Scintillectually Yours

The excitement and anticipation surrounding us was palpable. My senses felt overwhelmed as I clutched your hand and took in the scenery around us. Throngs of men and women in costume—everyone masked—waited impatiently for the castle doors to open and the events of the night to commence. I felt as though we were in Venice rather than the small Southern town barely 20 minutes from home.

I looked over at you and you grinned widely at me. Your features, sharp and delicate (so like Cary Elwes), stood out in stark contrast to your black bandana. Your black shirt was open at the neck and I barely suppressed an urge to lean over and run my tongue from collarbone to ear. My darling Dread Pirate Roberts. You looked every bit the part tonight. Sadly, I hadn’t time to find an appropriate medieval gown—but, then again, Princess Buttercup I am not. I opted for a black corset tied tightly over a voluminous Victorian-era skirt that tied up in tiers, exposing thigh high fishnets and gray ankle boots. I adjusted my top hat and felt the layers of tulle ribbon settle themselves upon my bare back.

There was a murmur from the crowd and we began jostling forward as the large, heavy door swung open, revealing tantalizing colored lights within. The Castle Carnivale. So many years I’d wanted to attend. You put your arm around my waist protectively and ushered me along. Once we entered the high-ceilinged foyer, I couldn’t decide where to go first. The options presented to us were dizzying. There were so many performers booked in so many rooms. I wanted to take it all in. I wanted to be part of the magic.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, “Please?” You understood that I was indecisive and needed you to be in control of the night ahead. You nodded and moved close to my ear, “As you wish.”

You led me to the first room, filled wall to wall with people. There was no music—just a steady, rhythmic drumming. I could feel heat from the platform set in a far corner but couldn’t see over the elaborate hats and headdresses. You deftly maneuvered us to the front and there were two men and woman, nude save for absolutely breathtaking body paint. One of the men was swallowing a flaming sword. The woman was dipping torches in some kind of flammable liquid, lighting them with a torch, and passing them to the second man who knelt on the floor touching each one to his tongue to put out the flame. His movements were rapid—their synchronization complete.

The next room was a burlesque performance and I delighted in the often bawdy revelry. We moved from there to the pole dancer. As far as I could tell, she was wearing string—strategically placed to showcase her head-to-toe tattoos. Tiger stripes. Pantera Blacksmith. I’d seen her in Boston and had photos taken with her. She was pure artistry wound up in a tight little muscular package of athletic grace and agility. I took the time to say hello in between shows and was surprised she’d remembered me. Perhaps it was the same corset that tipped her off, or she was just being gracious.

The exotic sights and sounds were getting to me. I could feel the heat building in my groin as we moved from room to room. The drinks were flowing and everyone seemed to be affected by the intense sexuality emanating from the performers and party-goers alike. We grabbed a couple of waters and headed to one of the dance bars—a DJ spinning the kind of erotic techno that makes you want to strip down and have sex in the middle of the room. You pulled me into a darkened corner and wrapped your arms around my waist so that we could both watch the dancers. I felt you hard against me and realized for the first time all night that you had packed. My breath came just a little faster in my throat and you chuckled. Your own breath tickling the back of my neck and sending shivers down my spine.

I backed up further into you. Nestling my ass against your crotch. A crowd was gathering in front of us as a professional dance troupe took the floor. Everyone’s back to us, I turned into you. My hat and your mask made kissing virtually impossible. But your cool gray eyes glinted with mischief and lust. I could feel my body flush with desire and I knew that I didn’t want to wait to go fuck in the car. I hoisted one leg over your hip and draped my arms around your shoulders. Our eyes locked and you let one hand trail across the top of my breasts, spilling out of the tightly bound corset. My head dropped back for one second and then I stared back at you again, licking my lips ever so slightly. The music, as loud as it was, seemed to fade into the background as you ran both hands down my sides and then slipped one hand between my legs.

