Go Inside

Blindfolds allow me to be immersed in my body.  When I can see someone looking at me – especially a new partner – I feel more pressure to perform pleasure than to experience it.  Don’t get me wrong: There are times I love looking into a partner’s eyes.  When I’m riding The Engineer and have my whole body wrapped around him, then pull back, look him in the eye, and kiss him long and deep, it feels like magic.


There’s something about having a scarf, bandana, or slip of satin suddenly thrown over my eyes that shifts my perspective from pleasure collaborator to receiver of pleasure.  It allows me to fully accept pleasure in a way that I have a more difficult time doing if I can see my partner, especially during oral sex – even better if I’m immobilized.  If the blindfold is used as part of a BDSM scene, it’s a basic show of trust in my top and a testament to whether or not that trust is well-placed (it’s not always; I once had a play partner use a violet wand on me when I was blindfolded without asking first!).  It also lends itself to a much higher level of anticipatory arousal for me if I can’t see what’s going to happen next.

I have a few notable memories involving blindfolds: The first is when my manfriend (I call him this because he was 13 years older than me) grabbed a black silk scarf from his lamp one night, slid it across my breasts, and tied it around my eyes before grabbing my legs and wrapping them around his muscular hips.  The second is the first time I had PIV sex with The Texan (I’ll write about this in detail one day – it was really hot); as I lowered the blindfold over his eyes, I whispered, “I promise I won’t hurt you.”  I wrote about the third memory here.

The Engineer loves blindfolding me as part of our kinky play, and I just bought a brand-new delightfully fuzzy blindfold for us to use.  He’s a bit claustrophobic and has told me before that he doesn’t enjoy being bound or deprived of any senses, but when I told him I was writing this, he said, “I would let you blindfold me.  I trust you.”  I am VERY excited to close off one of his senses and kiss and touch him everywhere.  I think he just might like it more than he thinks he will.


Lake Malawi

I wear a red pencil skirt and a tight black tank top; he says I’m the best-looking woman in the room.  I know it’s not true, but I love him for saying it.  We get drinks and sit back at first, watching all the other vacationing revelers and locals dance together; we aren’t drunk enough yet to join the fray, so we chat quietly to each other while stroking each other’s arms and legs.  A couple of drinks in, I’m feeling better about dancing, so I stand up and stride into the middle of the floor, keenly aware of the fact that he’s watching me move my hips in figure eights and play off of other dancers’ moves.  He stares at me from the bar as I dance with other men, wanting me more than ever.  When I walk over to him and suggest we take a detour to the bathroom, he is so in.  We walk back to where the restrooms are, keeping watch of people coming and going until there’s a lull in traffic, which is when we take the opportunity to dip into the ladies and sneak into a stall.  We put our empty glasses on the back of the toilet; I sit on the lid and unbuckle his belt, eager for what’s underneath.  I unzip his jeans and pull out his semi-erect cock, letting it grow in my warm, moist mouth, making bright red smears on it with my lip gloss.

He slides his fingers into my hair, pulling my head toward him, leaning his own back and closing his eyes with satisfaction as he thrusts in past my lips until he’s rock hard, head tight and glistening with my spit.  In a moment of inspiration, he takes my hands and pulls them up and underneath his belt, then continues to fuck my face in a way I would only let someone do if I really loved them.

I pull back eventually and look up at him, my eyes laughing because the bathroom is now filled with the chatter of drunk 22 year-olds.  I continue stroking him, holding a steady gaze, until we can no longer hear voices.  He zips up and I peek out first before conspiratorially grabbing his hand and tip-toeing back out into the bar.  We continue drinking: beer, shots, cocktails.  At one point we’re at the far corner of the bar – not quite hidden, but not quite out in the open – and he says, “I have something for you.” He unzips and pulls his cock out, then places my hand over it.  “What are you doing?!” I squeak.  “It’s fine,” he slurs. Luckily, everyone else in the room seems to be in the same state we are, so I touch him lightly with my fingertips, trying to block the view with my body.  I’m not as concerned later on in the evening when he pulls one of my legs onto his lap and slides a hand up the inside length of my skirt before slipping a finger under my knickers and into my cunt.  Then I give zero fucks about who can see us.  I tilt my pelvis toward his hand, clenching around his finger.  He laughs and pulls it out before putting it into his mouth to savor my taste.

