Fetish

I spoke with a friend today,and we spoke about our loves, our needs, our fetishes.

I described a scene to him:

Your eyes, wide and begging and fearful and glazed with arousal.

Your lips, pink and round in an 'O' of wanting.

Your face drawn in fear and desire, your high cheekbones stark as bright spots of fear-color draw my avaricious eyes.

Your throat, bared to the blade and your body lifting convex from the bed and against my hands and my knife. Pressing yourself into the possibility of death with a mixture of sex and suicide.

Submissives speak of the confidence they have in their master, the gut knowledge that he'll never harm them.

You don't have that. You know I will harm you if the psychopath in the back of my brain slips her leash, for even a moment. You know that I want to let her, know that we can smell the blood beneath your skin and crave the taste of it on our lips and the stickiness on our hands that hold the blade.

But you arch into me, and into the blade, anyway.

That.

That suicidal desire.

That overarching need that doesn't care if it ends in death.

That is my fetish.

To be continued

He looked at me with his eyes wide, his lips making that cute little 'O' of surprise.

'But I thought you were still mad at me and didn't want sex?'

I smiled, or at least I bared my teeth. Sometimes, he can't tell the difference.

'I've changed my mind... sort of.'

That was when the first nervousness entered his eyes. The first vague concern, not quite real fear yet. 'So...'

'Shut up, bitch,' I cut him off.

He started a little and fell silent, his eyes getting wider. I'm usually extremely lenient, to the point of spoiling him. This tone, this attitude, was new.

'Get on your goddamned knees, boy,' I told him, and smiled inside as he scrambled to obey, wondering exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

I unzipped my jeans, freeing my cock- 8" of beautiful opalescent silicone- and smiled when he licked his lips.

I love owning whores.

'Suck me, slut.'

I didn't need to say anything else, he was already leaning forward, licking his lips and wrapping his hot little mouth around me. God he's pretty like this! His full lips wrapped around my cock, his whole body arching into every pull of his mouth and throat.

I stroke his head lightly, drawing his attention with the unexpectedly gentle touch. 'Make sure you get it good and wet, baby, because it's the only lube you're getting tonight.'

I watch his eyes widen and feel something like contentment as his efforts at swallowing me redouble.

Such a pretty little whore.

Abruptly, I'm done with it, done with being sucked, and all I want is to fuck him- deep and hard and fast until he whimper and squeals and begs because it's too much.... because it will be.

Don't wanna

You told me in an email, "No one has ever been able to break me, and I think you could be the one."

Stupid, arrogant little boy.

Break you? I barely fucking know you.

Breaking you implies I give enough of a shit to put you back together afterwards like a good little massa.

Let's get something straight- I don't.

So I don't give a fuck if I 'break' you.

I just want to fuck you up.

I want to watch you flinch when the cold chains wrap around your wrists... ZOMG chains on wrists you might get bruises and then DIIEEEEEEE.... and then hook 'em to the eyebolts in my ceiling.

USB20 put them in for my birthday last year. They'll be a year old soon.

Maybe I'll give him a birthday present to say thank you.

I digress. Reading his pr0n does that to me.

I want to wrap the chains around your wrist and watch you shiver involuntarily from the cold against your hot skin. Watch your face go tight as you realize I've seen you flinch, watch you buck up and try to pretend you didn't because oh noes I might think you're not a big and tough and scary!

You're not, bitch. Right now you're a hanging chunk of meat.

Go be scary to someone else in your pretty digital uniform and shiny little gun. They're not here, and I am.

I and a length of chain link from Home Depot. It was your idea, and that makes it all your fault.

Tiny little links leave a lovely trail of welts.

Maybe if I were a Good Dominant I'd be able to make pretty patterns with it and take pretty pictures.

But, well, I'm not and I can't and I don't.

Also, I don't take pictures.

So I'll just hit with it instead.

The first blow, winding up my arm and down my hand with the snap of the wrist that makes a lunge whip crack, is across your chest.

Across your chest and trailing across one nipple while you grunt and groan and try to be A Twue and Stoic Mas-o-cast.

Bah. Boring little twat. I want you to make some noise for me.

Another blow, wrapping around your torso now like the flogger falls everyone says Do Not Do but it's soooo pretty wrapping around you and kissing your ribcage while you grunt and strain a little against the chain.

Another one, diagonal now across your back and your making a low keening sound but it's not enough and I want to hear you scream so it's time to switch chains, to grab the heavy links designed to hold rabid pit bulls inside their swept-earth yards even when the census man comes to knock at the door.

This one bruises, this one can break bone if I hit you wrong so I shove you around and let it fly against your back until your spine bows and a strangled scream rips from your throat.

Mmmmm, much better.

I haven't had a boy beg me for mercy in a long time.

I think you're going to.

I think two more blows will do it.

I'm suddenly debating in my head.

Good Dom, Bad Dom.

One good blow over the kidneys won't kill you, but it will have you pissing blood for a few days and blubbering.

Two good blows to the sweet spot where thighs meet ass will have a similar effect but I don't wanna be good, Mommy, I wanna hurt him....

3am

You are making small whimpering noises in your sleep, little puppy-like snuffling sounds as you move across the bed seeking my warmth. The rice paper that covers your bedroom window blocks little light, and even now at 3am I can see your face relaxed and childlike in sleep as you search for me.

I love that you search for me, that you seek in me safety, and warmth, and comfort.

It makes me want to wrap you up tightly in my arms and keep you safe forever, and it makes me want to rip you from sleep with a hand over your mouth and another pinching shut your nose before I ride you into oblivion.

Mornings

It is in the mornings that I wake to find you gone.

It is in the mornings that I reach, warm and fuzzy-minded from sleep, to cuddle you and wake abruptly to the lack.

It is in the mornings, with their 5 hour time difference, too early to call and reassure myself with your voice, that I feel how far away I am.

It is in the mornings, quite and peaceful and utterly lacking in your warmth, when I let myself weep.

Musings

We are studying the Psychology of Terrorism, sitting in a classroom in Dublin and my mind is drifting.

I am thinking of you, as I find myself doing so often.

I am thinking of your body, warm and soft and spread beneath me like a feast for my senses. I am thinking of my hands, running up the length of you, spreading your legs for me. I am thinking of your warm buttocks, rising from your legs as though they were made for my hands to spread apart and toy with while you squirm and moan. I am thinking of the slow curve of your back like flowing honey and the smallness of my hands against the length of it, stroking steadily upwards. I am thinking of the curved bow of your neck, of the swallow of your throat in my hand and the softening of your face as you slip under.