I gasped and reached for you. The skirt I wore concealed our bodies well although anyone paying attention could clearly see that my body was gyrating of its own accord. Our private performance may well have been the subject of discussion but I didn’t care enough to notice whether anyone was watching. As you slipped your hand inside my hot pink ruffled panties, I slid your zipper down and pulled your cock out. Reaching down, I slid my hand between yours and my incredibly wet cunt. I came away with instant lubrication for this hot and steamy handjob. You moaned and broke eye contact so that you could watch my hand move from base to tip and back again. My other hand held firm to the back of your neck and I dug my fingernails in deep as you drove several fingers hard into my pussy. We picked up the rhythm of the bass beat and our hands moved together upon each other. Our breathing heavy, our moans loud but not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

This was our show. Our time. As we so often do, we came together—staring each other down. My eyes closed first and my head fell back again, my hat toppling to the floor as I cried out my orgasm and bloodied the back of your neck with my nails. I felt a tap on my shoulder and quickly whipped around, protecting your exposed cock as you pulled yourself together. A young woman, scantily clad in feathers and satin, was offering my hat to me. “I believe this belongs to you?” she smirked. I blushed deeply, still breathless and contracting. I couldn’t find my voice and nodded my thanks as I put it back on, pulling it low over one mascara-smeared eye.

I turned back to find you grinning like the Cheshire cat, “I need to fuck you. Now.”

I wasn’t arguing. I wanted you inside me desperately but, after assessing the looks on our nearest neighbors’ faces, I decided we’d better find another room. We took off in search of the perfect place in this Castle Carnevale. Somewhere loud, crowded, filled with hot and sweaty bodies—average folks who, for one night of the year, let loose their inhibitions and allowed two slightly off-kilter dykes like us a single dark corner in which to do our dirty deeds.

vi.sualize.us

Two days have passed since we’d seen each other. I thought that once I was a scant two miles down the road, we’d be together all the time. I hadn’t bargained on all of the minutia of day-to-day life—a new job with a fairly long commute, visits with my family, time I need to spend alone with my son, time you need with your mother, not to mention the small silly things like banking and grocery shopping. Today, however, I had cleared the decks. My son was sent to a friend’s house and I have no impending work. I am looking forward to spending time together and thinking of what we might do as I move from room to room, tidying up as I go along.

I am just pulling taut the wrinkles in the comforter, bending over to smooth out the folds, when I feel your hands on my hips. I jump and started to turn—I hadn’t heard you come in. “Oh baby, don’t move,” you say, “let me look at you.” I grin to myself. I know what parts of my body drive you crazy. I know you have a thing for my legs—my thighs and calves well-muscled and tight from daily hip-hop and Zumba classes (my newfound passion next to you)—and, of course, my ass. You sigh appreciatively and put your hands firmly on my shoulders, pushing me down across the bed. “Mmmm…naughty boi…what are you up to?” I expect your usual comeback (“oh, about 5’4”) but you shush me and I stretch my arms out languidly.

You reach around me and quickly unzip my jean shorts. They drop to the floor and I arch my back as you push my panties down around my ankles to join them. I am already achingly wet with anticipation and frustration. I imagine your fingers slipping into me but you have something else in mind entirely and you know it will make me want you ever so much more. While I expect you to take your boi-clit in hand (there is nothing quite like having you jerk off against my bare skin—your hand bumping against my swollen clit with each thrust), I am pleasantly surprised when I feel your cock slide between the cheeks of my ass. Your hand comes down hard upon me and I gasp with the exquisite pain. Again, you thwart my expectations. Rather than bending over to kiss the welt you have raised, your hand caresses my skin and I feel the wetness that you have produced soothe the burn like a balm.

I press myself back against you and spread my legs as wide as I possible can—opening myself to you utterly. “Oh, what a good girl…” you say and a moan escapes me involuntarily. Now you have a purpose. With cock in hand, lubricated by your own juices, you begin to slowly pull your shaft. I feel your fist and then the head of your cock alternately pushing at my anus, wet and open. I crave your cock inside me but you aren’t ready. You pick up the pace and all the nasty thoughts in my head flow from my mouth and I can’t stop them (I want to be your good girl, your bad girl, your dirty little whore, filthy slut, everything you want, fill me up, use me, take me, spank me, please, daddy, please daddy please, daddy please daddy please). Driven by my words you jerk off faster and harder—the sound of your breathing nearly overrides the stream of dirty talk that I have no apparent control over. Very soon you stiffen and moan and your hand tugs hard on your cock one final time as you collapse over me.

