Memories

I remember the last time that I bottomed to him.

Such a silly phrase: "bottomed to him."

I remember the last time that he pinned me down and I bared my soul to him.

I remember the last time that I cried in his arms.

Oh he was so worried as he left! Knowing that I was just post-catharsis and fragile and he was already so late, so late!

I remember his face as a study of love and worry for me, and his eyes- jade light when he is happy- forest green with concern.

But it was that concern that promised that I would be okay.

It was that concern, that knowledge- gut-deep- that he loved me, that made me certain that I would be okay when he left.

I remember kissing him and promising to call if I need him, but that I was okay.

I remember that his lips still tasted salty from my tears.

Autumn Equinox

One year ago today, I held a knife to Lucivar's throat and we talked about wolves and about scars.

One year ago today, he fisted his hands in my hair and brought me back into balance.

One year ago today, I fell a little in love with him.

Our relationship now is different than it was, then. The NRE has worn off, and we've had fights and disappointments and we've both healed and given one another new scars.

It's been a long year, with high points and low ones, but one thing holds steady: you are one of my favorite people on the face of the planet, Ishta, and I adore you.

Happy Anniversary.

Fuck you- a fantasy

So many times, when we come together, it’s something special. Something intimate, in the profoundest sense. When we come together, so often, it rocks us to the core, squeezing our hearts and rocking our souls.

I love that. I love the way that it makes me feel when we’re together, the depth of our connection…

But that isn’t what I want today.

I don't want a profound intimate connection, I don't want cleansing tears or to have my heart rocked to its core.

I just want to fuck you.

I don't want to make love to you.

I just want to bend you over, smear lube on my fingers, and press them into you. I just want to see your face while I'm filling you, watch the simultaneous flinch and relaxation.

I don't care today if you need this, I don't care today if you're stressed, or sore. I don't care if this is what I need, I don't care what deep inner urging in myself prompts it.

I just want to fuck you.

I just want to press my hand to the back of your neck and hold you there, to smile as you willingly put your hands behind your back. I want to feel myself sink into you and watch your body spasm.

I just want to fuck you.

I want to press my hips into your body and lean into you, wrapping my hands around your throat and watching you melt into me. I want to pound into you, watch it drive you briefly up off of the bed, your eyes wide and your mouth in a little 'o' of surprise.

I just want to fuck you.

Anatomy Lesson

I want you today.

Want you stretched tight, wrists bound to ankles in a reverse hogtie, want to watch it slowly set your hips to aching. I want to put a gag in your mouth so that you can't protest, can't safe, can't tell me, "No."

I hate it when you tell me, "No".

So here, in my head, you can't.

I want to straddle you, put extra pressure on your wrists and ankles and watch the way your eyes tighten with the pain of it.

And then I want to start to play with you.

I want to run my fingernails down your chest, extra pressure over your nipples, and watch the lines turn red. I want to take a knife to those same nipples and press the serrated edge to the tender flesh and watch your eyes grow wide.

I want to cut them off, cut out your piercings just for fun.

I feel a little mad today, a little sociopathic. I feel the darkness in my the back of my eyes swimming to the forefront, and it makes me want to touch you.

To hurt you.

To break you.

I want to flip you over, watch you strain to open your legs for me, and press a plug inside you. I want to turn it on and feel it buzz through your hip bones when I flip and straddle you again.

I want to run my knife down your chest again, want to watch the dark line of blood well up in its wake, and draw pretty patterns on your skin.

Or maybe I'll just write: "Slut." "Cunt." "Whore." "Bitch."

"Meat."

Words, words naming you, words identifying you. Words telling you your place in my world right now.

Right now, in my head, you're not my lover, not my sometimes-Dominant, not my friend or my partner.

You're meat, and I want to play butcher.

I want to drag the knife from the hollow of your throat straight down your sternum- past that spot you love to bruise on me!- and down your belly, over the abdominal muscles: the rectus abdominus, down the linea alba, to the pyramindalis. I want to stop just above your groin, just above that cute little cock that I know will be hard for me now.

I want to watch you whimper and squim, watch your fantasies of castration light up your eyes, warring with the fear of what you see in my eyes- the thought that this time, I just might not stop.

Even in my head, my hands are shaking now, shaking with eagerness, anticipation, the desire to do it.

To cut you open and expose the most intimate parts of you to light, to slice through skin and expose muscle to view, and to stroke it while you shudder like a fly-stung horse. To conduct an anatomy lesson on your body: here the hip flexor, here the serratus anterior, below it the tensor faciae latae, the adductor longus, the sartorius and gracilis.

I want to find the nerves and name them, stroke them with my fingertips: inside the groin the anterior branch of the obdurator nerve, which gives you sensory input from the medial thigh. The femoral nerve, hidden beneath the iliac fascia muscle and temptingly close to the femoral artery.

I want to cut you open, my love, and suck the blood off of my fingers.

Release

I was crying against his chest.

Fuck, I hadn't meant to do that, hadn't felt it coming on.