I am thinking about the solid line of your body beneath me, of the soft sounds that you make when I slip inside of you. I am thinking of your hands, grasping at the floor and at my hands as your back arches when I fill you. I am thinking of your open mouth, gasping and moaning as I fuck you.

Yes- this

OMFG This. Ferns has, as always, expressed my emotions better than I ever can:

Little Boy

An apology and a memory

Beloved one,

I woke up yesterday with tears hot on my cheeks, fear clawing at my chest like a beast trying to rip its way out through my ribs.

I knew that you would leave, knew that you would walk away as surely as I knew the taste of bile in the back of my throat.

There was no doubt in my mind that before day's end, I would lost you.

But when I talked to you in the morning, I pasted the smile to my face, letting myself take honest joy in what I knew would be my last conversation with you as Mine. I reveled in your sleepy voice, high and soft and rough with sleep. I bathed in the soft sounds of joy you made when I told you that I loved you, wrapping them like spun glass in the recesses of my mind, a tightly held balm against the pain I knew would come. I listened to your rustling movements in bed, seeing you in my mind's eye sprawled in your soft sheets, and I smiled even as tears burnt the backs of my eyes.

And then I went about my day, I wandered alone in a city 3,000 miles from my home, idly watching the people around me. I noted their movements, smiled reflexively at those who greeted me, and all the time my mind was full of you, full of all that I knew I would lose. Your face, soft and open when I'm inside of you, your smile wise and kinder than you'll admit when I am small and frightened. Your hands small and quick and nervous when you clean. Your tremulous smile when I kiss you as a man, and your slow, wicked grin as you ride me. Your face lighting with passion as we chat for hours about the things we love, your narrowed eyes and manic smile when you hurt me, your shy eyes when you curl up tight against me. A hundred thousand images flashed before my eyes and broke my heart a hundred times over: you folding clothes, obsessively neat. You at work, focused and proud. You curled close to me, watching a movie. You hurting me, mad eyes and tender hands. You spread out before me, a feast for my senses. You shopping, movements graceful and restrained. You at my dining room table, laughing and talking. You grinning sideways, that delicious, wicked expression. You on your couch, primal and barely restrained. Every image a glass shard in my heart, ripping me slowly, inexorably open. Over and over I saw you, everywhere that I looked. Architecure I wanted to point out to you, dresses I wanted to laugh with you over, pretty boys with their hipster hair I wanted to laugh with you about. Sad murals I wanted to share with you, good food, all of it wrapped around my heart like barbed wire and I bled inside.

Finally, with heavy steps I came home to talk to you, dreading every step, afraid of every word I'd have to write. When you greeted me, I was both afraid and joyful. I leapt into the conversation because I knew that if I didn't, I'd never have it. I'd give in to the temptation to conceal it from you, the nagging hopee that maybe I wouldn't lose what has become so precious to me.

Every keystroke punctuated by a tear, by a stabbing sensation in my chest, by the certainty of loss.

...and then you didn't.

Then you were quiet as you conferred, and you simply accepted in me what I cannot accept myself.

And then you told me that you love me, and the tears spilled out, spilled open in me and my heart was still bleeding but it was marked by joy now and the disbelief that this was really happening.

Were you truly still here? Would I still really be able to hold you, be able to taste your lips and hear your precious voice? It was too much, too deep, too sudden,and I couldn't believe it, couldn't process it, could only curl into myself a release the shaking sobs that had hidden inside of me all day.

I still have trouble believing it, still have to reach sometimes for the twine you had me tie around my wrist, my tangible reminder of your love and your presence.

I still keep waiting for you to change your mind, to look at me with horror and disgust, and just as you told me so long ago in the darkened car... you prove me wrong. Every time.

I've never been so grateful to be wrong before.

I love you.

Thinking about it

I have avoided writing about this, hiding it from the page as though it will hide it from knowledge.

Hide it from memory, hide it from admission.

Part of me is ashamed, I suppose, of the pleasure I take in those brief times of submission to you. That's not who I am, not who I'm supposed to be.... and yet it is, and it is a reality that to pretend away would somehow lessen, cheapen, and I will not to do that.

It was my trust in you, my willing submission to you, which prompted your choice to wear the collar, and I will not cheapen that by pretending it away.

I think about it, you know- about the brilliant psychopathy in your eyes, and your twisted grin. I know what you're imagining, know the pain you'd like to give me and the blood you'd like to spill from my skin. Yes, I know.

I think about it- about the sensation of your hand on my throat, just thisside of terrifying, the back of my mind fear that this time the collar will slip a little, this time no one will check you, and you will squeeze too hard, too long, grinning that maniacal grin while the blood drains from my brain and I slip into the darkness.

I think about it- the contrasting tenderness and cruelty of your hands, so like what I give to your other side, and yet so uniquely yours. About the way that they make me writhe, and whimper, and moan. About the way that the madness in your eyes makes me want to please you.

About the madness in your eyes that makes you want to break me.

I'd almost let you... if I thought I'd survive it.

Yes, I think about it.

Image

The image, a week old now, won't leave my mind: you, spread in naked glory across the warm hardwood floor of your home, the sunlight streaming behind you and bathing you in light as you wrap your legs around me and drag me deeper into you. Your mouth, that hot little 'O' of pleasure and need, the small sounds dragged from your throat by the movement of my cock inside of you. Your face flushed with arousal and your eyes glazed in desire...

I can't get it out of my head,and nor do I really want to.

Missing you

I am gone from you, and it grieves me. I miss you, all of the many facets of you.

I miss curling up and watching a chick flick,my fingers softly stroking your cheek while you blush and hide your face.

I miss your arms around me, tight when I am sad and insecure, your voice calm and strong and soothing.

I miss your cocky grin, half smirk and half pure lust.

I miss your voice soft and halting, as you curl into me.

I miss your hands obsessively refolding.

I miss your smile, evil and a little deranged, as your fingers dig into my sore spots.

I miss your rambling about computers.

I miss you spread beneath me, panting and moaning.

I miss you.

All of you.

More than you know.

Now

My body stretched atop yours, my cock moving in and out of you while you whimper,moan, and plead in a language I don't know.

My arms around your shoulders, giving me leverage for the fucking of you just as much as holding you close while I do so.

Your face turned half to me, dark eyes distant and turned inward toward your own pleasure... I want to take you and rip you away, rip you away from your pleasure and back to me, and I want for you to feel this, to enjoy this, forever.

You are riding me now, as I rest and let my hip recover from fucking you. Your body moving atop mine, my hands on your thighs and your head thrown back in pleasure and release, your are beautiful.

