The Engineer really loves the color red, so I picked up some bondage tape at Sh! in London for us to play with this summer…
The first time was an accident. Maria had picked up the phone in her room when it rang; when she heard her roommate Edith say hello to her long-distance girlfriend, she almost clicked the button to hang up – until she heard Edith’s girlfriend ask, “So – what are you wearing?” This should be good, she thought, waiting for Edith’s inevitably quippy reply.
Instead, she heard Edith say, “You know that bra you bought me for Christmas? The red, lacy number that I never wear because it’s so impractical?” “Mmhmm,” came a knowing murmur from the other end. “That, and one end of your favorite dildo.”
Maria almost dropped the phone. In a panic, she pressed the earpiece to her ear and moved the mouthpiece down toward her neck, afraid to breathe or make a peep. She listened to Edith’s girlfriend give orders which Edith presumably followed:
“Are you wet? Good girl. Slide the dildo in and out until it’s covered in your juices. Get on your knees; push it deep into your A-spot and pulse it there. Press your legs together to hold it in place while you put your fingers in your mouth. Make circles around your clit… painfully slow circles.”
All she heard on Edith’s end were moans and whimpers of assent and pleasure – then a strained pleading to be allowed to come, followed by a tortured groan when she was denied. When she finally did come minutes later, it was epic – Maria had never heard anything like it before. Like a house on fire breaking apart, sending embers flying into a black sky, lighting it up with red smoke. Maria had never felt like that before.
When they finally said goodnight, it was Maria who felt exhausted. She hung up the phone and turned out her bedroom light; lying on her back in the dark, she slid her hands under the bottom of her nightgown and flung it aside. She squirmed as she felt slickness warm her inner thighs; when she moved her hand into her panties, she was shocked by how wet she was. She slid two fingers inside her cunt with one hand while gently rubbing her entire labia with the other, up and down, thinking about the orders that Edith obediently followed. Her hips bucked and her breath caught as her orgasm had her. She turned her head to bite her pillow, curling into a ball, afraid to make noise; she fell asleep in her underwear, which stuck to her.
It was the first thing on her mind when she woke up the next day; she knew she had to come clean. Edith had been her best friend for years; there just weren’t any secrets between them. Dreading the conversation, she rolled out of bed and slouched into the kitchen for coffee.
When she sat down at the table, she noticed how perky Edith seemed – how light on her feet. Good. “Ed – I have something to tell you.” “What’s up?” Edith asked, a spring in her step as she fluttered around the kitchen, grabbing dishes and cups and toast and creamer. “I heard you last night.” “Oh, god,” Edith said, her movements suddenly halted. “I was so loud you could hear me through the walls? I’m sooooo sorry!” “No…” Maria continued. “I heard you on the phone. I picked up and couldn’t stop listening. I know it was a huge violation of your privacy – I’m so, so sorry, Ed.” Her face flamed. She expected Edith to yell, to slam things on the table, to be furious. Instead, Edith just looked… curious.
“Huh,” she said. “Huh?” replied Maria. Again: “Huh.” Maria looked at her, completely baffled, not really knowing what to say. It turned out she didn’t have to say anything. “Did you… like what you heard?” asked Edith. Still beet red, Maria looked into her coffee cup. “Yeah,” she practically whispered. “It was… it was really hot, Ed.” The words rushed out of her mouth like air from a tire. “Huh.” “Why do you keep saying that?” asked Maria. “Well – Lora might be into that.” “What?” Maria asked, her mouth ajar. “Yeah – she might be into the idea of someone else listening in. Let me check with her.”
Maria felt her nipples stiffen under her nightgown – from arousal or anxiety she wasn’t sure, but she was sure of one thing: every cell in her body was saying “Yes.”
Image taken from Pixabay; credit: markito.
Do you think a nice driver would pick me up if I were lost on some lonesome highway?
Looks pretty empty to me… might have to stop to enjoy the scenery for a while.
Maybe it would help if I stuck my thumb out!
Fun note: A truck driver actually did turn onto this road as I was walking toward my clothes, which I’d unceremoniously flung onto the grass; I had to pick them up and press them to me as The Engineer tried to hide me!
I’m not super into giving head. I have chronic jaw pain; keeping my mouth open for a long time, let alone taking something into my mouth for a long time, can be a pretty painful experience. I do relish deep throating and giving sultry glances upward before sliding my tongue alongside the length of a hard cock, just… not for a long time. Almost never enough for the person I’m blowing to come. And I know, I know: orgasms aren’t the objective of sex (for me, anyway), oral sex feels amazing without coming, I shouldn’t have to grimace through my own pain to give someone else pleasure, etc. I know. It’s just – sometimes I really want my loved ones to blow a load in my mouth, you know?
