Scintillectually Yours

You may have noticed that I’ve been rather absent this week. DPR has been here since Saturday and we have spent so much time catching up that I’ve hardly had time to catch my breath (not that I’d want to)! I have so much to write about and so much I feel I can’t write about…but that’s a story for another time. It’s New Year’s Eve and our one-on-one festivities are about to begin so I’m going to quickly throw in my last HNT of the year and then go pose for some new ones now that someone else can wield the brand new camera I just got.

As with others, I couldn’t decide on just one…so I’m putting up a few of my favorites and you can tell me which one YOU like. Happy 2010 to all. Ring in the New Year in the best way possible. *smooches!*

Don’t forget to visit Osbasso to check out all the HNT goodness!

My darling DPR (the DreadPirateRoberts) wrote this to me and gave me express permission to post it this Wicked Wednesday. Not only did it afford me time in my already jam-packed schedule this week, it also provided me with much food for thought for her upcoming visit. (For those of you that don’t know the back-story go HERE. It has been almost 8 years since we’ve seen each other, close to 20 when last we were together as, somewhat, of a couple.) Yes, Virginia, we WILL be shopping. I do hope you enjoy the vivid image her writing conjures as much as I enjoy envisioning that which I long for.

My mind is an ADHD head-storm of visions of us…visions of this journey we are taking and the emergence of my cock. After hours of talking and laughing, we are sitting on your couch. I move to my knees on the floor in front of you. I take off your shoes and begin to caress and rub your feet. Using both hands with greater pressure in my thumbs, I move up your legs, massaging them. Where your thighs meet your cunt, I press my thumbs along your tendons, then move them into the small between your tendons and your mons. I press and massage you, moving down your legs and back up, pressing against your tendons and the edges of your mons. You press your heels into me, trying to pull me into you. I take your legs into my hands and place them back onto the floor. You lean forward to take my face into your hands and kiss me. Just as your lips touch mine, I tongue you lightly and pull away, pressing you back into the couch. I continue to massage and rub your legs, always returning my focus to the place between your mons and the tendons that run up your thighs and into your muscles. Your breath quickens…as does mine. I lean forward and press my chin against you and you moan ever so slightly—you can feel my hands through your jeans, the pressure of my chin on your clit. I can hear the change in your breathing as you pull at me again with your legs. I pull my face back and massage your legs down to your calves and back again. I press my thumbs against you, rubbing you through your jeans, feeling the wetness that is growing there.

I lean up to kiss you, bite your lips gently while pressing you back with my left hand as my right hand works at the button, then the zipper of your pants. The soft moans you make move through me like fiery water. I ask you to lift your ass so that I can pull off your jeans. It is hard for you to relinquish the control you normally cling to so tightly—evidence of your love for me. Your jeans are on the floor. Through the lace panties you are still wearing I can see you are open, waiting; the lace, your cunt, are wet with your longing and I rub my cheek into your desire before I pull the barrier away. I am gazing into your openness. The breath rises in me as I try to maintain my concentration, try not to hurry. I place my mouth into you, nearly inhaling you, and trace your clit with my tongue…a wanting moan escapes you. I raise up and reach under the couch for the box we have hidden there and hand it to you. My new cock is waiting there. Together, we pull off my button-flies, strap me, and smile at each other in the playfulness of this preparation. You pull at my cock and we both watch as I ease into you. I watch with great pleasure as I move into you and we build a rhythm. My cock is wet with you, your cunt is wetter and wetter as the cone of wanting builds between us. I am wet. My cock slides in and out of you and I am taken into you with it. something has happened as we move together, breath hastening. The balls are rubbing against me; my cock moves in you and your legs are wrapped around me pulling me and I watch with a desire unknown to me except with you…the sensation of it all grips me: it is me and not me; mine and not mine; somehow, it has become ours. Yet it is mine. My thighs are soaked with the joy of both of us. The quickening increases in you and just as you are ready to come, I slow my pace and pull out.