Your hand wrapped around your cock, lovely little cock, and pumping with the rhythm of your hips fucking yourself on my own, and I can only smile, groan my own pleasure and contentment while you whimper and ride me.

Soon your eyes are wide, begging, your hips and hands frantic as you whisper to me, "Now? Now?...."

Yes, darling..... Now.

Wounded Healers

“Without your wound where would your power be? It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve.” -Thornton Wilder

My best friend, who is well on his way to becoming a priest, gave a sermon today with this quote as its basis.

As always, it put tears in my eyes.

I have wounds. Some scarred over, and some still healing. A few bleed even now.

I have wounds. And yet, I am the one to whom many turn for healing, for safety, for trust and love.

For years, I wondered why. Did they think me unwounded? More whole than they? Surely not, when I have allowed my wounds to show for years now and it hasn't slowed the flow of requests, but truthfully sped it up (my academic studies have also influenced that, of course...).

So, I'm left seeking another answer. Why? Why would someone come to a wounded healer? Physician, heal thyself.

A doctor who treats herself as a fool for a patient.

Why would they come to me?

And then he showed me this quote, a few years ago.

"In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve."

In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve.

Only the wounded soldiers.

Only the wounded healers.

My wounds haven't made me less fit to heal, to serve, to teach.

They've made me more.

"Without your wound, where would your power be?"

Without your wound, where would your compassion be?

"It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble in the hearts of men."

It is your very fear, your very wounds, that show that you know, you understand, and you care.

"The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human broken on the wheels of living."

Your wounds stand as testament to your knowledge, to your compassion, to your understanding of their pain.

"In love's service, only the wounded... (healers) may serve."

Already

There is an edgy high to the air tonight, a rising pressure and I want to ride it. The warm, humid air rises around me like the warmth of my own cunt and every stray breeze is another caress against my sensitized skin.

I've just left you, reluctantly, at your home and I'm already thinking longingly of your bed again, of the sensation of your skin pressed to mine and the warmth of your body against me,the softness of your mattress and the heat of your mouth.

You are beautiful, although I don't know that you realize it. Your skin golden against my own still winter-pale pallor, the soft sweep of your eyes and the warm solidity of your legs.

I'm already thinking of the soft, mewling sounds that you make when my mouth is hot against your skin, the way that you open to me with slutty eagerness, begging silently for more, more!

I shouldn't miss you this much already, but I do, and every rising rising degree of pressure from the coming storm around me just sensitizes me more, awakens the violence in me which has slept for so long but you have brought out again.

The puffs of wind preceding the storm tease the thin layer of hair on my arms, on my wrists, reminding me of the sensation of yours in my hands, and the sound of metal nearby makes me ache for the chains to wrap around you.

As the pressure rises so does my violence, and I want to take you now, here in the wind and the clouds and the coming storm, stake you out and open your legs to me.

The last few weeks

Phone rings baby cries TV diet guru lies
Good morning honey
Go to work make up try to keep the balance up
Between love and money
She used to tie her hair up in ribbons and bows
Sign her letters with X's and O's
Got a picture of her mama in heels and pearls
She's tryin' to make it in her daddy's world
She's an American girl
An American girl

Slow dance second chance mama needs romance
And an live-in maid
Fix the sink mow the yard really isn't all that hard
If you get paid
he used to tie her hair up in ribbons and bows
Sign her letters with X's and O's
Got a picture of her mama in heels and pearls
She's tryin' to make it in her daddy's world
She's an American girl
An American girl

Well she's got her God and she's got good wine
Aretha Franklin and Patsy Cline

She used to tie her hair up in ribbons and bows
Sign her letters with X's and O's
Got a picture of her mama in heels and pearls
She's tryin' to make it in her daddy's world
She's an American girl
An American girl
She's an American girl

Gay Bar

It's dark here, hot and smoky like an old-school description of Hell- but if so, then it's a Hell where I am one of the demons. I can feel the smoke getting into my sinuses, irritating the contacts I've taken to wearing again, but it only adds to my mood.

Over my shoulder as I walked in hung the Moon, her sharp-edged smile the inspiration for my own. I'm androgynous tonight, the boy and girl in my head sharing equal space, but even as a boi I'm a child of that bright orb.

It's loud here tonight, the bass is pumping through the walls, up through the floors and buzzing into my feet and every throb is like a violent heartbeat.

Violence. It's what I want tonight, what I crave, and it's why I've come here tonight, flagging heavy top with my leather pants and blood-red tank top. Androgynous as I am feeling, I still savor the curve of my breasts beneath the shirt because they are bait even for gay boys, drawing them into me so that the violence that I want can be possible.

I want more tonight than can be found in the straight clubs, with their careful lighting and watchful dungeon monitors. I want the gay bars, where force and cruelty are wielded like loving weapons, side by side with kisses.

I want force, violence, the red-eyed streaking of tears down some hapless boy's eyes while I'm hurting him. I want my hands tonight, want to press him into the wall while he smirks, confident of his ability to take anything a 5"3 woman can dish out. I want to press my knuckles into his sternum, watch the first bloom of pain in his eyes like nightshade and see him sag into the knowledge of his mistake, of his realization that I will hurt him tonight as deeply as any of the muscle-bound men around me.

I was born in a woman's body, into the world of men. I know pain, and humiliation, and I will give it tonight with the skill born of intimate knowledge. My hand on his throat, my knuckles in his breastbone, my thumb in his wrist. My fist in his stomach, doubling him over while he looks at me with wide eyes, this unknowing boy who offered himself up for my pleasure.

Empathy

Aching inside, struggling with the need to run to one I’ve loved deeply, fighting the urge to hold them even knowing that it isn’t what he needs.

Angry for their pain and sympathetic to the cause of it, a whirlwind of emotions, own fears mixing with his pain and the mixture caustic in my throat, in my chest. I want to make it better!

….and I can’t.

No one can. Time, they say, heals all wounds, but Time is a harsh Master who forces suffering until he dispenses healing at his whim... and even then the scar remains.

It’s cold and dark outside and I don’t care, I want to walk through it to hold him but I know that in his own pain he would turn away because pain so enveloping can’t be shared, can’t be halved.

...it doesn’t make the desire any less strong.

Quote

Most delicious thing I've heard yet today: "I like to keep the assertion of power rooted in flesh as much as possible." -PlanetEm

Movie Night

A warm tangle of bodies, heat and scent and skin stroking skin until I am drowning in this heavy pool of pleasure which is centered on my guest bed. Her soft breasts against my cheek, teeth in my lip, his warm hands kneading my skin until I am moaning, whimpering, my body arching into theirs.

