Scintillectually Yours

It seems like the only time I come around anymore is to apologize for not coming around anymore.

Scintillectual started out several years ago as FemmeBLT (with Mayo). At the time, it was a great way to elucidate my relationship with former HTB. I had no real outlet to discuss the myriad topics that being with a transman brought up. We had milestones to celebrate and identities to redefine and we also had a lot of issues. He hated that I kept a sex blog. At the time, he accused me of using it to get attention and I scoffed. I qualified it as a creative outlet for a little harmless erotica.

But he was right. I resurrected FemmeBLT as Scintillectual when he packed his things, left one morning, and never came back. I pulled the covers over my head, smoked a lot of cigarettes, wrote very maudlin blog posts on my (other) site, and eventually I packed away my engagement ring, the wedding magazines, and the photos of us, and started taking baby steps into the dating world again. The overwhelming reaction to the writing I did on Scintillectually Yours fed my hunger for attention. I was awash in my loneliness. I thrived on the comments and the accolades and the occasional appearance of one of my submissions as a top pick for one of the sex blogger digests.

Then DPR came back into my life. We had a smoking hot reunion and our week-long trysts once a month were passionate and exciting and my blogging became infectious. DPR started Androgynonamous and we both burned the midnight oil writing some of the best stuff we’d ever put out.

Then life changed.

Life became…life. Moving to the same city, 900 miles from where I’d been, our lives became tangible and interwoven and complex and wonderfully domestic. I found a fabulous job and my part-time hours became full-time hours. I started acting in community theatre–pursuing a lifelong passion that I’d never had either the time or a supportive partner for. We found a church we loved and became members. I started singing in the choir. My son fell into a rhythm of his own. There was no awkward transition, no missing his old friends. He moved easily and gratefully into his new life. He and DPR take scout camping trips together and go “man-shopping” for my birthday and Mother’s Day. I coached his basketball team and sit on the sidelines cheering his flag football games.

Our sex life is no less passionate than it was…but it’s admittedly less frequent. We’re busy. We’re older. We’re parents. And we’re tired. When we get the chance we go for it with gusto but we’re not feeling part of the fetish community. We’re feeling like a couple. A family. Just your average middle-class suburban Southern dykes with a kid, a station wagon, and a couple of pets.

We’re planning our wedding. It’s going to be a big affair. My big fat gay wedding. My days are filled with appointments with caterers and florists and bakeries and phone calls to and from my bridesmaids and oh, did I mention how positively beautiful my dress is?

We’re spending our honeymoon in Sedona. Spiritual. Romantic. Relaxed. Beautiful.

Just. Like. Us.

For those of you that still pop by on occasion…I hope to keep writing. The tone of Scintillectual may change some. It doesn’t need to serve the same purpose it once did. I live with more integrity now. I have all of the attention I could possibly need. I’m in love and I am loved and sex is the icing on the cake of my life. Perhaps I’ll stop by now and then and serve up a slice.

Just don’t hold your breath for too long, now, ya hear?

My darling DPR has a birthday today and as most of you have followed our relationship from our reconnection after 26 years, I thought I’d be brazen and post an open letter to the love of my life—celebrating the day of her birth. Join me in wishing her (and us) many years of happiness to come, won’t you?

Dearest Li,

It has been almost a full year since I found you again and nearly 9 months to the day that we decided to “factor you into the equation”—the crowded puzzle that was my life last December. Quite obviously, you were (and are) the perfect fit for me. Just as I knew you were “the one” that would finally pop my impatient lesbian cherry at the tender age of 19, so you now fill all the parts of my life that I have left neglected and/or abused for so long.

Sweetheart, you are such an incredible person. You have faced physical/mental/emotional challenges all of your life with courage and conviction. You face every day with renewed vigor and unwavering Faith that all is as it should be and all will be well. You inspire everyone who comes in contact with you. You are brave and steadfast and you are my hero.

I love that we laugh the way we do—that I can be completely and utterly myself and you accept me fully and meet me wherever I am. I love your astounding intellect—the way you call up any bit of knowledge that you have read or heard and hold your own against the weightiest of PhDs. Your business acumen is well-honed and razor sharp. But it is your spirit and the spiritual journey that you pursue that impresses me most. You have brought me back to Center and remind me every day why life is worth living even in the midst of the greatest stresses. The times when we thought we might lose hold of one another as I clung to driftwood and almost let the life raft pass me by—the greatest fear I felt when we learned you did, indeed, have cancer.