We leave the bar and walk down the beach toward our guesthouse; there are no lights along the way, so anywhere is good.  We park in front of an overturned canoe; he sits down against the faded wood, drunk enough not to care about having sand all over his bare ass, and I slide a condom down over his surprisingly-erect dick (ah, the beauty of youth) before straddling him and using the strength in my quads and gluts to rise and sink down onto his cock.  I hold his head in my hands and kiss him, my knees stinging from the hard sand, my cunt wanting and wanting and wanting, all charge and sizzle.  A couple of people walk past us on the beach with their phone flashlights on to guide the way; I sit perfectly still for a couple of minutes while they pass, convinced that since I’m wearing a skirt, it’s fiiiiine.  If we don’t move, they can’t see us.  I restart and ride until the sand becomes too much, at which point we stumble 100 meters to our guesthouse and pass out, tangled limbs fitting together like Tetris pieces.

We wake up hungover to a bed covered in sand; we mumble “Morning” to each other with sleepy eyes and knowing smiles, then kiss each other languidly in the blind-striped, mid-morning sunshine.  We gossip about ourselves over a full fry-up and suddenly, I know I’m in deep.  Dangerous waters, maybe – but I’m a diver and I know the risks.  For now, his arms are a buoy, his lips a regulator.  I’m safe.


Deep in the Heart

Driving down the 10, Alison held her breath.  She hadn’t seen Jax – now Jack – for at least five years.  They didn’t speak for the first two after their breakup, allowing themselves time to grieve.  Then came a Christmas card, then a catch-up email, and finally a phone call in which they were awash in relief at being able to laugh with relaxed and whole-hearted endearment.

When she diverted to highway 35 after Houston, Alison loosened considerably; the drive along the gulf was gorgeous, and she’d forgotten the raw beauty of rural Texas.  She allowed her mind to wander as she sat in her car on the ferry toward Mustang Island, fondly remembering holidays and morning routines with Jax.  The smell of sandalwood in her hair; the Friendsgiving when they’d accidentally set the kitchen on fire; the way Jax knew the precise moment to slide her fingers in while licking Alison’s clit.  Her ability to make a spanking feel like a reward instead of a punishment.

Still thinking about being bent over Jax’s knee, she started at a knock on the passenger window.  Snapped out of her reverie, she glanced over and inhaled sharply; she might not have recognized him had she seen him in a crowd.  She rolled the window down; Jack leaned gracefully against the sill and said, “Hey – aren’t you my wedding date?”  His radiant smile, now hidden by a shadow of facial hair, was the same.  “Come on in, sailor,” Alison replied; he opened the door and slid inside.  “You look beautiful,” he said.  Alison laughed; she was still in her morning sweats.  Jack, on the other hand, was looking handsome in his fitted suit and tie.  She thought of the last time she saw him wearing a suit – it had been on their last date.  They saw Giselle; afterward, he requested a lap dance in their living room.  She remembered straddling him, pulling his tie between her fingers as she leaned back, letting it fall as she ran her own hands up her breasts.  She rode him on the couch that night, their Feeldoe snug inside him, her cunt smearing the silicone with thick juices and involuntarily pulsing around it.

He snapped his fingers in front of her face.  “You okay?” he asked playfully.  “Great,” she responded, smiling.  “I was walking down memory lane.”  “Oh – I think I’ve been there,” he said. “Right between Regret Road and Amnesia Avenue, right?”  “Right,” she laughed.  This felt easy.  “I’ve missed you,” he said, looking at her with warmth.  “Same,” she said.  As the ferry started nearing the dock, he opened the door and looked back over his shoulder; “See you at the wedding,” he said, and just like that, he was gone.

The day was a blur of sand, ceremony, loving words, champagne.  There were fleeting pangs of sadness as Alison thought about how she’d wanted this with Jax, moments of sentimental longing when their friends exchanged vows, and ebullient exhaustion on the dance floor as Jack spun her around and around.  She’d forgotten how good a lead he was.  As they spent most of the reception catching up with other people, Jack suggested that they take a walk together along the beach to have some time alone.

They talked about work and hobbies; Jack had taken up the guitar and was playing open mics, and Alison had been promoted at the job she’d left San Antonio to take.  “I’m proud of you,” he said, stopping to look at her.  “I know it was a hard decision for you to leave.”  “Jack,” she said, the floodgates being held back by much too thin a membrane, “I’m so sorry.  There have been a million times when I think I should have stayed.”  “We both did what we needed to do in a situation where there was no easy answer,” he said, and grabbed her hand.  It felt reassuring and strong.  His touch gave her an unexpected jolt of desire; her somatic memory took over and her body felt the pads of his fingertips pinching her nipples, his palms separating her thighs.  “My hotel is right here,” he said, motioning up the beach, still holding her hand; “Come in for a drink?”  “I’d love that,” she said, sorrow morphing into stirrings of arousal.