Oh, I knew I was stretched wire-tight and close to snapping- cutting Wolf from my life, losing Devilpup, worrying about money and school, and stretched for time- but I hadn't realized that I was this close, so close that all it took was the momentary safety of his arms for the tears to overflow.

I started to pull away, started to apologize, but he laughed. "I've never seen you cry before," and his voice was so deadpan that I actually jerked in shock, my voice a little girl's: "Yes, you have!" and I blushed crimson when he laughed at me.

"Besides, I like it when you cry." HIs voice was huskier now, that sound he gets when he's about to hurt me, and I melted into him before I could stop myself.

He needed to go, had a long drive home... but I couldn't stop myself from responding to him.

And then I was bent in half over my couch, my calves aching with the stretch but my back and ass eagerly arched up to him. It's always like this when I let myself fall down the rabbit hole with him... one moment I'm in control, considering, thinking, weighing alternatives... and the next I'm nothing but a throbbing pile of nerves and needs in his control.

Part of me hates it- hates the vulnerability that it creates in me- but the rest of me melts eagerly into his hands. He's the only person these days I feel safe enough with to let go, and I've been hanging on painfully tightly lately.

I wish I could write you hot porn about the things he did to me, the way that he hurt me until I cried for him, and not just for myself. I wish that I could describe the things that he did and the sexiness of it... but I can't. I can only remember flashes of the actual events, the actual blows...

My voice, small and nearly unintelligible as it escapes a throat clogged with tears, "Hurt me please until I have an excuse to cry," and the way that his eyes lit up in that insanity that I love so much.

His fists, thudding into my ass and thighs, the sharp pain of each spank until I'm writhing away from him, unable to stop myself... and his hand in my hair, painfully tight while his voice whispers viciously in my ear, "keep your ass where I want it, bitch," until I struggle to obey him.

His eyes, lit up with demonic pleasure at my tear-streaked and reddened face, telling me how hot it makes him to see me cry like this. He is so beautiful, I remember thinking briefly, before I couldn't think anymore at all.

My mouth on his chest, him telling me to suck his nipple while I cried, and my struggles to obey and please him around my sobs, the vicious pleasure on his face while I strain to obey him.

My face resting on his thighs while I'm kneeling on my hard floor, kissing gently, thanking him over and over, unsure if any sound is escaping my mouth or not... but knowing that he can hear me.

Once... and again...

It's morning. My mind knows it, waking quickly despite my exhsuated body's protests. Lucivar and I didn't get home until nearly 2am, and I'd lay heavy wagers that I didn't get more than an hour of sleep at a time.

And yet my mind is awake, as always, instantly buzzing with the knowledge of Lucivar's warm weight pressed against me. I can't resist pressing my face to his skin and inhaling his scent- it really is an aphrodisiac, because instantly, my body and mind agree on one thing and one thing only.

We want him.

Now.

Oh, I always want him, this is nothing new. But right now as he's curled in sleep, eyelids a thin shield against the world outside of his dreams, his eye makeup smudged into something between sluttiness and vulnerability, his cupid's box mouth loose and pink, the wanting is an instant, fierce ache.

It's only been since yesterday afternoon that I fucked him, and I slept curled against him through the fitful night, but it already seems too long. And when he turns, stretching a little, eyes opening through smudged eyeliner, I am transfixed. He wriggles a little, adorable ass mocking, inviting, while the smooth length of his back beckons me, a call it takes little deliberation to answer and then I'm atop him. Straddling his smooth ass, one arm around his chest and throat and he responds instantly, my adorable little slut, bucking his ass against my groin. I know what he wants, it's the same thing that I want. That I always want.

But my strapon is in the car, still in my toybag from the night before, and I mutter a soft, heartfelt curse. His chuckle is low and deep, one of the most masculine things about him, as he reminds me that there are glass dildos on the nightstand.

I'm in motion before he finishes, the bumpy glass heavy in my hand, quickly lubed, and his pretty little ass quickly filled. It's not my cock, not my body moving inside of his, but his low hiss of pleasure as it enters him is enough.

It takes bare seconds to find the rhythm of this one, of my wrist and hand pressing it deep into his ass as I lie beside him, my lips on his shoulder, my teeth in his back, my free hand clutched in his. Rocking it, inside and out, finding that spot by trial and error and staying when I hear him moan and whimper, rocking against me in desperation.

My slutty little girlfriend is beautiful like this, and I tell him that. I'm such a lucky boi to have a girlfriend who's such a little slut, who'll take my cock so eagerly, any time I want. And maybe that's what I'll keep him around for... he doesn't need a job, a house, a life... I'll just take him home with me and keep him tied up and gagged and fuck him whenever I choose.

His whimpers are almost words now.... "please, please, please..." and it's making me wetter and wetter while I fuck him. His moans are lower now, that almost-bass sound that I love because it means he's about to cum. I speed up inside of him, nearly shoving the glass cock into him in response to his whimpered, "please please harder please!" and he explodes against me, his body bucking and shaking against mine, little sounds of ecstasy and agony drawn from his throat and I slow my rhythm and deepen it, hitting that spot hard with every thrust, prolonging the pleasure for him until he collapses into the bed, into me. Only then do I slow the cock inside him, simply rocking it gently while he thanks me with blurred eyes.