Her strong hands kneading knots from my shoulders, my neck, slowly encircling my throat and this is not her intention but I am slipping down the rabbit hole into the warm center of my own desire and submission. I already wanted to please her, but now the last button to my willingness has been pressed by her thumb against my larynx.

When her teeth find my lip again, it is enough to send me writhing and whimpering against her, his teeth on my breast clenching my hands helplessly against his back.

I know on some vague level I should be reciprocating more, know that she loves to receive the same small bites which I do, but every movement feels like swimming through warm, sticky arousal-honey and I can barely move except to press closer into his hands, harder into her teeth and I am drowning pleasantly in the love and affection of these two people whom I have come to love intensely.

I do not know if either realizes how deeply down the rabbit hole I have slipped, how warm and hazy my mind feels until I am nothing but a body of sensations and desires and willingness. I do not know if either realizes how much I crave now the sensation of teeth sinking into my skin, of hands tightening painfully on my body, of fingers wrapping around my throat and squeezing, but this is not what they give tonight and the same corner of my mind which craves more also accepts that.

When his mouth finds my breast again, his teeth against my nipple, I can only arch harder into her mouth and moan in pleasure and desire and an inarticulate need to please. I want to slide to my knees from the bed, my mouth running slowly down her body, his hands anchoring me and holding me in place, and slowly find the soft center of her with questing lips and tongue until she screams and arches into me....

Shaved Head HNT

Loving violence

I am somewhere between loving and violent tonight.

I want to stroke your skin lovingly, caress it while you sigh and relax into me, and then I want to draw back my fist and punch you- hard- in the chest.

I want to see your face go flat with surprise- despite how well you know me, how long you've known me, the thought still runs through your mind, "Girls don't hit like that!" but you always forget that I am not a girl and not a boy, not bound by the rules of either.

I want to draw back my fist and punch you, to swing my upper body with the throw and punch through you, into the wall behind you, and watch your face and your body as it impacts, as you hiss in your breath in pain.

I want to lean into your surprised face and kiss you, gently, stroking your face with my fingertips and nibbling your lips gently until you make soft moaning sounds and your body releases the tension of expecting me to hurt you once more.

And then I want to hit you again.

Sex and violence

I am thinking about sex and violence.

I am thinking about pressing you down, holding you down, forcing you open to me, to my tongue and teeth and questing lips.

I am thinking about pressing my fingers into your body, pressing into the tender places in you while you squirm and whimper beneath me.

I want you spread open, the crop to your thighs and the cane to your tender ass while you groan with every blow and bite the gag in your mouth.

I want you writhing beneath me and crying, tears streaking your beautiful face.

Fantasy

He's moving under me, shifting, moaning, whimpering softly. I slow the galloping of my heart and the whimpers form words, moaned and indistinct pleadings, "Please, please don't stop." His small voice hitches. "Please don't stop fucking me. ...please, I need your cock in me." there's real fear in his voice, real need, and my every instinct screams to stroke him, gentle his racing fears, but that's not how to break him.

Instead I growl in his ear, letting months of frustration harshen my already cold voice. "Beg for it, whore. I don't think you're worth any more of my fucking time, but I like to hear you beg."
His response is immediate and gratifying, writhing deliberately now against me, his muscular back against my breasts, his tiny ass cupped in the curve of my hips, the movement not only moving him along my cock but the base of my cock against my clitoris. It feels amazing, but it isn't what I told him so I wrap my hand around his throat and use my weight to press him into the bed.

"I said beg, whore, not try to fuck yourself on my cock."

He whimpers, tries to raise his hips one last time before going limp, defeated. "Please..." he whimpers. "Please..."

It's not enough, not nearly enough, but with my hand wrapped around his throat and cutting off the blood to his brain it's all he can manage and I mock him mercilessly for it.

"More, bitch. Fucking beg me for it," I tell him, slowly arching my hips to pull out.

Desperate gurgles are my only answer, and I open my hand very briefly to allow him a teasing glimpse of air- air he uses to gasp desperately, "Please fuck me!"

They're the last words he'll manage for a while.

In Bed HNT

Gang rape

Standing, leaning against the wall with the others, watching her writhe, moan. Lewd comments spill from my lips in response to theirs, a growing, building web around her of ideas, expectations, fears, dreams…and soon, of actions.

My strap harness is tight around my hips, lacking only the weight of my cock but I can feel it in the back of my head and resting between my hips, guiding my more masculine stance against the wall, the objectification in my eyes, mocking arousal in my voice.

She is dragged to the room which we have prepared, whimpering, moaning, but not protesting once.

I am thankful for this, not sure that the cautious girl in my head could handle a true rape-scene just yet, and the boy in me is pressing the front of my face, shifting my expressions, ready to come out and to fuck this beautiful woman spread out before us like a banquet.

Only flashes now: pale skin kneeling before me, eager lips wrapped around my cock, soft baby-fine hair tangled in my fingers as I drag her along the length of me.

Dark skin against pale as she is slammed into, moved, a muffled scream of pleasure or pain but I don’t care right now and I doubt any of the others do, either.

My body angled against hers, and suddenly the boy is draining away and I am a woman about to fuck a woman and there is this moment of awkwardness, covered with dirty jokes as I learn the different angle necessary to fuck a woman rather than a man. A fumbling moment of strangeness, and then I am inside her. It doesn’t feel as natural as with a boy, and I am thrown off, missing my rhythm but struggling to find it for her. The angle is strange, the shape of her beneath me different- beautiful, warm-smelling and soft but strange and new.

Later, later, after the kissing, the cuddling, and the low-level flow of love, the strongest thing that I remember is the sense of camaraderie in the room with this helpless girl stretched beneath us. We were there, together, toward a goal and the sense of mutuality and camaraderie is tangible… and, yes, it included even she, our willingly unwilling victim, and the bounty of riches which she offered to us.

Bad Poetry

Climbing desperately, trying to find a higher ground

but drowning

Pulled endlessly into the mire

Help me, voices call

And I can't!

But my heart is breaking for them

But my legs trudge back to them

Even as the path takes me under water

and drowning

Missing

You are not near me, and I miss you.

I miss the warmth of your body pressed against mine, the heat of you against me when it's cold. The heat transference moving from your heated body into my always-cold one, the twining of your legs around mine, your big feet against my little cold ones.

I miss the strength of your hands on my skin, and the way you laugh when I am finally warm and drowsily aroused beside you.

I miss the way you taste on my lips.