So when The Engineer suggested that he hold off masturbating for a week leading up to our reunion, I was pumped because I could not wait to have him jizz into the back of my throat.
We hadn’t seen each other in two months; it was nearly impossible to keep our hands off each other at the Dublin airport and on our way to our first AirBnB in the middle of the countryside, but we did. When we arrived, we kept giving each other frustrated glances as the host chatted to us forever about the house and the history of the area, how we met and why we were traveling, etc. I had his dick in my mouth moments after she drove away; he was sitting on a swing in the backyard and I was on my knees in the grass, holding onto his hips with my hands while sliding my lips down and over his head and along the length of his shaft. My pleasure is deeply intertwined with my partner’s, so when I felt him grabbing the back of my head and heard him groan, it spurred me to take him deeper; I felt myself get wet as he told me not to stop, and I moaned in gratification when he came into my mouth in spurts just minutes after I’d started teasing his dick.
I was happy – but not as happy as I was when ten minutes later I was lying on my back on a little green hill with his face buried in my vulva. I had also participated in the Week(ish) Without a Wank, and I came fast and hard, squeezing his head between my thighs and pressing upward into his lapping tongue.
It was a beautiful day, and being outside naked in the fresh country air was the perfect way to start a holiday that would mark the end of long journeys for both of us. Later in the week, when we told other people the name of the town we’d visited first, they would reply, “Why would you ever go there? There’s absolutely nothing to do!” And we would just smile and say, “We just wanted to be in the middle of nowhere, you know?”
Besides, we found plenty to do.
The first time I ever experienced squirting, I wasn’t the one doing it; I was in a sex club in Seoul, fingering a dreamily beautiful young woman who suddenly gushed all over my hand. I stopped what I was doing out of pure surprise only to have the people around me prompt me to keep going. By the time she was done, the whole floor around her and my dress were covered in her ejaculate. Although I’d read and heard a LOT of accounts of squirting, I didn’t expect it to be that much fluid! It was incredible – even though it’s totally a normal thing that a load of women do on the regular, I felt like I’d just witnessed a rare and colorful bird flying by.
I chalk this up to all the “How to Make Any Woman Squirt” articles that have popped up across magazines, websites, and YouTube videos in the past few years. Although squirting has been a documented phenomenon for centuries, the way it’s been covered in mass media in the past five years – as something you “get” women to do if you’re a rock star lover – has made squirting feel like winning an impossible video game rather than just experiencing a cool thing that some women’s bodies do.
Perhaps it’s just me, but it also seems that because of this, the pressure is on to learn how to squirt in order to please your partners – much like there’s pressure on young women to engage in anal sex and deep throating even if they’re not into it. That being said, I’ve also read a lot of personal accounts of women squirting and their partners not being very sensitive about it (read: having an irrational freak out), which prompted them to feel bad about their bodies for ridiculous lengths of time… so maybe, like much of women’s sexuality, it’s a damned-if-you-do and damned-if-you-don’t thing.
As for me – I thought I’d never squirt because it’s just something that my body had never done. I’m a super juicy girl; it takes very little arousal for me to become wet (like, soaking through my panties onto my pants wet), but I’d never full-on squirted… and then it happened in Malawi. The Engineer was going down on me and pressing his fingers deep into my G-spot; when I came, it was all over his face and the sheets. I laughed when he looked up, his smiling face dripping with my juices. Luckily he laughed too, and when he came up to smear my own wetness on my face, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him fully before we showered and went out to the beach to let the sheets dry. It hasn’t happened since, so maybe it’s a one-time thing for me. At any rate, my personal feelings on squirting are this: It’s hot when it happens, but no woman should ever feel pressured to do it if she’s not into it or shamed if she does. As Emily Nagoski says over and over and over in Come As You Are, we’re all normal, and squirting (or not) is a part of that.
Photo taken from Pixabay; credit: ariesa66.
It worked every time – he didn’t even have to try anymore. Will strode confidently into a Farringdon pub at the tail end of Friday happy hour; he didn’t need the stumbling desperation of one am to convince someone to come home with him. He sat at the end of the bar, ordered a brown ale, and scanned the scene. Some nights he had to wait thirty, forty minutes for an approachable woman to show up; tonight, he spotted her within ten.