With both arms, I lay you down on the couch and place myself between your legs. You begin to move into me. But I stop you. I pull at your shirt until it is gone. I can see your nipples hard and erect beneath the lace of your bra. I release one breast and I am suckling you, biting softly at your nipple while I massage and caress the other breast. My breath is hot and fast. You are asking me to enter you again. But I do not. I am lost in you and drag my face down your belly to your cunt—again, your clit is in my mouth; I am tonguing you ever so slowly. You begin to move your hips and I raise myself up, move my arms under you and roll you over, pushing you up on the arm of the couch.

You are suspended from the arm of the couch. Your upper torso free of support. There is nothing for you to hang onto, nothing for you to grab except for my hands: you reach back and let me take your hands into mine, arch your back and allow me to hold you. I enter you again, pulling you into me, holding you safely while I penetrate you with my cock…My Cock—the cock that is covered with your desire and mine; the cock that enters you, pulls back and enters you again, moving harder and faster until, nearly screaming, you come. And, I am right behind you, pulling you tight, moving inside you. The shear desire for you has driven me nearly to coming—it is only made stronger by the rubbing and pressing of these balls against my clit: my cock, in you, moving with you, stimulating me as well. You come and I am coming behind you…there is an explosion of long awaited reunion that nearly shakes the room. We shudder with the power of it, until we relax and lie back together.

You are in my arms where you have belonged for so long. I am holding you. You nestle yourself against me and we talk. The waiting, the years of separation are over. Now, there will be time for this…for other things as well.

This time of year leaves precious little time to keep up with posting blogs on a regular basis. Did anyone notice I never got around to my MFM again last night? If you want to read about long distance relationships—the theme assigned to us by our dear Sweltering Celt this week—then go HERE. Hence, I perfectly understand how just getting the questions up there is daunting enough without having to edit someone’s grammar mistakes and spelling faux pas. Forgive the copy editor in me and let me have my holiday fun, okay?

1. What do present do you hope ends up under you tree?

Herewith, I do present you with my wish for the present that I hope ends up under my tree. Namely me, on all fours, with DPR fucking the life out of me doggy-style. That said, I desperately need a laptop as I am currently getting early “widow’s hump” from hunching over my desktop keyboard.
2. What is the “naughtiest” thing you have ever done under a Christmas tree?

Rule #1: there is rarely a good reason to put a word in quotation marks unless you are actually quoting someone or the word is clearly the author’s attempt to convey an idea in layman’s terms. I believe we all know exactly what “naughtiest” means (yes, that was a quote from Question #2). I suppose I’ll have to report on anything naughty (see answer to #1) happening under my tree after the holidays, meanwhile I leave you with this tidbit from my childhood. Every single Christmas for as long as I can remember (and well into my high school years), my sister and I would open our presents while our parents were out of the house and very carefully re-wrap them. Our general response was “Oh, look, another pocket umbrella,” or “Gee, socks.”

3. Do you prefer to give or receive?

Do I prefer to give or receive what? I am assuming the lack of designation is meant as a double entendre. In the gift-giving department I very much enjoy giving. I pride myself on being the perfect personal shopper and rarely come up with a dud present. I am not, however, good at keeping secrets, so I tend to hound friends and family into opening my favorite gifts to them before Christmas. If we are speaking of sex, I am an equal-opportunity partner. As I believe I have mentioned before, I am no pillow princess, so whatever you want, you shall have (within reason, of course).

4. What is your favorite part off a sexual partner’s body?

I truly hope that there is no part of my sexual partner’s (and I am so glad my partner is sexual as it would be fairly dull to answer questions about business partners on a sex blog) that has fallen off. All kidding aside, I love strong, muscular arms and shoulders (particularly biceps) and although I would never say never to falling in love with someone who had no arms, I rather prefer them as reciprocating hugs aren’t quite the same with legs (although they could be more interesting).
5. What is your favorite part your body – the one you hope a sexual partner will find or pay the most attention to?

I would be hard-pressed to think that there is any part of my body that my sexual partner could not find. I do possess three physical aspects that I like the most: my mouth, my eyes, and my breasts. They are hard to miss. Dare I point out the fact that this sentence ended with a preposition?