I smile and begin to turn over, expecting (the unexpected, by now?) you to hold me for a bit as you catch your breath. Again, you take me by surprise. Holding me down you tell me that you brought me a bit of a present but I am not to move. I obey although my cunt is throbbing with need. You leave the room and when you come back, you slip my new blindfold over my eyes. The sudden darkness and my vulnerable position make me weak with desire. But, that isn’t all you’ve brought. I feel something snakelike and silky coil across my back. It feels familiar, but not like anything we’ve used before. I try to place the texture but before I can name it you pull my arms backward and bend my knees, placing my hands around my own ankles. Rope. Silken rope.

I am now tethered to myself in the middle of my own bed in my own room. You leave again and I hear you in the kitchen. This is becoming maddening. I can’t even begin to imagine how swollen and red my pussy must be. You are silent when you return and this time the sensation is immediately recognizable. Oh how I love the white-hot pain of ice, particularly when my body temperature is already soaring.

You run the cube down the middle of my back and then let it melt slightly in the crack of my ass. I am wild with wanting some relief. I ache with want. You reach under my body and rub the ice against my rock-hard nipples then bring it back and before I can even begin to beg you slip it inside me with two fingers. My orgasm is instantaneous. Hot, clear liquid gushes forth and I shudder. My body fights itself within the confines of the ropes. You are relentlessly working my clit—your tongue and fingers everywhere. I know you must be on your knees between my legs. My arms grow sore but I don’t care. Every sense I have is centered on my cunt and the wave after wave of contractions you pull forth from me.

The ice cube is long melted within me and I radiate nothing but heat. I can do nothing but whimper in the darkness and I am dimly aware of you lovingly untying my ropes. My arms have fallen asleep—they are numb and tingling. As soon as I am free my body curls in upon itself and you crawl over behind me, holding me tightly, whispering your love into my ear. You rock me quietly, soothing me.

And before too long, I reach over between your legs. I want what I want and, after all, we do have all day.

Good Girl hesitantly pushed the door open to find Butch Daddy reclining on the bed. He sat up when she came into the room and motioned her over to inspect her outfit. She had dressed the part (a bit of a lark), and shyly turned full circle for his approval. He nodded at the short plaid skirt, the white button-down shirt with short puffy sleeves, and lingered over the length of her legs clad in pink knit thigh high socks. Her feet, shod in black lace-up chunky Sketchers, twisted in upon themselves as she clasped her hands behind her back and stood, silently, waiting.

Butch Daddy beckoned her to the side of the bed where he now sat and instructed her to bend over. Much like Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character in Secretary, she put her forearms flat upon the bed and bent over straight from the waist. She dared not move as he stood up and walked around behind her, lifting her skirt and straightening the elastic on her panties. A shiver went through her as Good Girl felt herself go damp. Butch Daddy straightened her skirt and told her to stand up. Again, she resumed her position, eyes downcast, hands behind her back. This was not a role she was accustomed to playing. Good Girl tended toward the rebellious, though she always aimed to please. She had a stubborn will and a cocky nature. She wasn’t always a good girl. Tonight, she wanted Butch Daddy to take her as he wished and she fidgeted in her submission.

As instructed, Good Girl fetched Butch Daddy’s cock from the chair in the corner of the room, along with the towel it was wrapped in. She pulled back the covers and laid the towel upon the bed while he cinched the black leather straps tight around his narrow hips. “I think you can take those off now,” Butch Daddy gestured to her shoes. She bent at the waist and took her time unlacing them, treating him to the outline of her vulva encased in white cotton. When she set the shoes next to the dresser, Butch Daddy patted the bed beside her and she climbed up, perched on her knees, and waited. “I don’t think we need this anymore either, do we?” He flicked at the top button on her shirt and she slowly and methodically released each one, catching the gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “Now,” he said, “let’s see how grown up you’ve become.” Good Girl gasped involuntarily. Those words worked their way straight to her core as she reached behind her back and unfastened her new white bra. Butch Daddy sighed appreciatively and reached out one hand to cup her full breast. He ran a calloused thumb over one nipple while he took the other in his mouth. She arched her back instinctively, forcing more of her breast into his face.