You are an amazing co-parent to my child. You have given him a wonderful gift: the gift of security. I know my child finally sees Great Love and feels safe in the knowledge that we, at least, don’t plan to go anywhere. He finally has a familial unit that is strong, together, and bound for life. He enjoys you and learns from you. When the two of you laugh together, my heart leaps with unbridled joy.

As for the physical love we share. Well, from all that I’ve written here, I’m sure that is self-evident. We continue to grow together in so many ways. Our erotic explorations never cease to amaze me. Again, with you I am never self-conscious. You worship me in ways I never thought possible and I cannot feel ashamed in the presence of your love for me—for my body. Our physical relationship transcends any that I have shared with others—while I thought that I’d seen it all, done it all…I hadn’t even skimmed the surface of my desires until you came along and exhibited your willingness to fully explore our sexuality.

And, so, my dear…I am blessed in these and countless other ways. I celebrate your birth and Thank God for bringing you back into my life. I can’t imagine spending it with anyone more compatible and I look forward to many more of these celebrations. I love you with all that I am. Always, and in all ways.

Your Sweet Scin.

It’s not erotica. It’s not a toy review. It’s not an HNT or an MFM. DPR and I have had a bit on our plate lately and as usual, writing is my catharsis.

I hold the phone in my hand just a fraction of a second too long after my mumbled “thank you.” The receptionist, large, dark chocolate brown with kind eyes immediately gets up from her seat and comes around to the outer door—enveloping me in her mighty arms, my head against her shoulder, her hand in my hair. She is a stranger to me, but her contact is welcome. I had expected the word. We both had. We all had. But we had done such a wonderful job of glossing over it—knowing the risks of another hour of surgery.

Cancer.

I pulled away. Turned away. Stood looking out the plate glass window trying to regain my composure before your mother returned from the Ladies Room. I thought back to the last glimpse I had of you, embarrassed in your blue surgical bonnet. I bent over to kiss you, whispering my love, and stepping back so the nurse and orderlies could wheel you into the operating room. I thought, fleetingly, would this be the last time I would see you? No. No. I wouldn’t think that.

Before the parting I had entertained you. I pulled silly toys from my purse and lay them on your blanketed lap, careful not to jostle the intravenous umbilical. A Lego motorcycle rider. A bouncy ball in green and orange. A large plastic die. A tiny monkey doing a somersault. You seemed to relax a bit now that you were no longer keeping company alone with the constant beeping of the monitors. We played. You peered down my cleavage and mouthed double entendres unseen by your mother, reading in the corner behind you. We laughed and joked.

Before the hospital we kidded morbidly about what to do with your body in the event that you didn’t make it out alive. You told us to clean out your bank account—one way tickets to Scotland where we could spread your ashes over the highland cows (heeland coos). I thought perhaps we should be able to return so perhaps you’d like to live on a shelf in my son’s room for a year or so. Then I decided that we should stuff you and create an art installation of people frozen in time at the hands of a local taxidermist.

Looking out that window, none of it seemed funny.

We made our phone calls, your mother and I. We sat together as the waiting room emptied out. We sat silently, each with our own books, pretending not to notice whenever the other would steal a glance at the multicolored electronic board—your initials still in pink, marking your place in the operating room. This hour, the worst. It seemed as though we’d crossed into an episode of the Twilight  Zone. In that waiting room minutes became hours and hours became days. Shadows lengthened. The receptionist closed down. Occasionally a security guard would pass through. Still, your initials, alone on the board now, marking time in the operating room.

Cancer.

I felt a fist-sized ball of hurt in the pit of my stomach. I thought of all the complications we had discussed. I imagined the worst of all and wondered how I could possibly live without you. I felt selfish. How dare you bring me all the way down here and then leave me alone? I fought off anger and worry and sadness and despair and when we finally looked up to discover an empty board we rose in unison and silently moved to the elevator to find your room.