From postsecret

You know who you are- I love you.

A bit of Shiny

Yes, I know I haven't written anything recently. My creative energy has been going entirely to school recently, and planning my trip to Europe. Promise I will soon.... meanwhile, here is a lovely, lovely bit written by Shiny.

You want to know what ran through my mind while I played with myself Tuesday night for the first time in three days?

The short answer is, quite simply, you.

All the delightful little things you did to my body that Friday evening played out in my head as I played with my cock. I rubbed my hard little nipples as I recalled the wonderful way you ran your tongue across them and sucked at them. Even now, recalling that night as I write this makes me hard.

My hands were bound with chain; its weight constantly reminded me of its presence as you worked your magic upon my body. I came closer to orgasm as I replayed how it felt as your fingers gently pressed into my ass. Did you know you were the first person to do that to me?

My mind turned to thinking of how your "cock" would feel as you use me as your fucktoy. Would you avoid my prostate and just use me for your amusement? Would you press against it, making me beg to come? Thoughts of how it might feel rushed by faster and faster until, seemingly out of nowhere, I came.

Blurry Shower HNT

Shower sex fantasy

You masturbated today, thinking about me.

The knowledge warmed my groin, tingled in my fingertips, and set my mind to racing.

You were in the shower, you said, letting the hot water soak into your sore muscles and thinking about me.

Thinking about, you said, your hand on my throat, my body pressed between yours and the slick shower tiles.

I can see it, feel it- my breasts smashed into the tile, my cheek tight to the cool plaster, your hands on my hips, my waist, cupping my buttocks, wrapped around my throat and tight in my hair.

There are very few people I trust with their hands on my throat, their fingers in my hair, but in 3 years you have more than earned this and at the brush of even phantom fingers against my vulnerable throat I can feel the almost subliminal shiver running down my spine.

I can feel your hands moving along my body, the steam of the shower opening my skin until I could almost sink into you. I can feel the heat of you, hotter than water pounding into my

skin, against my back, your legs molding to mine and opening them with that casually

assuming insistence which should infuriate me but with your hand on my throat seems only

natural. I can feel the weight of you pressing me forward, my breasts painfully tight

against the wall, my pelvis following yours without conscious thought tilting and opening to

you and to the length of your cock pressed against my ass.

Gods I want this! In even the writing I can feel my body shifting, opening, dampening in preparation for you inside me, and inside my head I can feel the head of you nudging me

open, the slow stretch of my body opening to you, opening for you, feeling you fill me with

that damned patience that I both love and hate about you.

More, more, I want to scream at you- Now! But with your hand on my throat all I can do is whimper and rock my hips back into you, begging wordlessly for you to fuck me.

CinErotic Film Fest in Atlanta!

CinErotic Film Fest brings a kinky, poly Valentines to Atlanta!

Erotic filmmakers from as far away as Singapore, Barcelona and Brazil entered films for the brand new CinErotic Film Fest, alongside homegrown filmmakers from Atlanta and Athens. All will be represented in CinErotic's three nights of screenings at Eyedrum Gallery next weekend, February 12-14.

Kink-O-Matic - Sunday, Feb 14, 6pm - $8

On Valentines' Day, the Fest will screen "sexy, smart, artful erotic short films with a twist — or a kink, if you will," says founder Kiki Carr. "These are films about sexuality that colors outside the lines, and celebrates all that is kinky, bdsm, leather or otherwise polymorphously perverse!"

Among the films featured are director Julie Simmon's "Dolls Fit," the refrain of the odd abusive mother in the film, as well as acclaimed Barcelona director Erika Lusts' view into the suave S&M that keeps sex fresh in "Married with Children." From San Francisco, director Anthony Viti's gives us the raunchy "Asspig" and his Gus Van Sant-esque motion pictures from behind-the-scenes at web pornhouse Kink.com in "Mission & 14th." Narcissister gets a spanky workout in "Self-Gratifier," and "Strap-on Owl Beak" chronicles an actor's descent into an underground of perversity. Select videos by virtuoso filmmaker Tom Chomont artfully depict the world of leather, BDSM, and erotic shaving with an intensity akin to spirituality.

Then there's no other film quite like Curt McDowell's "Pornografollies." This rare 16mm film from 1970 San Francisco features a succession of performers doing sexual/genital vaudeville acts. Described by the New York Times as "slapdash surrealism...a musical of sorts, a bisexual scatological revue full of bad jokes, good humor, and and a general content that I could not begin to describe here," Pornografollies transmutes sexual variety into celebratory comedy.

Valentines' Play Party hosted by WhipperSnappers at Spring4th Center

After the films, kinksters are invited to a special Valentine's Day play party at the Spring4th Center. The party starts at 8:30pm, and entry is only $5 -- and FREE! for CEFF ticket holders (from any screening). The play party is hosted by festival sponsor WhipperSnappers, an under-40 bdsm group, but isopen to anyone over 18. Spring4th Center is located at 728 Spring St. NW

Queer as F*ck - Friday, Feb 12, 8:30pm - $8

The "Queer" show Friday night treats viewers to erotic short films that appeal to boys, girls, transfolk and gender queers. The main attraction is "Tour de Pants," a new film by Luke Woodward of San Francisco featuring hot fags, transfolk and lesbian gangsters — in bicycle-related erotic scenes all over the sexual map.

Other shorts include "The Ginger," in which a sexy redhead seductively eats a turkey drumstick; "The Erotic Couch" by Athens artist Andrew Shearer shows what happens when a reluctant lesbian gets a magical velvet couch-cover; things aren't what they seem for a gay male couple in "Hitchcocked;" "Want" proves that differently abled queers can get what they desire; a handsome butch ranchhand takes home the cute femme lamb, in "The Sheep and The Ranchhand," and Narcissister dares you to put him/her in a gender box in "Man/Woman."

If (when) the films leave you hot, bothered, and panting for more, head over to Mary's in East Atlanta for a free CEFF-sponsored make-out party for everyone.

Passion & Pleasures - Saturday, Feb 13, 8pm - $10 General Admission / $20 VIP

Make it a passionate Valentines to remember on Saturday night with a luxurious date special: for $20/person (surely one of the most recession-friendly Valentines' events!), you and your sweetie(s) get reserved seating up front on romantic couches, with sweet treats, and complimentary champagne (21+). VIP tickets are sold "per-person," rather than "per couple," making this a great Valentines' date night for singles, polyamorous partners, or couples!