“Now,” he sat back up, “I think it’s time for you to touch my cock. Can you do that?” Good Girl nodded and grabbed the lube from the nightstand, pouring it into her left hand. She took his cock in both hands and ran them one over the other, pulling up on the head, tightening her grasp around his shaft. “Does this please you?” She asked. “Oh yes, that pleases me very much.” It wasn’t too long before he asked if she’d like to take it into her mouth. Obediently she positioned herself between his legs so that he could easily watch as she licked his shaft from bottom to top and then swallowed the entire phallus before releasing it momentarily to gauge his reaction. Butch Daddy was very pleased, indeed. “That’s wonderful. What a good girl you are.” He said, and then he asked her, “what would you like to do?”

She was ready. So ready. “I would like you to put your penis in my vagina…please.” He put his right hand between her legs and felt that she was very ready. Good Girl wriggled out of her panties and spread her legs as far as they would go. Butch Daddy sat between her legs and toyed with her clit. She moaned softly. After a time, he pulled her further down on the bed so that her legs were draped over his and easily slid his cock into her waiting pussy. She moved against him, driving his cock as far into her as possible, and he was very pleased. After Good Girl bucked and shuddered against him she wrapped her legs tightly around his back and twisted, flipping Butch Daddy over to the other side of the bed.

Good Girl grasped the clips on the harness he wore and tossed aside his cock. She meant to suck him off good and proper. Lying sideways on the bed she wrapped her lips around his rock-hard boi-clit and pulled every bit of him into her mouth. She was hungry for him and he grabbed her hair and pushed her down onto his own flesh roughly. She groaned with pleasure. This was how she liked it. Although technically still subservient, Good Girl was every bit in charge now and she controlled his orgasm until she felt it was time to reward Butch Daddy for being so very good to her. She felt his shaft swell and throb in her mouth and she tugged harder, her head bobbing up and down. Butch Daddy tensed and then leaned hard on her back forcing her onto him firmly. His orgasm was powerful and strong and it left him weakened, petting and stroking her softly.

And she knew he was pleased.

It’s the perfect cock

I’m not kidding. DPR and I have been on the lookout for a replacement for the Cybercock we bought during her second trip here and my dear friend, John, at Pervalicious.com volunteered to send me the Vixskin Bandit to try out. I’ll just tell you this right now. There is no need to try any other realistic dildo and with a lifetime warranty, I hope I never have to!

If you have never had any experience with Vixskin products (from Vixen Creations), let me extol the many virtues. It feels much like the real thing (and yeah, you’re gonna say “you’re a dyke, how would you know?” Trust me, sweetheart, been there, done that, have many nasty stains on many a t-shirt.); it is much firmer than cyberskin (which, incidentally, tends to tear at the base if you suck too hard or have overactive PC muscles) but has a wonderful soft, flexible outer “skin.”

Okay, I’m a bit of a size queen so I tend to go for larger rather than smaller, but no so large that I end up puncturing a lung every time we have sex. The Bandit is perfect for me at 7 1/2″ x 1 5/8″. Pervalicious.com does carry a wide variety of lengths and widths, both with and without balls—all of which are perfect for harnesses with O-rings. I will say that the Bandit, while much easier to control during intercourse (both vaginally and anally), has some drawbacks when it comes to oral sex. The Cybercock is extremely flexible and just begs to be taken into your mouth. You really need some control over your gag reflex if you are going to deep-throat the Bandit. Also, because it is made of silicone, it tends to squeak a bit against the teeth and if you are easily distracted (as I am) you might need to work a bit harder to avoid the teeth-against-the-head action.

If you are looking for a truly perfect, realistic dildo, look no further. The Vixskin line (and the Bandit, in particular) is the perfect cock. It is boilable, wearable, controllable, and comfortable. At around $100 each (depending on size), it may seem a little pricey. Trust me, worth every penny and then some. Unless you throw this baby under a bus or hand it to your Rottweiller as a chew toy, you will never need to buy another. So…what are you waiting for?

The Bandit? He gets a very enthusiastic YES! YES! YES!

Oh.  Oh…uh huh… Ohhhh! Oh yeah, baby! YES! YES! YES!

Pervalicious.com does not pay me for my honest opinions but I do get to keep the products I am sent for review.