Beautiful boi, my adorable girlfriend.

We curl up together as he comes down, my groin cupping his bottom, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other brushing his hair gently away from his face. I can feel the dildo inside him, pressed against my mons and it feels so much as thought it belongs there that I can't resist rocking my hips, pressing the dildo a little deeper into him. He shifts, moans a little, and I smile, pressing my lips to his spine. My hips quickly find a rhythm, spooning my girlfriend, fucking him, my hand creeping up to his throat, into his hair, wrapped in his collar. He is quickly whimpering again, moaning, and I am whispering in his ear how lucky I am to have such a cute little girlfriend, so good and sweet and slutty for me. I'm asking him in a hoarse whisper if he likes my cock waking him up in the morning, chuckling low and evil at his frantic, "yes!", and telling him that most girlfriends don't like morning sex, most girls aren't this slutty, and he is whimpering and moaning, rocking back into my hips as they pound the glass relentlessly into him.

I can feel him start to shake again, and it startles me just a little before I laugh into his ear, nipping it with strong teeth even as I whisper, "You're going to come again for me, aren't you, you little whore!" and he's whimpering and moaning that he might, and it only makes me more determined to push him over the edge again. My hand is wrapped around his throat and I am whispering harshly that he's going to cum again for me and my hips are insisting as well and suddenly he's shaking and writhing against me, moaning, whimpering, harsh noises torn from his throat while I'm fucking him with this borrowed cock and he's cumming around me, spasming against me and my arms are tight against him and my heart is full of love for this beautiful, beautiful boi who is moaning and coming down slowly in my arms. I want to hold him like this here forever, his scent rubbed into my skin and his body pressed tight to mine.

Interlude

He is still dressed in the rubber he wore at the party.

His arms, chest, ass, and back are bruised, and he moves carefully but the grin on his face is unmistakable.

It's been a hard few weeks for my lover, and I'm pleased to see him so relaxed.

I'm exhausted, still a little sick. I had to leave the play area to keep myself from playing while sick... so tempting. An array of beautiful bodies laid out on a variety of playstations. I could play so easily, there are plenty willing to take the risk, but I'm too lightheaded from decongestants to trust myself.

Except with him.

He's walked me up to my room, and stands there now, looking like a fallen angel, wickedly innocent, in his Nasty Pig rubber and little-boy smile.

He's turning to leave now, turning to return to his Mistress, but I don't even remember moving and my hand is at his throat and I'm bending him over, pressing him into the bed. He still has his wide collar on, and my fingers are hooked into it- small fingers, they fit without choking him- too badly. I'm bending him back up to me until he's arched like a bow, his beautiful little ass offered up to me.

I want it.

I always want it.

Near him, I'm like a guy. I can't be within arms' reach without wanting to bend him over the nearest surface and fuck that pretty little ass.

As always, my beautiful little slut is making pleading noises, his ass grinding back into my hips.

Why don't I have my strap-on? I sigh, and shove him away from me.

I'll see you in the morning, boy.

His eyes

Empty. Scrubbed clean by pain and penance, body bearing the marks and heart the healing. 

It had hurt, and she'd considered crying, "Mercy!" but always, the look in his eyes stopped her. One part madness, one part rage mixed with pain... and one part love. 

It was the love that undid her, the love that made her offer her throat to his hands, her wrists to the rope. 

The rage she could have fought, the madness feared, the pain lamented... but the love... it was the love that undid her, and brought her to her knees for him as she had never knelt before. It was the love that reminded her to breathe through the pain he gave her, let her accept the penance without anger or retribution. Let her welcome it.

It was the love that made her hate herself for hurting him, and love him the more for forgiving her.

The chain around her neck, drawing tighter until air was a struggle.

The hands slapping her thighs, until she gritted her teeth in pain and the need to twist away.

The knuckles in her breastbone, making her writhe in agony.

Part of her wanted to fight, wanted to struggle, wanted to hurt him for bringing this pain to her... but even that part quieted when she looked into his eyes. They paled in his madness, in this grip of sociopathy, of love. Wide as they were when she hurt him, but different somehow.

Still beautiful.

And still filled with love. 

It was the love that undid her. 

Safe harbor

We have hurt one another again. 

What is it about this boy, that we wield words like unintentional knives, slicing deep into one anothers' souls, retreating with Parthian shots meant to soothe but which only slice deeper?

Again, my heart aching and sharp with guilt and pain; his eyes shadowed, haunted with fear and the shame. 

Once, we came together in a dance: an orchestrated symbiotic dementia of the soul, but now we circle one another warily, neither quite predaors this day but nor quite prey, cautious. This dance is no less graceful, despite the arms length we keep from one another... an artificial distance, so plainly a construct that any watching might sigh in sympathy for the obvious fear. We circle one another, steps measured, watching. Our eyes hopeful, but neither of us willing to take the one step that will bring first contact, first possible rebuff, first possible rejection. 