She sat at the opposite end of the bar and started scrolling through her phone, looking a bit bored and sipping on a cider. She was wearing a fitted grey suit, and her hair was tied into a knot at the nape of her neck. He walked around the edge of the bar so he could approach from behind, then walked up to the bar and sat next to her. He ordered a double scotch, neat, and took out his phone. Scrolling through old messages, he sighed loudly. The woman next to him looked over and asked if he’d had a hard day at work. “Everything feels hard some days, even when it’s not that bad – know what I mean?” he replied. She did. He continued: “Sometimes I think about how easy everything seemed when I was young and the only thing I had to stress about was losing a game or looking stupid in front of a girl.” She laughed and said she agreed with him; she was having one of those weeks, too.
He continued, feeling the hook slide in, the line go taut. “What did you do for fun when you were young?” he asked. “Oh, I suppose we just played normal kid’s games – bulldog, Mr. Wolf, oranges and lemons, -” “The one where someone’s head is chopped off?!” he laughed. “That’s terrible!” “We loved it!” she said, and laughed even harder. “What about you?” “I played thumb war with my brother a lot,” he answered. “Oh, and I was a staring contest master.” “Oh?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he continued. “No one could beat me at a staring contest. Even when my older brother was beating me at every other game, I always had him in a staring contest.” “Let’s have it, then,” she said. “I don’t know,” he replied – “are you in the mood to be heavily defeated after the week you’ve had?” She grinned and said she thought she could handle it.
Her eyes almost matched her suit – grey, but a bit darker. “Loser buys the next round,” she said, determined to win. They turned in to face each other, their knees touching. “Three,” he counted; she closed her eyes tight. “Two…” She blinked rapidly. “One!” She opened her eyes wide and stared into his. He never knew what was going through their minds at the time; he counted in his head to make sure that enough time passed to make it seem like he was making a concerted effort, but little enough time that it seemed plausible that he would blink. If he was closing in on a minute, that’s when he would graciously lose.
He remembered them all by their eyes: Carla was the one with the deep brown deer eyes. Meg was the one with the hazel eyes, a refractory of color. Sara, the one with violet lenses. A dozen other women whose names he’d forgotten, but whose irises were imprinted on his brain. He’d started this years ago when he’d heard that you could make anyone fall in love with you via a series of intimate questions and four minutes of eye contact; while he sure wasn’t looking for love, he thought they might be onto something with the eye contact. He was right.
“Argh!” he exclaimed, blinking almost imperceptibly. “Really, I swear – I’m good at this.” “Aww,” she said sympathetically. “How will you ever live this down?” “Please don’t tell anyone,” he replied. “My reputation will be ruined.” She laughed. He started pulling the line. “What will you have, then?” he asked. “I don’t need another drink,” she said – “I just needed a good laugh.” “In that case, may I suggest we take a walk? It’s a remarkably nice evening, and I can work on my stand-up routine.” She hesitated for a moment, but then said, “Why not? It’s Friday, after all.” “That it is,” he agreed, and stood up, gesturing toward the door. “After you, miss,” he said. He saw her dangling now, shiny and dripping with water – a real beauty. She smiled at him and walked toward the door, sashaying her hips a bit as she walked. It worked every time.
Taken in Chefchaouen, Morocco – even the guesthouse rooms are blue in the blue city. No filter used!
Coming back from the bathroom, I tuck a piece of red fabric into the breast pocket of his brand-new suit; it matches his tie perfectly. It looks like a handkerchief with a small, neat triangle perfectly pointed up toward his face. He looks down, then quizzically at me as if to say, “From whence did this matching handkerchief come?” And then it dawns on him. “Are these your knickers?!” he asks. I smile and slide into a seat next to him, caressing his leg, and whisper into his ear that it’s time to go home. He raises his hand for the check, and we can’t get out of the restaurant fast enough.
I walk up to him in a crowded bar on New Year’s Eve, kiss him on the cheek, and press something into his hand. “You have pockets, right?” I purr into his ear. He nods in affirmation. “Can you hold onto these for me?” I ask, walking away. I turn my face over my shoulder and look back as he realizes what’s in his hand and, startled, blushes and shoves my panties into his pocket.
He slides my panties down and takes them gingerly off my legs, over my heels, in a public park at dusk; when he starts to lick me, I come almost immediately – something that hadn’t happened in over a decade. He won’t give me my knickers back after I come, instead making me walk to and sit through dinner naked under my white sundress – my cunt swollen and wet most of the night, ready for when we get back to mine.