The well-worn shammy felt like an old friend in the palm of my hand as I rubbed out a midtone on the light gray Canson paper. I selected the firmest charcoal from the box and looked up at you sitting in the oriental, octagonal armchair that I covet, one arm on your upper thigh, the other draped across the wooden back. I began to rough out a gesture of your pose as you held still but watched me intently. I felt your eyes upon me every time I bent head to paper.

It had been years, more than a decade actually, since I had drawn from life. This was my one true passion and the one thing I had left behind, neglected, when my son was born. But I was inspired by your own passion for your art and the warmth of your studio—inviting me in to pick up the tools that would satiate my desire to capture a moment of you. Now that I had the basics down, I took a white conté crayon and began to work out the highlights; your defined angles and symmetrical features thrown into sharp contrast by a single bulb in the corner of the room. I began to lose myself in the work. My eye roaming every inch of you, my charcoal tracing your jawline, jutting collarbone, slight curve of your small breast, hint of your nipple hardened under my gaze. You smile when I catch my lower lip between my teeth in concentration and I admonish you not to move.

Finally, I have worked out the shadow in your jeans, thrown into bas relief by the cock I had asked you to strap on for the piece. I wanted to catch your true androgyny. The softness of your eyes and the fullness of your lips. Ripe. Delicious. The slight giveaway to your biological gender visible through your thin ribbed tank. The bulge in your jeans that calls my name and knows the deepest parts of me. Your strong, calloused hands, masculine and yet oh-so-graceful. I realized my breathing had become shallow, more rapid. The drawing was done, but I was not.

I set the work aside, leaning it against the wall facing away from you. I wasn’t ready to show it to you yet. I crawled across the floor as you studied me curiously, half smile crossing your handsome face. I pushed your legs gently apart, leaving black handprints on both thighs, and knelt between them. More marks of me upon your white tank as I pulled it over your head. You grinned and my brow furrowed. This, this, was serious business. I wasn’t done drawing. I reached over and selected a very thick, soft piece of charcoal. Your eyes followed my hand as I resumed my position and began to very slowly and deliberately draw a dotted pattern on your skin, evoking Maori tattoos. My line moved from the hollow in the base of your throat down your chest to circle one nipple. I made swirls within swirls that outlined your ribcage and moved across the flat of your torso. I drew the charcoal down until I was stopped mid-line by your belt buckle. I looked up at you, questioningly, and you understood and complied.

Your hands deftly undid your belt, and then, at my urging, you carefully and quietly unbuttoned your fly and pushed your jeans aside like the flaps of a circus tent, leaving me an opening to what I really wanted. I resumed my line, briefly, and ended in an arrow pointing to your cock. Now I tossed away the charcoal and wiped my hands clean upon my own jeans. I leaned in and caught your lower lip between my teeth, eliciting the perfect moan before I pulled at your boxers slightly. I grasped your cock, freeing it from its confines. You moved down in the chair, gaining the advantage of a better viewpoint…

and I descended upon you.

I started at the base of your shaft, running my tongue the full 7 ½” length of you. You made a noise, small and gutteral, and your fist clenched in my peripheral vision. I took the head of your cock into my mouth and looked up into your eyes. Oh, I love knowing that you are watching me and knowing how much it excites you. I’m not daft. I may pretend I don’t know the effect I have upon you, but trust me, I do. I so do.

My lips part slightly so that you can see the head of your cock resting upon my tongue. In that second, though, I dip my head downward and swallow every inch of you and you groan loudly. I toy with you for a bit. Tease you. Make you truly want it. My hand cradles your balls and every time I take you down the back of my throat, I increase the pressure, pushing your balls into your rock-hard clit and easing off again.

Now you grab a fistful of my hair (as short as it is) and put one hand upon my shoulder. Your thighs quiver and I reach up and rake my nails down your torso smearing charcoal across your flesh. Your hips grind into me and you squeeze my arm, urging me to pick up the pace. When I sneak a glance at you, your head is thrown back, your eyes are shut. You speak of how it feels (you can feel it, you can feel it). Soon you push my head down hard and tremble and shudder, moan and say my name over and over. Your orgasm is powerful and protracted. You open your eyes and I am watching you. All you can do is play in my hair and hold my face and you are completely open and vulnerable and happy.