Bonus (as in optional): [Idea blatently stolen from Os and hist HNT wishes.] What Christmas wishes would you grant and to whom?

I will answer this question on Thursday, as I plan to play along with Osbasso’s theme for this week’s HNT. I do hope you will all forgive me my attempt at poking a little fun this morning as I face a long day of copy editing a book on cervical cancer. Playing with my TMI was far more fun! Now, I know all of my like-minded friends are going to jump in and start correcting my own responses. Have at it, sweethearts!

Wish you as much love, love, and laughter as I expect to have in the coming year (and that’s a LOT!). Happy Holidays and HHNT!

*SMOOCH!*

(that means click through, okay?)

…and don’t forget to visit Osbasso to get your fill of all the HNT goodness!

I get a text at 11:35 a.m.: “horny. coming home for lunch. you know what to do.” accompanied by one of those lascivious little smileys with a hanging tongue and bulging eyes.

I have 25 minutes to prepare. I am still in my pajamas. A really quick shower and super fast clean-up shave is in immediate order. Emerging, steaming, I wrap a short black satin robe around me and head for the bedroom. Not usually the one to handle his selection of cocks, he prefers it heated and with only 20 minutes there won’t be time for him to do it himself. I decide to go for the gold and grab the really big guy. He’s all girth at 2 1/2″ wide, about 6″ in length not counting the sizable balls. I run back to the bathroom and submerge him in scalding water. My only task left is to pull the weight bench over to the door of my office and position it underneath the chin-up bar. The black velcro straps are already secured to the bar so with 5 minutes to spare, I just breathe, wait, and try to keep my wandering hands away from my own wetness, the anticipation building me to a near-frenzy even before he gets home.

His footsteps on the stairs and his grin as he sees me sitting there, facing the front door. “Get ready,” he growls. I hear him in the bathroom, his belt buckle clanking as his pants hit the floor, the snaps and clicks of the leather strap as he adjusts. I open my robe and lie back on the bench, shivering a little from both the cold and the excitement.

He is standing at the foot of the weight bench. “Slide down,” he orders. I comply. He grabs my right ankle and lifts my leg skyward, fastening my ankle tightly to the velcro strap attached to the chin-up bar. With a glint in his eye, he repeats the process with my left leg. My ass is hanging off the edge of the weight bench and, tilted at an angle due to the difference in height from the floors on either side of the door, I am at the perfect height for him. I reach behind my head and grab the sides of the bench. There isn’t much time. There will be no (and no need for) foreplay.

He grabs the bottle of lube that I had set on the floor. My stomach flip-flops with total arousal as I watch him pour the clear liquid into his hand and wrap his hand around his cock, sliding it up and down, over the head and back down the shaft. Ah, if we had all day, I would be satisfied just to watch him jerk off. But we don’t and he knows it. He is ready. I am ready. He slips that giant so easily into my pussy. I am already achingly wet. My breath catches in the back of my throat. The sense of being completely filled up is delicious. My legs quiver in their bonds. Our bodies never touch. Just his cock sliding in and out of my cunt in an increasingly frenzied rhythm. I raise my head to watch him moving in and out of me. His head is bent to the same. Both of us increasingly out of breath, sweat glistening our bodies, watching the cock. the pussy.

He knows the angle is perfect. He knows the size is just right. He knows that if he hits that certain sweet spot inside me exactly what will happen. And it does. My breathing becomes faster, shallower. My eyes close involuntarily. I am nothing but that one swollen place inside my vagina. That one rough patch behind my pubic bone that is being pounded relentlessly. My legs buck and strain against the straps—my feet climbing up the wall and raising my hips ever higher. And then it comes. Clear, hot liquid, shooting, gushing, soaking his shorts and the floor. He pushes again. I can’t hold back. I have no control. I continue to squirt that precious elixir into the air, into the void. I begin to beg him to stop but I know that he knows I don’t mean it. Eventually, though, we both know it has to stop. We have to stop.