Circling, eyes holding one another as arms are yet unwilling. Circling, hearts straining across the walls our fear has built.

Perhaps we will circle forever, wary and afraid, neither willing to risk another wound.

And then... almost as one, neither certain who moves first, a cautious half-step in. 

A half-step would not be enough to bring us to touching, not from either of us. 

But we both move...

the shock of contact, of the warmth of the other, missed like the sun after a season of monsoons, missed like rain in the desert. 

The blessing of contact, of touching, and then we are in one anothers' arms without conscious thought of moving, heart to heart and head to head. Eye to eye and arms wrapped tightly, the touch healing, wholing, holy. 

Drinking in the touch like rain in the desert, like sunlight in the deep forest, like warmth at the end of winter. 

Safety...

 safe harbor again at last. 

Hurt me

'Hurt me?' he whispers, and his voice is high, breathy and soft in that tone which means that he wants it. 

I am glad to oblige. I have felt insecure with him, recently. More so than usual, that is. There is something about this boy that affects me, makes me fear the power he has over me. Something about him that makes me misstep, misinterpret, mistake.

Something about him that makes me hesitate. 

But not now. 

Not with that tone to his voice, not with that softness to his eyes.

That's what I look for in a horse, you know. A certain softness to the eye, that shows a willingness, a desire to please. 

I see that now in his eyes, and just as it attracts me to a mount, it makes me ache for him. 

I bring my hand down on his bottom, sharply, and he makes a small sound of pleasure-pain. His little ass is perfectly shaped, perfectly formed for my hand. A perfect heart shape, a perfect texture for spanking, biting. 

That beautiful little ass wriggles across my lap, and I can only laugh at his shameless antics... even as my hand comes down again, again, again. Directly across each cheek, just under, a little to each side, finding one spot over and over... varying my blows, stopping to rub and massage, leaning down to bite. 

But my hands are soft now, uncalloused, and grow red and sore quickly, so I switch to toys. The rubber loop paddle, the evil stick. My teeth in his back, his shoulder. He is so beautiful when he writhes for me, groans, yells.

The redness growing along his ass, his thighs.

Light, stinging blows. Hard, heavy ones. 

Holding my hand still. 'Relax for me,' the warning before the evil stick applied to his inner thighs. 

He'll get me back... he always does the next time we switch... but right now I don't care. I just want to hurt him. Want to give him what we both want, what we both need. 

His blood is close to the surface now: his pretty little hips, and long, graceful thighs are red with blood flow and blows, and I want to take my knife to him, want to cut his soft skin open and lay my mouth to the wound, drink his life into me. 

Soon, I will. Soon. But not tonight. Not yet. 

When the crimson droplets bead up along his skin, run in slow waves across skin and the scent rises up coppery, sharp, and sweet, it will be done right. Done with the time to savor his skin, the edges of the cut, the flavor of his blood like fine wine. Done with care, rolling the flavor around my mouth and across my lips. Kissing him with the taste of his blood on my mouth. 

Not tonight, not yet. 

Instead, I drag his mouth to my cock before fucking his beautiful little ass.  

Overdue: an anniversary

Friday was the Spring Equinox. 

I spent the day staunching the hemorrhage that was Jack's sister's wedding, and had neither time nor energy to stop and think of anything save the next disaster to stave off. 

So it was this morning before I woke to soft sheets and sunlight on my face, and I remembered:

it was on the Equinox, 6 months ago Friday, that Lucivar and I first bared our souls to one another... rather by accident, I think. 

It was on the Equinox half a year ago that I held my knife to his throat for the first time, and told him the tale of wolves in packs. That I named him my wolf-pup.

It was on the Equinox half a year ago that he fisted his hand in my hair and brought me back into balance. 

It was on the Equinox half a year ago that I first began to love him. 

Happy anniversary, Lucivar. 

I'm sorry that I missed it.

Retribution

Her hands are fisted in his hair. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck what you want today, boy,’ she tells him in a low snarl.

There is real anger there, backed by a pain that gnaws relentlessly at her heart, at her pride, at her faith in herself. A pain he put there.   

A pain she will make him pay for.   

Her hands are fast, cruel, relentless, driving into his skin, finding every painful, tender spot until he writhes beneath her. 

He is not bound: she warned him at the beginning that she wasn’t going to bother. ‘Just fucking stay still. You can do that, can’t you boy?’  

She knows better, knows he will move, knows he will flail and strike out. She wants him to fail. Wants him to understand the pain of failure as she punishes every movement with something like glee.   

The sharp end of an evil stick on every twitching piece of skin. The rubber loop paddle on every limb that spasms. Her fingernails in every sensitive spot he exposes.   

This is not love. This is not friendship, or meeting one another’s needs. This is retribution, and she wants him to feel every jagged piece of it sticking in his craw as his words stick in hers. She wants to hurt him, to leave scars on his skin as he has on her heart.   

There is the snick of the knife now, and he goes still. This has always been something loving between them, this knife. It has always been something intimate, but she wants to destroy something tonight and if it can’t be him then it will be a piece of them, together.   