I climb upon your lap and kiss you deeply. I pull my sweater over my head and now my breasts, pressed against your chest, bear marks that mirror the design I had drawn upon you. Marks that echo the one you’ve etched upon my heart forever.

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.

I stood leaning against the doorjamb at the entrance to the dining room. The teak table (delivered just this morning) sat gleaming among six chairs, framed against still curtainless windows, open to receive the humid mid-July North Carolina night air. I smiled in the comfort of my new home, a bare mile from your house—a cozy bungalow ready and waiting for the arrival of my son (still staying at my parent’s) and a clumsy, big-pawed puppy (still staying at the breeder’s).

The house was oddly quiet. I realized that I could no longer hear you rustling through boxes, hammering away at the walls to hang my artwork (and yours). I started to turn around when I felt your strong arms encircle my torso, your chin rest upon my shoulder, “Mmmm…looks good enough to eat off of….” A throaty chuckle (the one you love) escaped me as your double entendre was not lost on me. Then you pressed your groin against my ass and the feel of your hard cock indicated your seriousness of purpose.

I protested, “Oh no. Not now!” I tried to writhe away but you held me firm against you, “She’ll be back any minute!” I was referring to my best friend—she had traveled all the way south with me and was staying for a few weeks to help me get settled. She had kindly offered to navigate a strange city in search of good take-out after a long, hot day of unpacking. “She just left,” you whispered, “we have time.”

I began to gripe about being sweaty and sticky, but I knew I was a goner. You gently but firmly maneuvered me into the dining room and with one deft move lifted me onto the table, casting aside an armchair as you did so. I caught my breath as you leaned over and ran your tongue across my lower lip. I could taste the salt of the day’s hard work. I grabbed a handful of your damp white beater but you slipped from my grasp and quickly pulled at my shorts, slid them over my hips, and threw them into the corner of the room. My panties followed and you spread my legs wide, settling in between my thighs (my sighs as audible as yours were muffled). My back arched involuntarily as you pushed me farther up the table and tangled my hands in your hair.

You teased and tormented my clit with your tongue until you felt satisfied that I was wet enough for what you really wanted. You grabbed my hands and pulled me down the length of the polished wood, stopping only to playfully bite my nipples as I worried aloud about the time. You shushed me with your hand across my mouth and turned me around with some slight measure of force. I embraced the table, my arms outstretched, grasping the sides for purchase. I gasped in pleasure as your butch cock smoothly entered me. God, so wet. I was so wet. My orgasm was building quickly—excited by the possibility of being caught in flagrante delicto. Just as I began to peak you pulled out and gently, but swiftly, slid into my ass. My moans became gutteral as you reached around my waist to finger my clit. I bucked against you, moving harder. Aching to be as close to you as humanly possible. Your other hand gripped my hip tightly and I knew you were right there with me. The heat, the night, the unpacked boxes, the dinner on its way…it all melted into nothingness and there was nothing left but you and I—suspended and connected and when we came together we crashed down upon the firm reality of the finely grained wood beneath us as the gravel in the driveway crunched beneath the tires of my car and the headlights swept across the room.
We muttered curses, laughing, as we gathered clothes and hastily scrambled to dress. I had just enough time to grab the dust rag I had been holding and run it quickly along the table before I heard her hip bump the door as she called for help in carrying in our dinner.

I opened the door to her quizzically-raised eyebrow. She knows me better than anyone (well, almost) and there was no doubt in her mind as to what we’d been up to while she was gone. I playfully stuck out my tongue at her and grabbed the bags…the smell of good southern bbq and biscuits suddenly made me ravenously hungry. She followed me into the dining room where I set the bags down and turned to see you arriving with paper plates and bottles of water. I smirked and kissed you lightly, hoping that the musky scent of my sex upon your lips would go unnoticed. The faint smear of sweat upon the previously immaculate teak, did not, however. She began to sit and then the realization of exactly where our brief tryst had taken place dawned on her. “Oh, gross, you guys.” She pulled a face and grabbed the bags, stalking into the living room to sit on the floor among unpacked boxes as you and I laughed until we cried.

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 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.”

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).