I’m prepping dinner at my kitchen counter; he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. I lean back into his lips on my neck and press my ass back against him. He slides his hands up my skirt to discover that I’m pantiless and takes that as an invitation to turn me around, push my skirt all the way up, pick me up, and fuck me on my kitchen counter (as I’d hoped he would) so we can work up an appetite.
For me, going commando is always a step toward some kind of sex – or at least a bomb of a hint that I’m interested in fucking. I don’t particularly like being nude under my clothes; my thighs start to chafe a bit when I walk, and I find panties soooo comfortable. But I love when my partners know I am – turning them on turns me on. Whether it’s a tease at the beginning of the night or a signal at the end of a date that I’m ready to go, dropping my knickers gets both (all?) of us revved up and feisty and wanting more.
Caves really freak some people out — there are a lot of folks uncomfortable with the dark, with small spaces, with bats and blind, transparent creepy crawlies.
I love caves. They’ve always felt like comforting, safe spaces to me. Thrown into total darkness, the cool, still, and damp air barely flowing over me, hearing bats and birds squeak near the entrances, I feel calm. Running my fingers over rocks that grow, I’m awed at how alive caves are. How many green things can grow inside of them. How many creatures can thrive in a challenging environment.
I feel relaxed in caves…
I know within a few minutes of meeting someone whether or not I want to fuck them. Something in their smile or their posture or the way they greet me either gives me a boner, or it doesn’t. I usually need to hear a hello or a few words to warm me to the idea of being intimate with someone – but when The Engineer walked into our dorm room in Rwanda, one glance was all it took. I’d been restlessly horny all day, and I thanked the universe for dropping a tall, handsome man conveniently into my room.
We were the only two in a twelve-bed dorm; he asked if I wanted to join him for dinner, and I fantasized about him in the shower beforehand, sliding fingers through my slippery folds. When, after two beers, he asked if I’d like another, I said, “No, and I don’t think you should have one, either – I think we should fuck first and then have another.” The bed creaked and banged against the wall as I rode him; I’m 100% sure the entire hostel staff heard my moans and whimpers, and I didn’t care. We went back out and had a celebratory beer before bed while chatting about our travels.
It was supposed to be a one-night stand. He was supposed to go off on a hike the next day… but he stayed. We spent the day walking along Lake Kivu, coming back to the hostel to fuck in the shower and on a bunk bed ladder (great for the height difference!), then changed rooms and fucked in the bay window, in the bathtub, on the huge bed. We slept next to each other, waking up early to have sex one more time before I walked to the Congolese border.
I came back to our guesthouse in Rwanda three days later, then shortly took off for another hike the day he was returning from one; he stayed. When I returned, he was sitting in the common area; he didn’t expect to see me, so when I ran in and flung myself into his arms, it took us an hour to get off the couch. We went to Kigali together and spent four days mostly eating, drinking wine, and exploring each other’s bodies instead of the city (corporal tourism?).
He took me to the airport at midnight, and it was a hard goodbye; when you develop feelings for someone while in a novel or challenging situation, the feelings can be pretty intense. We stayed in touch every day after that; when I messaged him asking him to come to Barcelona in July, he said that July was too far away and he wanted to see me sooner… and then proceeded to spend four days traveling overland by boat, bus, and minivan from Zanzibar to the southern end of Lake Malawi, where we spent a week on the beach, drinking cocktails, swimming, fucking like field mice, and being super handsy in public. By the end of that week, after telling folks in the guesthouse that we were on our honeymoon (it sure felt like it), I was in deep. We both were.
He took me to the airport again in Lilongwe, and the goodbye was much harder, even though I was sure we weren’t done seeing each other – and we weren’t. He called me when I was in Spain to tell me he was coming to Ireland with me at the tail end of my trip. He flew over his home to travel with me in a country he’d never been to, even though he was homesick. He met me at the airport with roses; we rented a car and spent eleven days driving through the countryside, staying in bed and breakfasts, cooking for each other, listening to amazing live music, and playing. We dropped the L word on day five after walking along the Cliffs of Mohor, and when we parted, he gave me a framed photo of us that he’d taken with his phone on the second day we’d been together back in Rwanda.
I’m not someone who believes in fate. I don’t believe in soulmates, and I certainly don’t believe in The One. But I do feel pretty lucky that we happened to be in the same place at the same time. Being with him is so easy; I feel emotional security AND physical lust at the same time, which is strange and wonderful. I feel prioritized, valued, and deeply cared for, and that’s something I haven’t experienced since the last time I lived in the US. This is good. It’s really good. And it’s not over yet – not by a long shot.
Gratuitous sex stories to come!