It’s at his throat now, and he’s gone still. She laughs, a jagged sound nothing like her usual throaty chuckle, feeling the tension in him. Feeling the knowledge that he’s finally getting it, finally understanding that the love for him that’s always held her sociopathy back will not do so today. Feeling his throat working against the blade, her rationale, her love, they’re all subsumed by the single desire, the single need to cut. The carotid, with it’s beautiful, spurting blood that feeds the brain. The jugular, which takes it back, recycling it in the heart. They are bare under her blade now, and her hand is trembling with the need to plunge it in.   

Slow, deep breaths now. Collecting herself. Gently drawing herself back from the edge… a little. Following the path of the subclavian with the tip of the blade, teasing herself with the knowledge that a single good wound there would bleed him out within 6 minutes- probably less time, given the subclavian’s proximity to the heart. 

As though the very thought had drawn her attention to that organ, pressing the tip of the knife just under his sternum, angling a little up.

‘What’s the fastest way to man’s heart, boy?’ she asks him, and lets him see the insanity in her eyes. His own are a little wild, and she laughs. The sound of it is still jagged and raw, more like a sob than a chuckle, and he begins to understand. Seeing the dawning comprehension in his eyes, she leans into him, smiling. 

‘It’s under the breastbone and up,’ she whispers, shoving the knife home. 

 

(The slightly saner ending)

It’s been reversed at the last moment, and with more than a little reluctance, but she knows it will leave a bruise he won’t soon forget. 

Any more than she will. 

And she draws him up to her, pressing his face tightly into her shoulder so that he won’t see her silent tears. 

‘I love you, puppy.’  

Vignettes

Primitive

His body pressed beneath mine, spread beneath me like a banquet. His beautiful, v-shaped back, its muscles rippling as he writhes in need. His arms, corded with muscle as he clenches his fists in pleasure and pain while my teeth dig into his flesh and his face tightens in pain even as he thrusts his ass back up against me, asking, wanting, needing. 

Gods! He is so beautiful now, like this, open to me with every line of his body. Offering to me everything that he is. His soul is in his eyes in this moment, and I am overwhelmed with tenderness and the need to protect him for the entire world... even as a deep, primitive part of me wants to sink my teeth into his neck and crush the spine with teeth I have never had. 

Healing

My body is wrapped around his, tight and hot and hard and sweaty as my hips pump into him and his arch to receive me. My hands are wrapped around his wrists, holding him in place with the force of my will far more than the strength of my body, and my legs are wrapped tightly around his, binding his body with mine as my beautiful cock slides into him so easily. He is making those little noises that I love, moaning and whimpering with every thrust, occasionally wincing when I press too deep but it only spurs me further. I want  to hurt him with my cock, want to fuck him until he is sore and begging me to stop. 

Part of me wants to make him pay for every poor lover I've ever had, every man who's forced his way into my woman's body and hurt it. Every man who's believed that my pain is his right, my cooperation in in his harm of me is a given. 

I want to make him pay for all of those men, want to fuck him as they fucked me- hard, fast, dry, not caring that he writhes in pain more than pleasure, not caring that his whimpers are those of hurt. I want to fuck him and not care that he is sore, hurting, that he will be for days. I want to fuck him like too many men fucked me. 

And yet as I see the lines of his body offering himself to me, his beautiful eyes wide with the giving over of himself to me, I know that this man will accept that pain if I give it to him, will pay penance for everyone who's ever hurt me, and will thank me for the opportunity to do it. This man will never be one of those, and it it makes me love him even more than I already did. 

So I slow my movements, changing my angle just a little to ensure him greater pleasure, and I smile as I watch his face tighten in something like joy, something like agony, as the sensation builds until he is clenching his hands so tightly around mine, whispering over and over, "Yes!"

And something that was broken in me begins to heal.

Genderfluid loving

I want him here, in front of me. I want to heal the hurt in his eyes, and almost more than that I want him bent over my bed. 

I want him so deeply that it's a low ache in the pit of my stomach. 

I can see him now, in a long pencil skirt which emphasizes his beautiful legs, a cowl-necked blouse softening the width of his shoulders and emphasizing his tiny waist. I can see him in shiny, patent heels, walking toward me with an uncertain look in his eyes. 

His woman-self has been hurt, decried, and it complicates my craving for her. 

The hurt that she was caused, that I was a part of, complicates the image I have of her in my mind's eye- the soft swell of breasts and sweet little ass, the long, beautiful legs encased in sheer thigh-highs. 

I want this part of him- this her- and that wanting is complicated and mixed in with my desire to heal her pain and express my love for this side of him, that is her. 

I want it, though. Want to walk beside her with my cock heavy in my slacks, my already-masculine gait modified by its weight. Want to bind my breasts down and open doors for her like a gentleman, then press her to the floor beneath the weight of me. I want to drag her skirt up her thighs, leaving the heels and thigh-highs in place, and pull lacy panties out of the way for my cock, which is already aching. 