As he withdraws, I whimper slightly from the empty place he has left behind. I know he didn’t get off this time. Not enough time. I know I owe him. He carefully releases one leg and then the other. Gently setting them down and lifting me back onto the weight bench where I lie, helpless, legless. I am utterly satiated but hate to hear the sounds of his hurried cleaning up, dressing, the clink of his belt buckle as he puts himself back together.

He leans over and kisses me. “Maybe we can skip the gym today, ” he says as he starts out the door, “looks like we may be able to get in another workout right here.”

HNT Courtesy of 13Messages

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Claiming: Assume the Position

Yes, I realize it’s TMI Tuesday but in lieu of answering questions about what kind of animal best represents me, I had to get something off my…er…chest. Let me start by saying that most of my writing has some basis in fact. I really don’t do fiction well, yet I have found myself stretching with our MicroFantasy Monday assignments. I think it is a wonderful thing for a writer to be given a chance to pull that elastic muscle beyond that which you feel it should go and have it snap back into place, ready for the next challenge.

At the risk of bursting bubbles, I have to admit to a fair amount of squeemishness regarding yesterday’s post on role reversal. I had to masticate on this topic all day. Clearly, many of us went in the same direction and while I try to put a different spin on the theme each week, I was at a loss to do anything more than imagine what it might be to strap one on for a lover. Yet, here’s the thing: in reality, I I could ever pull off the same scenario. Well, let me back up…I strapped it on once (if we’re being completely honest here) and it was an utter disaster. If there were any truth at all to my MFM, it would be that very first paragraph. I remember well how completely awkward I felt and how…silly…it seemed.

I realize that everyone around me is busy fucking the gender binary. We’re here, we’re queer…yes, I understand that completely. I almost married a transman for Heaven’s sake! But me? I am old-school femme through and through. I honestly cannot seem to locate a drop of testosterone in this fuscia blood of mine. Nor do I care to. There have been many discussions regarding femme invisibility of late and someday I will probably jump into the ring with my own tales of the need for a tattoo upon my forehead that says “yes, I AM,” but here is where I ask you all to step outside the genderqueer box and accept the fact that I am so high femme I practically float and I am truly attracted to the butchest of butch bois.

I love that sense of chivalry. I want, nee expect, someone to open doors for me and to let me order first in a restaurant (or, perhaps, order for both of us). If you take a look at old photos of lesbian couples in the 50s and 60s — those grainy, black and white images like stills from The Celluloid Closet — I am the woman in the pencil skirt hanging onto the arm of a very masculine woman in the suit and tie. Not for one moment do I want to strap on a dildo and watch my lover…well, shit…I can’t even say it now that the image is in my head.

Don’t get me wrong, I am no pillow princess. I consider myself a femme top, but that stops short of being able to fuck my lover with anything other than my own hands (and as most of the women I go out with are stone butch, that doesn’t happen often either). Perhaps in this case, top for me simply means that I am assertive and in control, I don’t give over to submission easily, but I’m no hardcore dominant either.

This may, and I hope it does, provoke a lot of healthy controversy or at least discourse on the subject of traditional butch/femme couples and the idea of who feels like their cock is a true extension of themselves and those of us who take that cock and “get it” from the other side of the bed. Call me vanilla. Call me old fashioned. Call me out of touch with today’s sexual mores…but don’t call me Shirley (sorry, I had to make her laugh).

Ah, Ang (our Sweltering Celt) have you no mercy??? Here we are with yet another MFM assignment that caused my head to bleed with the effort of it all…and finally…it became effortless. Role Reversal.

I have to admit that I felt a little silly fussing with the snaps and straps of soft black leather. Finally convinced that all was secure, I stepped in front of the full length mirror and put my hand to my mouth, giggling uncontrollably at the sight of this unwieldy piece of silicone jutting out of my crotch. I turned sideways and laughed harder. Yanked on it a few times, struck a couple of poses, tried to find some small iota of masculinity within me that could pull this off. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Eh, what the hell…nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

I walked down the hall, this…cock…bouncing ungainly between my legs. When I opened the door, all humor left me at the sight of her eyes widening in absolute horror. I had left her there, tied spread-eagled to my bed. I thought we’d do a little mindfuck. Something playful and silly. Yet, when I saw her there, so defenseless, so open, so…so vulnerable…I felt something change within me. I felt the need to use this thing, this power, this control.