I spent the night fretfully at your side. I wouldn’t leave you now, no matter the condition of the sleeping arrangements. I had the rest of my life to sleep. I wanted to be there to hold your hand, to stroke your hair through your horrible sickness and pain, to do what little I could to make this first night just a bit more bearable for you.

Now, it has been 24 hours. You are home and I am home. Our homes are not the same homes and I miss you. I worry for you. I want to hover and fret. I want to distract you. I want you to distract me. In a few days we will have more test results. You promise me they’ve gotten it all.

Cut. Or burn. Or poison.

That is what you do to Cancer.

Can you promise me you won’t leave? Can you promise that?

If I have any loyal readers (well, I can think of a few at least) then you know I’ve been rather AWOL lately. And what I have posted has been mediocre at best. I am behind on everything including the literally dozens of product reviews that need to be addressed, some of which have been outstanding for months! I’m beginning to think I’m going to start getting invoices from these wonderful companies assuming I just took the products and ran with them. I promise, I will catch up.

In the meantime, there will be no Wicked Wednesday this week and likely I won’t get around to an HNT. I just haven’t got the energy or the motivation. I have been decompensating rapidly due to the stress of my upcoming move and it is all I can do to drag my sorry ass out of bed every morning with some semblance of sanity. That, my friends, is slipping. I am working all hours of the day and night, including the entire holiday weekend just past, and still I’m shy of my financial goals for the move by several thousand dollars. I have no idea where that’s going to come from. With barely five weeks left, even if I did get new work, getting paid in a timely fashion seems unlikely. I may be carrying my belongings on my back as my son and I hitchhike down south.

If you follow DPR’s blog at all, you probably think our relationship is all wine and roses and sunshine beaming out of our perfectly bleached assholes. Trust me, it’s not. It’s hard work being apart, it’s hard work orchestrating this move, and I sometimes wonder why she even puts up with me. I’m also surprised my kid hasn’t packed a small suitcase and tried to run away by now. I’ve become this total shrew. I am cranky and bitchy, I’ve lost my sense of humor, I snap at both of them, and I take everything personally. While DPR maintains this butch pollyanna sense of optimism, I sink further and further into the third circle of hell. Today we had a massive thunderstorm and I just sort of sat here and prayed that lightning would strike me down and then I’d have a good excuse to fuckitall.

I don’t quite understand what is holding me back from being all gung-ho and cheery about our impending move. There are 101 practical reasons to do this. Unfortunately, the closer the day comes the more I dig in my heels and want to live under the covers. I can’t remember a day without a migraine. I just never realized how much I’d grown to call this place home. I’ve lived in this state longer than I’ve lived anywhere in my life (and I’ve moved a LOT), but most recently, I developed a true sense of community here and some real friendships that I’m loathe to step away from. I swore that I would NEVER move back to the buckle of the bible belt. I did not want to live down south again and deal with all of the misogyny and homophobia that comes along with being there. Add to that the fact that my only sibling hasn’t spoken to me in almost 4 years and what we have left is…me moving into DPR’s life. Her life. Her homeland. Her family. Her friends. I love them all dearly and feel entirely accepted there but what I built here I’m abandoning. I finally got a sense of self and I have to hope that I can keep that self alive once I’ve made this 900 mile trek to where she is.

I hate to sound bitter. This month apart has been extremely hard. Harder than any other time we’ve spent away from each other. DPR is flying in on Thursday and the timing couldn’t be better. I really need to be sure of her. The phone just isn’t cutting it. Emails are scant and we don’t seem to know how to communicate this time around. I feel a certain disconnect that I’ve never felt before. I’m scared and I admit it. My love for her is strong indeed but my soul is weary and the tears flow too freely these days.

So, dear reader, forgive my absence for a bit. I need to take this time with her to cement our bond and find the strength to move ahead with whatever comes. If I can muster up the motivation, you’ll see a review or two, but I may not be back at the helm until next week—after my darling DPR has taken to the skyway one more time before she returns to help me pack my belongings and begin a life anew.