But even regular ticket holders will swoon to the romantic short films in the line-up. "Vocolotion" by Atlanta's beloved artist R. Land ("Loss Cat") is his unique take on sex ed videos from years past. Some of his more famous images make cameos in this film and wind up in, literally, sticky situations. "The Flesh is Willing" is pure noir-infused erotica. "The Good Girl," by award-winning filmmaker Erika Lust, revisits the classic "pizza guy" porn cliche from the female point of view. Her newest short, "Handcuffs" is a brief glimpse into a sleek nightclub where sideways glances reveal a sexy secret.

"Headshot" and "Cocksucker," by two separate female directors, show the same act from opposite sides, in a breathless yet politically challenging take on, yes, the blowjob. Meanwhile, "Allen Ginsberg Gives Great Head" dissects Singaporean identity through the vaselined lens of an Adonis-like, self-pleasuring young hipster, and the Narcissister engages a "Hot Dog" in unseemly acts.

The 1963 short film "Christmas on Earth" is directed by famed filmmaker Barbara Rubin (who introduced Andy Warhol to the Velvet Underground). Curated by Andy Ditzler (Film Love), the film is set in a New York apartment where a group of men and women engage in an orgy, and is one of the earliest sexually explicit works of the American avant-garde, or by a female director.

All-Fest Passes!

Film buffs can purchase passes good for all three shows for a mere $25 -- or $35 for a VIP Fest Pass, including the VIP luxury experience on Saturday night — and organizers expect sell outs. All films will be shown at Eyedrum Gallery, 290 MLK Jr. Dr. SE, 30312.

CEFF is produced in part by Andy Ditzler's award-winning Film Love series, and PinkEye indie queer film salon. The Fest is generously funded by the Lloyd E. Russell Foundation, and supported by sponsors Dr. Bombay's, Spring4th Center, WhipperSnappers, Frolicon, and SouthEast Leather Fest. SPARK Reproductive Justice Now is the designated community partner.

For more information and to purchase tickets, visit www.cineroticfest.com

Multitasking HNT

Dyeing hair, arguing with Microsoft, and studying.

Welcome to my life LOL

Chance disaster

You weren't supposed to be there.

I went to get some paperwork, and I put it off for weeks to make sure that it was your day off.

I didn't want to see you, didn't want to feel the kick in the gut that was your presence.

I didn't want to look over, didn't want to see your profile- Gods it's as beautiful as ever, the line of your jaw which shouldn't be visible from half the bay away.

I didn't want to feel the vise grip of loss and pain and rage and fear that the mere sight of you engenders.

Why did you do it?

Why did you break the last thread which I could not justify retying?

Why did you threaten harm to someone I love?

Why did you do the one thing I can't forgive?

Why did you take the last, tiny, forlorn hope of an 'us,' away from me?

My heart is pounding, even in memory, and tears are pricking the backs of my eyes. It took every ounce of strength to keep my back straight and my head high as I walked out the door, every ounce of strength I have not to turn, wave, promise that I'll let you back in if only you'll promise never to do it again. Not to scream at you that you ruined everything, even our friendship.

I was in shock when I drove away: clammy skin, shallow breaths, lightheadedness, pounding heart, but I drove anyway because the only other choice that I had was to wrap myself in your arms.

Culmination

Curled, pressed against you... this has been building slowly for three years now, fizzing in our bloodstreams since the day we met.

This.

Your hands skimming my skin, drawing little gasps and whimpers as you slowly learn the sensitive places in my body.

My mouth on yours, warm muscled tongues learning one another, lips skimming sensitized skin and your heat pressed against me, warming me against the chill of your bedroom.

Straddling you, that little groan of need dragged from your throat and the palm of my hand pressed to your breastbone, just above your galloping heart.

Your lips against the hollow behind my ear, usually a ticklish and unpleasant place, but not tonight when it makes me squirm, whimper, writhe beneath you.

My tongue on your chest, running over your nipples as my body tightens with pleasure at your shocked moans.

We've waited three years for this, dancing on the edge of desire, flirting, implying, offering, wishing, but finally this night I can feel your body against mine, show you the strength with which I've wanted you.

Finally, this night, I can take what you've always offered, return it and take it into myself even if only figuratively.

Hours later, lying in your arms with the warmth and strength of your body around me, I am content.

My Favorite Mistake

I saw you today, saw you for the first time in months.

You called me, hurting, and even curled in someone else's arms I don't know how not to answer you, how not to soothe you. I know my voice is sharp sometimes when you are hurting but it is fear for you that sharpens it, and not anger.

And today, today I saw you again, your shortened hair making your face seem masculine but your smile a thing of beauty. We danced around it for over an hour, you made me food and we sat around on the couch chatting until you finally created the excuse to go upstairs and asked directly, "Do you want to cuddle?"

I was going to say, "No." I knew I should say no.

I knew I shouldn't wrap my arms around you and fill my lungs with your spicy-sweet scent, shouldn't tempt both of us, shouldn't risk hurting either of us.

I opened my mouth to say, "No."

"Yes," I said, instead.

Yes.

ShitfuckGoddesshelpmeIstillwantyoufuckfuckfuckyou'renotmineanymorepleasegivemestrength.

Yes.

My body wrapped around yours, your warm breath against my skin, the bittersweet familiarity of your body pressed against mine, the soft needing kisses to my chest and shoulders, fuck it's hard.

No one else balances me so well, complements me so well, knows my masculinity and expresses their own feminity so perfectly.

No one else offers the same perfect acceptance of my own gender and dynamic fluidity as yours.

I love the boys in my life. All of them, more than they will ever know.

But this, this thing with you, it's different and it clicks into place in my heart and it fits so perfectly that it hurts and my eyes are filling with tears even as I'm kissing you back, my hands moving to you wrists, your too-short hair, your throat, curving around your waist until only the stinging of the tears in my eyes brings me back to myself.

It was a mistake to come see you, but one I couldn't have not made.

But when you go all I know is you're my favorite mistake...

-Sheryl Crow

Shiny

You are so new, so eager, bright-shiny-kitten face and wide wide eyes, and your every touch, your every look, your every request is for more, more and yet more.

Delightfully wanting little slut.

We've chatted this afternoon, through text message, and your wanting is shouted in every message, "hurt me! use me! please...." and oh yes I want to, oh yes I want to hurt you, to take and break you and leave you curled up and bleeding while you look up at me with big scared eyes and soft, soft lips and those lovely little tears leaking down your cheeks.

Weekend Highlights

This weekend, I was privileged to have 3 scenes with 3 absolutely gorgeous boys and 1 demo topping experience with the SouthEast Bootblack 2009. One at the play party for the local FemDom group, and the rest at the TNG play party, Whippersnappers.