I love him as a boy. And I am learning that I love him as a girl. It took nearly losing her to begin to see that. 

In my mind's eye, I see my hands, devoid of their feminine rings for once, sliding up those thighs I know so well as a boy and seeing anew as a girl, slipping on the unfamiliar texture of the thigh-highs, which I've only known on my own skin, feeling the elastic slip into skin too soft to be a man's as my fingers travel higher, find scratchy-soft lace and what for this moment is my cunt. 

The only cunt that I have, today. 

The only cunt that I want. 

I can feel my lubed fingers sliding inside, hear the little gasps and moans that drive me completely insane in either gender. 

I can feel the urgency building, and I understand suddenly why so few men take the time that women want. This is intoxicating, and I want to press immediately into her- no lube, no prep, just my body owning the beautiful one beneath me.  

Just this body, this man who today is my woman, writhing beneath me and moaning, begging me for more while I ride her.

It took almost losing her to begin to learn how much that I need her.

I'm sorry, my darling. 

I want you.  

Dreaming

I dreamed about fucking him last night. 

I dreamed about his body stretched beneath me, my hands on his wrists and his head popping the headboard with every thrust of my hips. 

I dreamed about the slick sweat of his skin, of my skin, mingling as we're pressed together tightly, and the high-pitched little whimpers that he makes as my cock slides in and out of him. 

I dreamed about how wide his eyes are when I'm fucking him.

Forgiveness

We sat in the car, side by side and not looking at one another except brief, short glances... stolen, like kisses in the twilight. 

Normally, when we're together I can feel him like a humming warmth along the line of body closest to him. 

I couldn't today.

I'd hurt him, broken his trust and we were both payig the piper for it. 

My chest hurt- a solid, dull ache that felt like the weight of tears. I'd done everything I knew how to do- explained, and apologized, and now I waited. Waited for the little boy in his heart to crawl out of hiding and decide if he would trust me again. 

Abruptly, I shifted, uncomfortable.The shift reminded me of my wallet in my back pocket, and I removed it before it could get any more uncomfortable.

He watched me move, and I heard his amused, exasperated sound, and before I could look over again my wallet was snatched from my hand and I was being smacked with it and his hand was on the back of my neck. 

It was the first time he'd voluntarily touched me since he'd gotten into the car, and I melted into him. Guilt isn't the Toppiest of feelings, and I sank into bottomspace gratefully.

I'm going to take this thing and beat you with it, one day. Stop wearing it in your back pocket!

I giggled at the image- my wallet being used as a paddle- and he wrapped his hand in my hair.

I always wear it in my back pocket. I've been doing it for 10 years and I'm not going to stop now. It's not like I carry a purse. 

He was smiling now, a more honest expression than anything I'd seen on his face in days.

I'm going to beat you with it one day until there are bruises and you'll wince and be like, 'They're from my wallet on my ass!'

I giggled, and curled into him.

He kissed my forehead. 

Are we better now? I wanted to ask, but when I looked at his face, I saw my answer. 

And I almost cried again, but this time from joy.  

Genderfuck

You are bending over the tea table, cleaning the remnants of my afternoon tea scattered across the inlaid wood. Your pretty dress, in a jewel-tone purple which complements your coloring, is riding up your hips as you bend over in front of me, showing your matching little thong.

I am just smiling, lazily, enjoying the view, fully aware of how intentional that is on your part. You're such a little slut, and I love it.

I'm sprawled in my favorite chair, legs wide and arms spread over the back of it's soft upholstery, jeans stretched tight across my cock, tshirt riding up a little over my stomach as I watch you bending over; your lovely, feminine legs stretched even longer in matching heels and that hungry little ass of yours eagerly outlined.

"Come here, cunt." My voice is curt, but you know me well enough to hear the thread of pleasure in it. Even as you're turning I'm sitting up, leaning forward and grabbing your hair- long and chestnut brown for today- and forcing you to your knees between my widespread thighs. My free hand deftly unbuttons my fly, drawing my cock from my jeans, the alabaster length of it catching the sunlight as you lick your lips eagerly. Slut.

"Show me how my little whore pleases her Master," I tell you, yanking your head sharply down to my cock and leaning back in the chair again.

You respond as eagerly as always, hungry as always, lips pink around me and I groan in pleasure at the sight, dragging your head down until you choke. I love the little tears that form int he corner of your eyes, smearing your careful makeup as I hold you there, love the tension in your body as you try not to fight me for the air your body craves nearly as much as it craves my cock.

No, I can't feel your lips, your tongue, on my cock- can't feel the heat of your mouth through the silicone phallus, but this feeling of my hand in your hair and the tears and need in your eyes- this I can feel, and this is all I need.

I want to keep fucking your mouth, and I do, dragging your head up and down on my cock, holding you there until you whimper with the need for air before letting you up, only to do it again. I realize at some point that I'm standing, that I've angled my beautiful opalescent cock down, pressing it so deep into your throat that your breath is hot and desperate on my groin and that realization makes me groan deep in my throat in contentment and arousal.

