am
By complete coincidence, the number of the room my lover booked for us was the same as the number of pearls on the strand he gave to me.

WARNING: IMAGE. NOT SAFE FOR WORK.
( Pearls )

My latest job application Mar. 28th, 2007 @ 06:22 pm
Dear Sir:

In response to your recent advertisement, I would like to be considered for the position of Fucktoy. I feel I am well-suited to this position for a number of reasons.

First of all, I am a born wanton. I have a huge appetite for fucking. I enjoy fucking more than anything else in the world. If required, I can fuck all day and all night long, resting only enough for my master to catch his breath. Far from sating me, a fuck marathon simply whets my appetite for more, so that a gentleman will find that the more he gives it to me, the more I beg for it.

Second, I have an unlimited capacity for coming, which I feel is a decided asset when a master’s pleasure is multiple forced orgasms. Modesty prevents me from stating just how many orgasms per hour I can achieve. Suffice it to say that a skilled master can manipulate me, quite literally, into a state of perpetual ecstasy.

Third, my one and only aim is to please my master. Polite, biddable, willing, and delightfully submissive in the extreme, I know how to abandon myself utterly to your command. I never forget to say please and thank you, whether for the hand, the belt, or the cane. I love to be tied, blindfolded, ordered about, rendered helpless, exposed, examined, and made to suck a big thick cock. I love to have my mouth fucked until I gag. A true cumslut, I revel in my master’s hot cream all over my face and tits. If ruder delights appeal to you, you will find me an eager partner in the more serious forms of arse-play, including probing, figging, and fucking.

In short, your pleasure will be mine, whether you want me “head down, arse high” with your cock to the hilt in my cunt, or spread wide and all a-squirm on your face with my clit between your teeth and my nipples throbbing in the clamps. If these are the sorts of activities you require of a fucktoy, you can count on me to do my enthusiastic best to please you, every time, to always take your instruction to heart, and to be the sweetest, filthiest little fucktoy you ever had the pleasure to own.

My CV is available online at Pussy Talk, where you will find a relatively complete catalogue of my sexual inclinations, fantasies, and experiences. For obvious reasons, I cannot give references as I am absolutely discreet and will never ever knowingly compromise a gentleman, but if you invite me for an interview, I will happily demonstrate my skills as outlined above so that you may gauge my ability to fill this position on a long-term basis.

I look forward to your call.

Ever yours,
DTG



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Kiss Feb. 24th, 2007 @ 04:37 pm
On this damp grey day, after months of hustling for a job, I needed the walk up along the shore and back. Motoring along at a cheek-pinking pace, I strode away all the accumulated tension and worry, letting my limbs relax and exult in the natural sensuality of stretch and swing.

Under a willow in the park, my lover gave me presents: a length of striped silk ribbon, a cake of honey-scented soap, bitter chocolate, a new mechanical pencil for drawing, complete with case. We sat on the park bench for an hour in a chill and thickening fog, recounting our past two weeks to each other, filling in each other's gaps, each inhaling as the other exhaled, fitting together again as easily as two puzzle pieces.

He said, You've got a drippy nose! and smudged the drop away with his thumb.

For a second, I was deliriously happy: my lungs were full of clean air fresh with pine and beach wrack, my ears were full of the murmur of a rising tide, and for one breathless moment, for the moment to which all other moments in my life are prelude these days, my mouth was full of my lover's tongue.



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I want to swallow you Feb. 17th, 2007 @ 02:22 pm
I may go mad thinking about your cock: the silken heft of it in my fingers and how its coy foreskin peels back so sweetly to reveal the glistening mouth-filling plum of the tip.

I want your cock so much my mouth waters.

I want the aggressive and astonishing bulk of it flattening my tongue, precipitating the sharp ache in the angle of my jaw until my eyes are seared with tears, stifling my cries of alarm.

I want the breathless panic that rises in me when you wrap your fingers in my hair behind and inch yourself forwards into my throat, calmly instructing me to swallow, forcing me to find the correct angle to accommodate you.

I want to swallow. Teach me to swallow.



* * * * *

Booty Call Jan. 29th, 2007 @ 07:21 am
My lover stands a little way along on the sidewalk across the street, ear tilted to phone, looking up at me in the kitchen window. He knew it was safe to call because M just strolled past him on the way to pick up a paper. His voice is mingled with breeze and sounds of Saturday morning traffic in the village: a car goes by and I hear it on my phone.

Plagued with a vicious cold, I’m still in my bathrobe, so it’s easy to come for him, to slip my hand down and pretend it’s his, whatever part I need, his tongue, his fingers, his cock. Just looking at him, I feel myself slickening up, my nipples knotting into peaks.

He rasps out instructions, his voice alternating between demand and plea. As my hips crank in response to his urging, I don’t take my eyes off him. I remember him silhouetted over me in the darkness, how the sheer beastly force of him took my breath away.

(God, how long is it since we fucked? The weekend before Christmas. We were like animals, the way we rejoiced in each other’s bodies, the way we fucked so thoroughly and so unabashedly, to satisfaction if not to exhaustion. We’re saving exhaustion for our weekend away.)

On the brink, I remember to gasp, May I come? And he gives me permission just in time, casually, because someone else passes him on the sidewalk. The orgasm feels like a warm citrusy shower, pleasant but more tease or promise than final.

When he smiles up at me, I realize I want this man to eat me alive.



**********

Size matters revisited Nov. 22nd, 2006 @ 10:30 pm
Inside and out, fore and aft, up and down, literally and figuratively, my lover is a big man: a rugby-built fullback, a hunk of lumberjack proportions and appetites, as relentless and overwhelming as a tractor, designed in both physique and temperament for the steady, sweaty work of opening a woman’s eyes even wider than her thighs.

Two heavy hands full, he’s a jaw-dropping leg-stretching earth-moving bull of a man, a mauling and devouring bear, a flesh-and-blood fuck-machine who serves up mouthfuls of tongue, arsefuls of paw, and cuntfuls of lovely great cock.

With a perfectly straight face, he describes me as “tiny”, and indeed, with him, walking at his side or wrapped naked in his arms or straddling him, I am tiny, all five-foot-eight of me. I've never met a man who can make me feel so dainty and delicate, so feminine, so all-over girly and petite I want to giggle, except of course when he orders me to my knees and engorges me on his cock, holding me there, shoving it so deep my tongue aches and my throat keens with the tear-jerking immensity of it.

Then I realise it's not so much his size that matters.

It really is what he does with it.




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