My girlfriend (boifriend?), DPR, has a relatively new blog that I’ve promoted here several times already. Although I believe her to be a wonderful writer of erotica, she lovingly sends those pieces only to me and instead focuses her endless talent on issues that are more relevant to her daily life. If you read my work on a regular basis you know that I am very traditionally butch/femme. I joke that as the years have gone by my girlfriends have gotten so progressively butch that I wound up with a man (my ex is a female-to-male transsexual). It should come as no surprise then, that DPR is butch to the nth degree. While she has no plans to transition, in daily life she passes as a man far more than she passes as a woman. Hence, her desire to explore, through words, her daily “walk between worlds.”

On Fridays, however, she devotes her page to her true passion, her poetry. Today she posted, with my blessing, the first poem she ever wrote to me. It is called Something More Than Promise and it is heartbreakingly beautiful. I was moved to write about this because of the conversation that ensued after I read the introduction she wrote. Her Friday posts are called “The Mind of a Poet,” and she literally blew me away (as she often does) with her literary references and her sheer overwhelming intellect. I am always fascinated by anyone who writes good poetry (and I believe hers is far better than good; I believe it borders on genius but I leave it to you, dear reader, to check it out for yourself). I dabble with poetic format but would never, ever attempt actual poetry. This is where the difference in our styles lies. I am in awe of her academic prowess. I get wet just listening to her talk—she is this wellspring of obscure knowledge. Anything she has ever read, listened to, or studied…it’s there. I sometimes feel as though I sit at the feet of one of the greatest teachers and have nothing worthwhile to contribute because I am so overwhelmed by the force of her intelligence.

I may sound as though I’m not giving myself any credit and that is not the case. I write. I love to write. I think I’m a good writer. Someday I’d love to be published (and I don’t just write erotica…I maintain a couple of other websites and am working on a book of essays about single motherhood, this just happens to be one facet of my work). I believe I have raw talent and I’m not a stupid woman by any means. However, I also am very instinctive about my writing. I rarely put more than a single hour into any one piece that you read. I have gut, visceral reactions. My work is pure passion on paper. I often find myself flying out of bed at midnight to purge my cerebral overload; DPR, on the other hand, has one poem she’s been working on for 10 years. Yes, 10 years! That means she was giving birth to that baby on paper around the same time I was birthing my demon-spawn of a child!

I guess the point I’m trying to make  with all this verbal rambling and fumbling is that she is a true intellectual. Put her in a room full of academics and she can hold her own against the most pretentious of them (and she has not an ounce of pretense in her body, mind you). Put me in the same room and I’m off looking for the chips and dip and snooping in the medicine cabinet. I have said this before and I’ll say it a million times more, DPR first got me (oh, those many years ago) with her attitude, but she (when we reunited) seduced me with her intellect.

As an aside, and I hope she doesn’t mind that I’ve shared this, I want you to know a little something more about this particular poem and to fully understand the meaning of this you will have to read the poem itself. She wrote it in December, shortly after we decided to see what would come of reuniting after 26 years apart. Just after Christmas she came to visit. The night that her luggage finally arrived, having been sidetracked by USAir to who-knows-where, she pulled out her Christmas gift to me. It was a cairn. A beautiful glass jar with a cork in the top, filled painstakingly with native garnet, granite, and river rocks polished long for us. It was the most beautiful and romantic gift I have ever received. Now…don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like her?

It will forever remain a mystery why we decided to ascend the mountain to your dad’s cabin immediately upon my arrival at the airport. After 5 weeks apart, both of us were twitchy and childish in the back seat, your brother shooting us impish looks in the rearview mirror as I repeatedly removed your hand from my upper thigh in order to concentrate (somewhat) on his girlfriend’s attempt at small talk. I was enduring a heady mix of ebullience at being together again and a sense of physical desire so deep I hurt. I stared out the window and allowed your hand in mine, our fingers entwined, that one point of contact between us electric.

A general melée ensued as we parked the car and all clambered out to retrieve various bags, a crust of new fallen snow breaking like glass beneath our boots, covering our jeans with fine, white powder; the suggestion of late night sledding bandied about. We were directed to the larger of the two guest rooms. Unusual for you, as you normally left the room with the attached bath to your brother. I entered the bedroom in wonder—the clear winter sunlight bouncing off the crystalline whiteness outside filled the room with light. It would hardly have been appropriate to shut the door for some long awaited private time, but both of us were aching to get at each other and we came crashing into a corner together, our lips locked in hunger, as your dad appeared in the doorway.