Abruptly, I have to fuck you. Have to press myself deep into that pretty little ass of yours, watch you moan and press back into me, and I yank you off of my cock, loving the little sound of disappointment youmake even as you suck in air as greedily as you suck my cock.

Your respite isn't long, though- is it ever?- because I am dragging you up by your throat, shoving you down over the table and whispering in your ear, my voice low and evil, "I hope you sucked my cock good, little whore, because your mouth is the only lube it's getting." You are moaning again, pressing back into me, and I know that right now you don't care. Right now, I could slice you open and bleed you out, and you wouldn't care as long as my cock was deep in your ass and fucking you.

Beautiful, hungry little whore.

Then I'm pressing into you, and I don't care anymore either, all I want is to be sheathed in you as deeply as possible. I come to myself long enough to grab your hair again, yanking your head back and warning you, "break anything on this table and you'll have needles in your cock every day for a week," before I'm fucking you, thrusting into you and it's the most wonderful feeling in the world shoving home inside of you.

You're making those sexy, needy little sounds again, pressing back into me, and my hands are on your throat as I bent over you, pressed into you and fucking you hard. "Look at my pretty little whore opening her ass for her Master." Thrusting in time with every word, my fingers tightening on your throat and your hips are shoving back into me with every thrust, hungry little slut. "C'mon, whore, fuck your Master's cock," I hiss in your ear and your breath is gurgling a little as you roll your hips desperately, desperate for my cock as deeply inside of you as I can shove it, as you can take it.

The base of my cock is pressing my clit with every thrust, and I'm moaning now, releasing your throat only to grab your hips, my fingers curling into that little curve of your pelvic brim and yanking you back onto me hard, enjoying the slight pain sound it forces from your bruised throat.

You're so beautiful like this, sprawled over the tea table, thong yanked out of the way and your dress rucked up around your hips with my cock disappearing into your eager little ass. I'm angling my hips a little now, dragging my cockhead over that spot in you, feeling you shiver a little as it hits, my fingers bruising tight on your hips as I pound that spot over and over until you're screaming a little beneath me, shaking and tightening around me and I laugh with pleasure and release.

Slowing a little, not quite ready to relinquish your beautiful little ass, my strokes more liesurely now as my mind turns to my own orgasm and the beauty of your body laid out for my pleasure. Almost reluctantly I draw myself from you, to a last whimper as my hands are tangling in your hair again and dragging you back to your knees.

"Get rid of this, bitch," I tell you, gesturing impatiently to my cock, watching you fumble at the harness, dragging it and my jeans off together and knowing that you can smell my arousal. I lay back in my chair again as you set my cock aside for cleaning, kneeling again between my spread legs and licking your lips.

I'm laughing a little now, low and throaty. Making you wait, making us both wait while you can smell my arousal thick in the air. Finally, just as you're about to start whimpering again and my own body is screaming at me that it's time and past, I grab your hair again and pull you to my waiting cunt.

My clit is engorged, a small cock all on its own, and your mouth is as hungry as your ass as you fasten onto it. You're still learning what I like, but it only takes one impatient smack to your head to remind you to be gentle here, but then your tongue is against my clit and your fingers in my cunt and I'm thrusting my hips again, eager myself now as the heat is building up in my stomach my groin. It's arrowing to my clit where your lips and your tongue are working while your fingers stroke that spot inside me and suddenly I'm moaning and writhing. My fingers tangled in your hair and holding you there, thighs tight around your face and the pleasure is rolling over me in waves until my fingers and toes tingle and it doesn't let up for what feels like hours until I'm limp with exhaustion and pleasure. Your mouth gentle and indirect, keeping me spasming occasionally as I come down again and I'm dragging you up into the chair with me, my arms around you and my lips finding yours.

"Thank you, puppy," I whisper sleepily.

Smiling

His ass is in the air, and I'm smiling. His shoulders pressed into the bed, his neck twisted painfully to look back at me, that beautiful, pleading look in his eyes. 

"Please," he whispers. "Please fuck me, please."

I am pressed tightly against him, purposely angling myself low, so that only my abdomen is pressed against that wanting, needing little ass, so that my cock juts out between his legs, too low to even brush his own. And I am smiling. 

His hips are rolling now, his body pressing back into mine, begging me along with his words. He knows that I want it, too. Knows that that cock in my head is even harder than the one jutting out from my hips, knows that my cunt is almost dripping with how much I want this. How much that I want to press into him, one sweet inch at a time. How much that I want to press in as hard as he can take, and then just a little harder. 

I never thought I was interested in strap-on sex. I really didn't. I thought that that cock in my head, the one that gets hard when a pretty girl flirts with me, or when I'm hurting a little boy, I thought it just meant I was a little crazy, a little off. 

I thought it meant I was a guy in a past life- it never occurred to me that part of me is one now. 

He's whimpering again while I'm ruminating.

I don't mind, I like to keep him waiting, make him beg and stew. I made him wait months before I finally fucked him for the first time. He can wait a few more minutes for this. 

Although I doubt he'd agree with me at the moment. 