I had given her a safe word. I knew she would let me know if anything I did was not in her best interest. She never said a word as I mounted the bed. I no longer felt silly. I no longer felt girly. I positioned myself over her chest, my legs to each side and grabbed my cock. “Suck it.”

Her eyes grew ever wider. She shook her head from side to side and tried to avoid the 8″ shaft that was moving ever closer to her mouth. I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head up while shoving my dick in her face. “I said SUCK IT!” I expected that safe word, I was ready to stop the second she said it. She didn’t. She opened her mouth, tentatively at first, and touched the tip of her tongue to the tip of my cock. I shuddered. I had heard about the mental game—the butch understanding of owning your dick—but having no desire in that direction I never thought I’d experience a physical sensation from something that was not attached to me. I watched the head disappear into her mouth as she shut her eyes tightly. I relaxed my hold on her hair as my hips began to grind of their own accord. I could feel the weight of the balls hitting my clit with every downstroke. My wetness uncontained. I had this overwhelming need to be inside her and knew this would be a first for both of us.

“I want to fuck you.” I breathed. She nodded. Moving farther down the bed I positioned myself over her open legs and grasping my cock in my right hand I moved my fist against the absolute wet that poured forth in unspoken want. In the second that my cock plunged into her cunt, I felt inside out, upside down, backward…nothing was as it should be…I was always the one on the receiving end, that girl underneath, that mouth wide open. And in the second that my cock plunged into her cunt…I felt…just…right.

Yet another week of too many obligations, deadlines that threaten to drown me, and an error in thinking that led me to believe that this was the week for Osbasso’s first holiday theme photo, led me to resurrect an old pic. This was taken after a mid-afternoon tryst with my very first true love, my high school sweetheart. Years of pining for each other culminated in a few short hours in a hastily found, rather seedy hotel room together that put our longing for each other to bed once and for all. He has moved on and is wonderfully and blessedly happy with someone else and this photo reminds me of a sweet, sweet resolution to a lifelong love.

I have this song stuck in my head. Sarah Bareilles’ Many the Miles. It has been my ringtone for my best friend but now it plays out like the soundtrack to my life as I listen to her breathe.

The phone is pinned between my ear and the stack of pillows beneath my head. The light is out and I feel a bit of sensory deprivation. Every nerve ending is focused between my legs. The wetness that has built up during the hours of conversation between us. Flashbacks that take me instantly to a time when we were young and foolish and not ready to be together because then…then we’d have fucked things up as surely as we fucked each other so very well.

Now, I imagine her strong hands, calloused from woodworking, manual labor that balances out the nuances of her brilliance. The endless creativity that pours forth from her like the juices I know run in rivulets down her slim thighs. Those hands, her hands…the hands that I have watched so many times, drawing…writing…touching my face. my hair. my neck. Those hands that I now imagine have replaced my own. A poor substitute but they will have to do.

Her whispered wishes to be inside me, to urge me inside myself as though she were truly there (and she is) elicit a low groan where there had been whimpers of wanting. She catches her breath. She breathes out my name. A sigh. A moan. My name.

I am panting. cursing the miles between us. My fingers at work in place of hers at work in place of mine. We cling to the rhythm of each other’s breath and build a crescendo together. Not long. not long. I beseech her now, now, now. NOW. And I hear her gasp and groan and grasp at the connection between us as we come, hard, fast, furious. Frustrated in our aloneness even as we are (together).

My post-coital throaty giggle pulls forth another happy sigh from within her. We talk of airfare and time and place and (together). I feel her as surely as if she were beside me, curled into me, holding me through the night and into the day and I know that her thoughts are upon me. (she loves me) The years past have melted away. The years ahead seem effortless and full of promise. And now (just for now) we trap those phones between our ears and our pillows and we breathe. Just breathe.