I am not sure that I'm up for writing all four scenes, so I will give you a few highlights until (unless?) I write each scene properly.

Friday night, Omega:

Stretched in the tower, I explained to him that, "Everything has a price," and extracted mine for turning the space heater on his deliciously vulnerable body before introducing him to each implement in my toybag. His groans, moans, and whimpers were delicious, particularly the huskiness of his voice as we cuddled together afterwards with his large body wrapped around my small (and much warmer!) one.

Saturday night, Demo:

I knew only that our demo bootblack for the weekend was staying with me, and that we had met briefly at a few conventions. Shortly, however, we'd become fast friends, and she chose my (leather) outfit for the evening: stilettos, leather pants, and a leather overbust corset. I could barely stand in the heels, but it was worthwhile as our lovely demonsstrator's small hands ran slowly (and quite thoroughly) over every inch of my leather clothing, oiling them for me before an audience... after deep-throating my stilettos.

Saturday night, Diablo:

I've rediscovered my fondness for spreader bars, spreading lovely Diablo wide and vulnerable. A simple scarf wrapped around his eyes as I take one of my favorite canes to his pretty little ass and thighs, over and over. His little sounds, the whimpering tone to his voice, are beautiful as I steadily work him up, then bring him down before repeating the process over and over again. His lovely, lithe body wrapped around me afterwards as he asks with nervous features if I'm pleased.

Oh yes, darling. Very.

Saturday night, Shiny

We met at the munch, a week before, and I received an extremely sweet email from him via Fetlife. I hadn't expected to have the time or energy to play again, but I did and was privileged with his first scene at our local club. His frantic blushes as he undressed were a delicious appetizer to adorable little whimpering sounds with every blow of hand or toy and beautiful shivers at every touch of nails or teeth until finally I had to wind down due to both time and a concern for his level of bruising the next day. Hopefully, however, there will be more opportunities...

Domme Chronicles

This. Yes. Ex-fucking-actly.

Date Night with Jack

We have just watched, "Hitman," for the first time, and my blood is simmering with the desire to do naughty things to the dangerous ingénue of the movie.

Jack, however, is here, and warm, and my fingers begin to flex in anticipation of wrapping them around his body.

Soon, we are kissing and my body is wrapped around his until I have pressed him onto his back and my body holds his down. His breathing is quick, my beautiful partner is not normally very submissive, but he enjoys it when I sometimes take charge.

It isn't long before I have stripped his shirt from his skin, exposing the smooth expanse of his chest, and dragged his jeans to his ankles, leaving them there as an impromptu hobble. I love seeing him like this, vulnerable and aroused and so incredibly desirable.

I take my time in teasing him: nibbles to his ears, his neck. Sharp nips to his nipples, his lips, while he gasps, moans, twists beneath me.

My shirt is gone, my bra shortly after, and I drag my breasts over his lightly heaving chest, down the flat planes of his stomach and over the swelling arousal at his groin.

His hips shift upward, a silent plea, but I continue to take my time, lingering with lips and tongue at the juncture of hip and groin while he groans and whimpers a little, rubbing my cheek cat-like against his warm cock.

This is my partner, my lover, and the only person for whom I do this, the only person whose cock I will slowly envelope with my mouth, slowly wrap my lips around and stroke with long, slow laps of my tongue. He is the only one for whom I will press myself to my limit, taking him into my mouth and my throat until my lips touch his groin and my lightly spasming throat strokes the head of his cock.

With others, I will play, I will tease, I will tempt you with what you can't have, but only to Jack will I give all of myself, and I do tonight.

Tonight, I stroke him with lips, teeth, and tongue, pressing his hands into the bed and forcing him still while I suck him, stroke him, tease him to the brink and then back off.

Shortly he is writhing beneath me while I hold him down with my will at least as much as my hands, eventually settling into an slow rhythm that drags him ever so slowly toward the brink until he is shuddering like a fly-stung horse as I slowly, inexorably, drag him over the brink until he spasms inside of me, filling me, and my hands gentle around his wrists while I swallow him inside of me.

Kinky Prom Update

For my local friends:

Kinky Prom has the fun of Frolicon, the energy of Whippersnappers and the indulgence of SELF! Want to go for less? For 48 hrs beginning 12:00 AM on January 13th (that's today, folks!) until 11:59 PM on January 14th save 25% off the price of a Prom ticket! To get your savings now go to the Ticket link on the page to use this code C710CBac7 to purchase your Kinky Prom tickets for 25% less. This is a charity FUNd raising event. All funds raised will be split evenly between SouthEast LeatherFest's two 2010 charities.

Hurry! You only have 48 hours to take advantage of the code. It starts tomorrow night at midnight. We can’t WAIT to see you at Kinky Prom on February 6th at 8pm in Atlanta GA!

The First Law is not to obey

Have you ever read the Anne Bishop, "The Realms of the Blood" books?

If you're a dominant woman, or a submissive man, then I suggest that you do.

You see, maybe you're different from me, dear reader. But that's what I want.

I want a submissive who understands what this passage means:

"The first law is not to obey. The first law is to honor, cherish, and protect. The second law is to serve, and the third law is to obey."
"What if the third interferes with the first two?"
"Then you throw it out the window"
-Lucivar to Daemon, "Queen of the Darkness," by Anne Bishop

I want a submissive who understands that sometimes service means saying, "I respectfully refuse to let you push yourself too hard/make yourself sick/do something stupid."

There's a wonderful line in one of the "Realms of the Blood," books, which I will paraphrase rather than looking up:

"The Queens protect us. That's why sometimes we have to protect them- especially from themselves."

What I want- and what I need- is someone who can understand what that line means.

Wool socks HNT

Actaeon introduced me to the wonder of wool socks, and these are easily my favorite pair... I need more!

Panty Boy

You called yourself a panty-boy in one of our first emails, one of the first times we flirted and exchanged naughty thoughts.

The idea titillated me- your wide shoulders, height, and overall presence is so hegemonically masculine that delicate womens' panties on you seemed delightfully incongruous.

And yet... when I first saw them on you, white with pink accents as rope was wrapped around your body and you began to fly, they seemed right, natural.

It makes me smile now, as we chat, thinking of you in the pretty panties you just showed me, and want to take you shopping.

I want to walk with you through the lingerie sections of those expensive stores while the saleswomen sniff and look down their noses at everyone, running my fingers over the various scraps of satin, silk, and lace. I want you to follow on my heels like a good boy, for all the world like a heteronormative boyfriend being dragged on a shopping trip by his petite little girlfriend. I want to hold up the scraps of silk and lace, the cute little thongs, the brightly colored boy shorts, the soft bikinis up to you, asking your opinion while you blush and smile.