I bring my attention back to him, back to the sweeping line of his back, the inverted heart shape of his so-feminine hips. Back to the soft down of his hair and the pleading green of his eyes. "Please..."

I laugh now, and lean forward, making him whimper as it presses my cock so tight against his, my hanging breasts pressed against his bowed shoulders and my lips dangerously close to his ear.

"Yes," I whisper, and with that I rear back and press myself into him.

I'm already lubed and ready, and it takes little effort to line myself up and press into him. 

Even the first time, I knew how to do this, the angle to press and how to open him up. In my head, I'm a man and I've had a cock all my life. 

And in his head, he's my pretty little cunt.

And I slide into him as easily as into the wettest woman, and we both breathe a deep sigh of contentment as I sheathe myself in him. His whimpering has started again, but there's a note of pleasure, of relief in it now as I start moving inside of him.

I'm warming up slowly, careful of my bad hip and just enjoying teasing him with my so-gentle movements. My hands grip the hollows inside his hips, small and pale against his skin while my hips roll in movements I learned long ago in belly dance.

I lean back a little, watching my cock as it rolls in and out of is body. This is so beatiful to me, beautiful in almost the same way as being fucked but so different. I love the sensations of it, they roll up, along the synthetic skin of my silicone cock, as real and deeply intimate as anything born from my body. I *know* the sensation of my cockhead popping softly from his ass. I *know* the pressure/relief/utter bliss of sinking my cock inside him. I know it as deeply and intimately as if this piece of silicone contained all the nerves of my body. Once upon a time, in another life, another incarnation, my body had a penis, and it, and I, still remember the sensations.

We still remember the sensations as I'm fucking him harder now, using my grip on his hips to slam him into me, and he's making small, eager noises and pressing back into me hungrily. We still remember the sensations as I draw out of him, only to slam back in, hard enough to bring a small pain sound to his lips and I'm laughing, laughing joyfully as I'm reunited with this part of my body I never had in this lifetime. Laughing joyfully as I'm fucking this boy spread beneath me in wanton invitation, laughing in pleasure as I'm slamming into him with every thrust and I'm letting go of his hips, letting go now to smack his ass in rhythm with my thrusting. I never understood why my lovers did that, never understood its power, its pleasure, until now and I am smacking him, alternating hands and cheeks as they redden beneath me and he makes low, gutteral sounds of need, desire, and contentment. 

This. This is what he was meant for, what I was meant for. This moment of deep connection and utter bliss, and my hip is getting tired now, warning me of impending soreness, and I change my angle, raking my cockhead over that spot inside of him, pressing into him, against him, drawing him with me, my hands returning to his hips just because I love the grip there, the hollows made for my hands as I'm fucking him and pressing into that spot over and over while his breathing is speeding up and he's moaning, loud and slutty and my arousal is dripping down my thigh as he explodes around me, deep, hoarse sounds ripped from his throat as I prolong it until I feel him rest limply against me. Only then, do I slow, gentle my hips and my hands, stroking him lovingly as I bring myself down, too, grounding myself in his body and stroking him, inside and out until finally my body tells me that it's time, I'm finished, and I roll myself slowly out of him, collapsing backwards on the bed with a low, masculine chuckle, an utterly feminine sound of joy.

And then his hands are gentle, loving, grateful as we unhook me, setting my cock aside for cleaning, and then we're spooning, his body warm and small and curled into his pleasure, his joy as my own is wrapped around him, safe and loving and intense and relaxed and happy and content. 

We sleep this way, drifting in and out of dreams whose pleasure cannot be as complete as this moment with him in my arms. 

And I am smiling.

Fucking Lucivar

I've been trying to put the words together in my head about my first time fucking Lucivar, but it's still too close. Still too viscerally a part of me, still too vulnerable. 

I can't make the words work. 

It was amazing.

Feeling him stretched over me, my small hand wrapped tight around his ankle, anchoring him, anchoring me. 

The beautiful sounds he made as I pressed myself deeper into him, the way that he shook and cried out as he came. 

The soft expression in his eyes of utter contentment as we curled up together afterwards.

I want to describe it with enough passion to do it justice, but I just can't make the words work.  

Lunch date

His hand was wrapped around my throat. Such a pretty little neck, he said softly. Almost like it was made for my hand, he told me. I whimpered and nodded as best I could in his grip. 

Moments like this, I could believe that my body had been made for his touch.

His hand moved, fingers dug into that sensitive spot on my jaw, just below my ear. It hurt, and I made small pain sounds, writhing just a little against him. 

Do you want me to stop? he asked. 

I gave it a moments thought. I could hear the smile in his voice, the utter joy he feels at hurting me. I wanted him to keep feeling that joy.

No, I whispered. 

He dug in harder, another finger pressing into the sensitive spot just below my nose and I shivered with the effort it took not to fight his big hands. I whimpered, pressed tightly into him. 

A moment or an hour later, slowly, reluctance clear in his hands, he released me, his hands moving to cradle me against him. Good girl, he whispered to me. Good girl.