We waved off his embarrassed apologies and smirked at each other as we followed him into the living room. The next several hours became an excruciating exercise in self-control. Lively family conversation was followed by hearty bowls of stew and crusty French bread; the mountain air always heightened my senses and everything seemed to smell better, taste better. The clock on the mantel ticked away so slowly, I wondered when it would ever be appropriate to excuse ourselves…and all the while your hand held fast to mine, your calloused fingers toying with the tips of my very soft ones. That single point of electricity building to a fevered pitch.

Finally, gratefully, yawns were acknowledged and everyone started to move on to their rooms. We said our goodnights and blessedly closed our door behind us. You pulled me into you immediately. Our hands everywhere, our fervent kisses covered each other’s lips, faces, necks. I stopped short as I heard conversation from the next room. You mumbled something about paper thin walls into my shoulder blade as your hands reached under my sweater. Paper thin? I felt as though we were sharing a room with your brother and his girlfriend! Distractedly, I wondered if they’d been constructed with spit and toilet paper.

My musings were short-lived as we reached the bed, still joined to each other, and I sat down hard on it. The bedsprings immediately sounded their alarm and I groaned inwardly. I stood back up as we started to pull each other’s clothes off. The room was slightly chilly, moonlight spilling in from the surrounding windows. We were frantic to be as close as we could possibly be. The air itself filled with our sexual/emotional/spiritual connection. We whispered and giggled at our predicament. Clearly the bed was off limits, at least for some serious fucking, and now our heads whipped around the room looking for a place to satiate our overwhelming urges.

I had your face in my hands and fell against the wall with an audible thud. Your brother called in from the next room asking if everything was all right. We stifled our laughter as you reassured him that we were fine, making up some story about tripping over the woven cotton throw rug. Our frustration was becoming palpable.

Now you began to express your keen desire to fuck me. Your wanting so powerful that your cock, still restrained in your duffle bag on the floor, fairly stood at attention all on its own. You hastily gathered your things and ducked into the bathroom as I whispered hurry, hurry. I shed the last of my clothes and stood there, my arms folded about myself, the former heat of the excessive wetness between my legs growing colder in the night air. I grabbed for your cock the second you re-entered the room. That hurt, that ache, was stronger than any I could have imagined. You grabbed the thick quilt from the bed and threw it upon the floor, both of us sinking into it. I ran my hands the length of your taut body, sighing with the exquisite reunion of my nails to your flesh. You groaned as you watched me move down your torso, my eyes upon you, my tongue darting out to wet my lips just before I drew your cock into my mouth—instantly swallowing you down the back of my throat before pulling back up again. Hungry. I was so hungry.

I shushed you as you begged to fuck me. As much as you loved to watch your cock in my mouth, the wanting to be inside me was all-encompassing. I acquiesced. Pleading wasn’t necessary. I was waiting, wanting, ready. I pulled a few pillows off the bed and you understood that the only way we could conceivably pull this off was to cushion yourself on the floor while I lowered myself down upon you. You sighed and I gasped. I threw my head back and tried so hard to stifle my normally exuberant moans as I rode you hard, your hips bucking underneath me, both of us trying desperately to become a single entity. I rocked my pelvis back against you, forcing your balls into your clit (so hard, so hard) and you bit back the noises rising from deep within you. I supported my weight in your hands, clenched tightly in mine. That force of pressure between us heightened everything erotic. My sole focus became my cunt, filled with your cock, and as you fingered my clit to orgasm, I wept with the joy of release, of all those weeks of barely satisfactory phone sex, of being one with you again.

In that release, I forgot for just one second where we were and began a keening moan of ecstasy that was preempted by your hand upon my mouth. My eyes flew open in horror as I registered our surroundings. We both became lost in paroxysms of laughter muffled into the pillows beneath us.

For hours we stayed there, upon that gleaming wood floor, the moonlight striking the sharp angles of your body, the soft curves of mine. We navigated the waters of knowing each other again until we finally hit the wall of no more. As we climbed, exhausted, into the soft expanse of the ample bed, you make a move to unclasp your harness. I reached out and stayed your hand. You understood and climbed into bed behind me. I tucked my ass into the hollow of your groin and your cock slipped easily into me as your right hand reached around and cradled my left breast. Our breathing slowed, deepened, and we sighed our unending love for each other into that still night.

