Rain, Rain…

If you’re in England and have been suffering from the Great British Heat Wave / walking on crunchy brown grass for weeks, you know how desperate the country is for rain.  It finally came while I was here… and stuck in a tent with the intention of going on a 15 km hike!  No matter; we found other things to do.

Sinful Sunday
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Sugar in My Bowl

It was nearing midnight; most dancers had already gone home, eager to catch the subway.  I never stayed out this late, but I’d had great dances that night and was feeling a bit giddy.  The music became sultrier, the lights dimmed, and sheer clothes stuck to our bodies in the humid tango studio.

“Wanna dance?” she asked casually, holding out her hand.

“Do you lead?” I asked. “I can’t.”

“Yeah,” she laughed.  “And you can – you’ve just never tried.”

I put my fingers in hers and my hand on her sticky shoulder, and she pulled me into a close embrace.  She smelled like Nag Champa; her wild, tangled hair tickled my face.  I slid my hand farther up so my fingers grazed the back of her neck, and she leaned her cheek downward to meet my hand.  Her spaghetti straps kept slipping down her shoulders; as we rolled our bodies together in time, I pulled them back up for her.

This was different.  I closed my eyes and felt her soft curves press against me, her small hand steady in the middle of my back, gently pushing me into submission with tiny wrist and shoulder movements.  I thought of my mouth on her nipples, her hands in my cunt.  I wanted to lick the sweat from her skin, taste her salt.  My sudden hunger for her gnawed at me as she bent her knees and swung my stockinged leg up her right thigh, sliding her hand up to finger the lace.  Time slowed as she held my leg there and lowered my back toward the ground, her face so close to my breasts that I thought she could see my heart pounding.   Pulling me back up, she put my other hand around her back and placed both of her hands on my hips, moving them in circles.  We breathed heavily into the space between us, then pressed our bodies close together again.  My cunt pulsed with the music, dripped, flamed.

People, Women, Girls, Dancing

When the song ended, we held position, hugged.  The next song started: “She Moves Me” by Muddy Waters.  I glanced over at the DJ; he was staring directly at us, all wolfish grin and starving eyes.  I knew that look, could see the cogs and wheels of desire moving within him.  I leaned into her ear, let my lips brush her lobe. “I think we’re meant to have another go,” I whispered.  She smiled, pulled me back in, and swung her hips like no one was watching.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Kiss Me through the Phone

I’m on a public bus

in a hostel common room

in a café

when my phone rings; he’s video calling me.  My heart rate increases, the beat staccato in my chest.  I hastily slide my thumb up the screen, eager to see his massive hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it for my viewing pleasure.  Sometimes I get wet at the thought of someone else catching a glimpse.

He puts a finger to his lips to demand silence before placing his phone against a wall and resuming his wank.  He’s

at a friend’s house

in a locker room

in a department store changing room

and he’s achingly close.  His long eyelashes flutter and his lips part.  His body rumbles and quakes as semen charges, then oozes out of him.  I ache to lick it off him.

I know this isn’t phone sex in the traditional sense, but technically we’re using our phones?  Then how about this:

Two weeks ago, his mates were staying over at his for a night; they’d all gotten blasted, and he was walking home from the chippy when he gave me a ring.  I started telling him all the things I couldn’t wait to do to him when I arrived in the UK.  He kicked a friend out of his bed when he got home so he could have the room to himself.  Lying in the dark, he whispered all the things I wanted to hear: He’d turn my cheeks to apples, pin my arms with his knees so he could stuff my mouth with his cock, continue licking me no matter how many times I urged him to stop so he could fuck me.  It was a hot summer evening on my end; I, too, isolated myself in the cave of my room, hoping I was quiet enough when my body shuddered and I came all over my hands, the phone pressed tight between my shoulder and my ear, listening to his heavy breathing and whimpers.

We need this.

I’ve been with The Engineer for fifteen months – all of them long-distance.  Phone sex, along with other lusty activities like sharing blog posts and sending dirty pictures, keeps us erotically charged and connected over the 4,000 miles that separate us.  We keep our hearts linked as well – but as we’re both people whose hearts are tethered to our genitals, a transfer of sexual energy is a must.

When I hear his deep voice telling me that he’s touching himself, I often have to excuse myself so that I can do the same… or at least to whisper threats and promises.