Then I want to choose the pairs we both like, in sizes clearly too large for my tiny frame, and watch you blush as the saleswoman stammers and opens a dressing room with hands that shake with either jealousy or fury.

The stuff you don't care about but I'm gonna post anyway :-p

Most of you lovely readers don't know me in the real world, and only visit when I've something new and naughty to say, but you're going to get a dose of my real life anyway, because it's my blog and I can whine if I want to!

This past week has been... hard. After the lovely NYE party hosted by some of my favorite people, I spent Saturday getting a few things done, and ended up treating myself to Chinese.

Bad idea.

Perhaps the fact that it was dead on a Saturday evening should have told me something, but alas and alack, dear readers, your writer is a bit dense.

Then the poor service should have been a tip-off, but by this time I was hungry, and ordered anyway.

Truly, a mistake of epic proportions.

Now, it would have been bad enough had it been good Chinese food, but to get severe food poisoning and a bacterial infection from bad Chinese is just insult on top of injury!

So, my dears, I have been out of commission for 4 days now, the first 3 of which were spent- ahem- purging my digestive system, and the last 1-2 of which I have spent on a careful BRAT diet (Bananas Rice Applesauce & Toast) to rebuild my abused digestive system.

That said, I must commend my amazing doctor: he saw me Monday morning within 30 minutes of my initial phone call, immediately prescribed me antibiotics and an anti-emetic with a detailed explanation of each one (and a warning about the price on the antibiotic), and gave me a hug as we left. I adore my doctor!

So now, dear readers, your favorite blogger is still laid up in bed at her partner's orders and is reading porn rather than creating it. Le sigh. Ah well, soon enough, my friends :)

Fucking you

I'm going to fuck you, boy.

I'm going to take you and open you with spreaders, force those beautiful legs wide and open for me, and press your face into the floor. I'm going to bind your wrists behind your back- your hands so much larger than my small ones, they envelope mine when free but they will not be.

Perhaps I will attach your collar to your cock and balls, let your every whimpery, jerky movement stretch you, strain you, until you cannot decide if you want me to keep going or to stop....

Perhaps I will leave your head free, force you to look over your shoulder at me as I fuck you....

Yes, I like this. I want you to look at me as I lean over you- I am so small in comparison to you, and yet here you are, bound and helpless as my small fingers open you, probe your puckered little ass while you sigh and whimper before me, eyes wide and nervous as you strain to watch me over your shoulder.

I love the nervousness as much as the arousal, the fear as much as the need, and despite the tenderness of my fingers as work their way slowly into you, my eyes hold a delighted violence.

Your small gasp is music, the way that your body clamps down on me, holds me, draws me, the warmth of your lovely little ass as it wraps around my fingers.

I know this game, this ritual, staying still until you adjust, working you with my fingers until you are ready for more, until I am able to rear over you, spread you wide with my fingers and slowly press myself into you.

You are so beautiful like this! Spread wide and slutty, moaning a little and pressing back into me, the length of my cock disappearing into you slowly while you watch me with glazed blue eyes and parted lips.

It takes an act of tremendous self-will not to fall on you like a ravening beast, fucking you from the outset with all of the desire pent up in my body, but I force myself to hold the line, to work myself into you slowly, to avoid damaging you this time, this first time, until your heated body is ready for me and I am moving freely inside you while you moan beneath me, your hips seeking mine with every thrust which gradually increases in pressure and speed.

I love this, love the way that you need what I give to you as much as I need to give it, love the way that you move for me, whimper for me, give your body to me.

I love this, love fucking you, love the movement of my hips and the angle of your body, love the way your lips half-part as you gasp and fuck your way backwards onto me.

This...... this is what I want from you, this surrender, this opening and giving, until finally my body is tightening and I am moving in you faster, harder, while you grunt and groan beneath me and my hands are wrapped around your hips and my voice is hoarse in your ear, "More, boy, take more for me," and you are trying to answer me, trying to form words but I know this place in you and it is beyond words so I hold you there, beyond words, for as long as I can before we both come down slowly, quietly, wrapped around and within one another with my lips to your ear, tender: "Good boy".

Vignettes from NYE

• Watching a beautiful man rig gorgeous, mostly-naked women until they spin like multi-hued tops of red and gold hair and creamy skin while

• Snuggling on the couch in the lap of a lovely man who is playing with my mostly exposed breasts as a beautiful woman wraps herself around me and moans at the sensation of my fist clenched in her, long, silky hair.

• The sweating face of the same beautiful man, pressed into my thighs as he is paddled over and over by a group of women, tears springing to his lovely eyes as he presses his face into my bare skin, sucking in air noisily through parted lips.

• Warm hands running along my legs beneath the sarong, fingertips brushing my thighs and wrapping around my calves, cupping my buttocks and running warm palms along my skin.

• Much, much later, as the sun begins to creep along the horizon, the beautiful man and I curl exhaustedly into bed. I am expecting a little snuggling, a little groping, then an exhausted slumber, but I have underestimated my companion's stamina and soon we are kissing, groping and wrapped around one another. My hand is in his hair, on his throat and his hands are on my breasts, around my waist and opening my legs. His cock is pressed against me, thick and hard and throbbing and I crave the taste of it, the warmth of his lips against my wet cunt but I know that those things are not for me tonight. Instead I whisper in his ear, telling him what a little whore he is for me- that it isn't his cock in my cunt that he wants, but my fist in his ass. He is panting and whimpering in my ear, begging for the taste of my arousal on his lips until I take my liberally soaked fingers and paint them across his parted lips, rubbing my heated body against his.

• Later that morning, as the sun peeks through the windows like a voyeuristic eye, I wake snuggled between my pretty man and a beautiful woman whose name I don't even know. I don't remember how it happened to be honest, I don't remember the flirting, the giggling, the making out as I was still in an exhausted, sensitized haze. What I remember is the touch of her fingers on my skin, the stroke of her lips against my heated cunt, the taste of her lips against mine, painted with cum. What I remember are her hands, cocoa against the cream of my thighs and the smug grin on her face as I writhed beneath her expert touch. What I remember is the sight of her straddling my chest, the taste of her nipples and the texture of her cunt as I stroked her to orgasm for the 3rd or 4th time.

The hugs goodbye later, the gratuitous groping, and nap snuggled between two extremely attractive men....

It was a lovely, lovely New Years Eve and New Years Day