My darling DPR was here for nine positively blissful days. Although we have seen each other on occasion and kept in touch somewhat over the years, we have both been dealing with more than our fair share of shit relationships. After our on and off again relationship (made difficult by my then boyfriend and her numerous girlfriends *ahem*) 26 years ago, I imagined that it would be slightly awkward to be rekindling a sexual connection in our mid-40s. I worried needlessly. From the moment we were finally alone together, it was as though we had never been apart. Perhaps the only thing that has changed about us (aside from my considerable weight gain) is that we are SO much better at this then we were in our early 20s and back then we were pretty fucking good!

What I have come to learn is that it is very difficult to maintain a sex blog when you are head over heels in love. And this is BIG LOVE. Up until now I have been able to write what I know. Much of my erotica, particularly my Wicked Wednesday posts, are based in fact. Some of them are practically transcripts of my sexual exploits. I spoke with DPR about how I can continue to write creative erotica without feeling as though I am betraying something so incredibly special. I can’t write about US. I can’t recount something that goes so far beyond the mechanics of sex and into the realm of something I have never experienced before.

She is exceedingly supportive of Scintillectually Yours. She understands my need for this community and that this type of writing is just another facet cut into the rock that is me. We discussed Wicked Wednesday and how to go about that and, in the end, we decided that she would give me assignments every Tuesday night. I find it challenging to be given a theme for MFM every week and have, for the most part, done well with it. This week, DPR gave me my first assignment, a rough outline, a miniature scenario to be fleshed out and laid bare. I found myself positively scintillated (if I may be so bold) and enjoyed every moment in the writing of it. The end product became something similar to what we are as a couple—hot, sexy, slightly edgy, really funny, full of attentiveness and passion and playfulness. This is what I have been missing all these years. Someone who makes me laugh, loud and long. The kind of laughter that causes you to snort and spit milk out of your nose. The kind of laughter that makes you pee your pants. At the same time, she makes me moan with wanting from across a crowded room. When I see her talking so animatedly to my friends as I’m cooking dinner, my heart just fills up and overflows. One whisper from her, one touch, one look and I am forever gone. I can’t imagine how we’ve lived our lives without each other and at the same time I can’t imagine how we would have lived them together without having experienced the pain and anguish we have both been through.

I realize this is a long and rather sappy (okay, really sappy) HNT post. I have come to a crossroads in my life where I am highly protective of that intimacy that DPR and I share and yet still wish to continue to explore the very erotic nature of my being and our being. With that in mind, I have included a series of shots taken on New Year’s Eve…a bare hour or so after she proposed to me and I accepted. With her blessing, I offer up a glimpse of us and the amazing future that awaits us even as we live it each day.

“All that is profane becomes sacred again.” ~ Rumi

And lest I forget, stop on by Osbasso’s site to get a liberal sprinkling of your regularly scheduled HNTs! Happiest of Thursdays to all!

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.

I love watching you watching me.

Speeding down 495 I had butterflies in my stomach in anticipation of my plans. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. I collected my cool while you were in the shower. Sat in your swivel chair, legs crossed, black pencil skirt riding high, white shirt open just enough. I knew you’d like it. And you did. I kept pushing you away your hands kept straying under my skirt. Wanting it now. Impatient. But I had promised to torture you and however silly I felt I wanted to do this slowly.

I love watching you watching me.

Feeling Love by Paula Cole. That song makes me wet whenever I hear it.

“You make me feel like a candy apple
All red and horny
You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde
In a centerfold, the girl next door
And I would open the door and…
I’d be all wet
With my tits soaking through this tiny little t-shirt…
That I’m wearing
And you would open the door and tie…
Me up to the bed…”

I can’t help but move to that music. That rhythm gets under my skin, crawls between my thighs, I’m oblivious to everything but you, your unwavering gaze, your leg twitching from anxiousness to get to me. You make me know I’m sex itself. You bring out the absolute whore in me. I want to be everywhere at once. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of doing you can do to me. With me. I am yours and yours alone.

When I come near you, intending to prolong this prelude, I find I can’t. I need your mouth on my mouth, your hands on my body, my nails down your back. Those arms. Oh God those arms. When we hit the floor and you rip off my heels and my thigh high stockings and that black lace thong my brain goes numb and all I know is you and your touch and your kisses and your tongue on my clit and my fucking hell I’m coming already and I feel like an 18 year old boy who blows his load before he even gets his pants off.

You do that to me. You make me come in wave after wave after wave. Always coming. So fast and so hard and I’ve lost all powers of speech I’m just one moan after another because you feel so fucking good inside me. The way my eyes close instantly and against my will and my back arches involuntarily the minute you put your fingers inside me. Whatever you do you do it well. Two, then three, four and I’m aching for it all. That sting and burn as I breathe my way through the widest part of your hand and the exquisite warmth as you curl inside me and rock against that spot that drives me. Drive me.

And I love watching you watching me.

You kiss me so long and with such passion that my lips are swollen and bruised. I love kissing you. You have these lips that were just made for mine. Like you’ve been waiting for my lips to fit perfectly with yours. Your tongue playing in my mouth. You don’t always know that I watch you when we kiss. I like to see you. And sometimes I just close my eyes and lose myself within those endless kisses. I love that you kiss me constantly. When we make love you keep those lips on mine and it feels that much more intimate. That much more sacred. I want to lose myself inside you. Deep into your mouth, our lips hard against each other. The way we want each other is like a hunger that can’t be sated.

I move down the bed and push you away. Run my hands down my own body over my breasts up and down my thighs across my stomach finally reaching into my pussy you can’t take your eyes off me and your breathing is heavy with frustration.

I love watching you watching me.

I can never last long this way. I want you too badly. I’d like to tease you, taunt you, make you want me more than you’ve ever wanted anyone or anything in your life but it isn’t my hands I want down there. You watch me lick my fingers slick with the wetness that you bring me to in a never ending flow. Always wet. Always hard. Always swollen open ready willing able.

The stamina and flexibility, the tangle we get ourselves into is amazing. The fact that six or seven hours goes by and it feels like mere minutes. It’s never enough. I can’t get enough. I want you all the time. In me on me around me fuck me suck me spank me – yes you hit me hard and leave deliciously burning welts on my ass and you know I’m dripping from the pleasure that mixes so well with the pain. And when I can’t take it any more I need you inside me. Your cock, so hard. You fuck me like no one before and no one again. When I straddle you and lean back, my back arched and my head dropping behind me I know you are watching me and I know how much it turns you on.

And I love watching you watching me.

When we finally have to sleep I curl up in a ball on top of you, my head tucked into your shoulder, your arms, God those arms, underneath me. And when I wake up, the early morning sun streaming into the window. I look over at you…

And I love watching you watching me.

And so it begins again. And again. And again.

1. Which ONE do you wish you had more of in bed… romance, experimentation or foreplay?
I need romance. Truly. I’ve got the sex thing and there’s been more than enough experimentation and foreplay. I need someone to sweep me off my feet rather than just assuming that I’m groveling at theirs.

2. What is your worst habit?
Procrastination. Just the fact that I get up before the birds to begin work and start my day off on this site should tell you that much!

3. Do you take compliments well?
I do say thank you now and I try to be graceful about it, but inside you’ll hear me shouting “what are you nuts? Do you really know me? Do you need glasses? WTF?”

4. Do you think more about the past, present or future?
I can’t help but think about the future. I’m almost 45 years old (like, seriously…in about a month!) and single again and no, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone, thank you.

5. Do you feel everyone has a soulmate?
I used to think so. I wish that were the case. Now, not so sure…I have had a lot of truly fucked up relationships…looking to find “the one.” It would be nice to think that there is someone out there that is so extremely compatible for me that I could consider them my soulmate, but I don’t think I’ll ever truly find that. Intense love? Yes.

Bonus (as in optional): “Where Would You Wish To Wake Up?”
In bed, together, every morning.

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Blue-Eyed Vixen would like to remind us that TFT is up! Go check it out. The site is always looking for contributors. If you’ve thought about wanting to do it—there is no time like the present! If you have before but it’s been awhile- we miss you! All you have to do to help support our troops is EMAIL HER! Help boost some morale!