Tequila, Drink, Beverage, Bar

Jack poured shots of tequila – her favorite – and toasted her.  “To your promotion,” he said.  “No,” she replied.  “To your transition – I hope it was everything you hoped for.  You are a very dashing man.”  “Everything and more,” he said.  “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”  “Tomorrow?” she asked, flushed.  “If I have things my way, you’ll be waking up here,” he said, and looked at her with questioning eyes.  She tilted her head back, letting the smooth tequila roll down her throat, burning in the best way possible.  She returned his gaze.  “Pour me another shot, and I’ll think about it,” she said, smiling.  “Whatever you say, my little cauliflower,” he answered.  She reacted viscerally to hearing her old nickname spoken by this slightly-deeper but forever familiar voice.  “You – ” she started, unable to complete her thought, her heart racing.  He traced her collarbone with one hand, and her cunt flamed; leaning into her ear, he whispered, “Don’t think too hard.  We’re only here for one night.”

She moved her face to the side, feeling his lips graze her cheek before meeting hers; the feeling of his tongue against hers flooded her with dopamine.  The body continues to react long after the brain struggles to forget, and her wanting overtook everything.  With their breath intertwining and the lingering scent of sandalwood in the air, she settled into her body and let the tension and pleasure build, and build, and build.

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

**Sometimes when you start writing and think your piece is going to be one thing, it morphs into a completely different thing; this was meant to be much more smutty than it is.  Highly smutty non-fiction about an ex forthcoming!

Small World

Puno, Peru, 2006

I’m making out with a British guy who I met on an island in Lake Titicaca against a wall in a surprisingly bright dive bar.  I’m drunk on pisco and he’s got this lovely, moppy hair that I can’t help sinking my fingers into.  I’m pressing him into a mural and so ready to go back to his… until these two girls on the dance floor catch my eye.  I come up for air to look them over more thoroughly; one has short, choppy, platinum hair and a great smile, and the other is this dark-eyed goddess who sways gracefully.  I tell the Brit I’m going to get another drink, but then wander over to the women and start dancing and flirting with them instead.  I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly the goddess’s arms are around my waist and my hands are sliding up her arms and I’m licking her lips and my body is throbbing and she smells amazing and god I want my face in her cunt.  Apparently she’s not with the woman she came with, because when I ask her back to mine, she smiles and nods.  We buy individual cigarettes from a street vendor on the way to my guesthouse; this is when I find out she’s Candian – exotic.  I’d never been with a Canadian before (P.S. I love you, Canada.).  We drunkenly explore each other’s bodies, tangled limbs and hair falling everywhere and tongue barbells clinking against each other.  She tastes salty and sweaty and I cannot get enough of her juices in my mouth.  She goes back to her guesthouse after, and I’m left wishing I’d had more sex on this trip and relishing the feeling the metal balls of her clitoral piercing on my tongue.


Bali, Indonesia, 2013

I’m in a gay bar near the beach and bemoaning, once again, that there are no lesbian bars – a frustrating phenomenon all over the world.  After a couple of cocktails / watching a fabulous drag show / getting to know the lovely blokes next to me, I spot a small group of women hanging out against a wall at the other end of the bar.  I saunter over to them and ask where all the ladies are; “We’re right here!” they say and laugh, and I feel at home in their presence.  I start chatting up a small butch woman; soon we’re dancing and making out, and shortly thereafter I invite her back to mine.  As we walk toward her scooter, the guys I was chatting with hoot and holler at us, and I give them a big grin.  The vibrations of her scooter on bumpy back roads prime me for deeper pleasure, and I try to stay quiet later that night as she fucks me; she is an unregistered guest, after all.  She won’t let me reciprocate, but she spends the night, and in the morning she spoons me and works several fingers into me.  I grind backward into her hand while touching myself until I come in waves, pressing my face into a pillow.  We walk out together; the guesthouse workers shoot us curious looks, and we look straight ahead.

Bujagali, Uganda, 2017

Having spent the first month and a half of my Africa trip without a single travel sexperience, I could barely contain my libido.  When I spotted a muscular Aussie sitting alone with a computer at one end of the hostel, I struck up a conversation, keeping my fingers crossed.  He had a ton of stories and a wonderfully dry sense of humor, and we had good rapport – in fact, it was the easiest conversation I’d had all trip.  We both had other people staying in our dorm rooms, however, so I casually asked him if he’d still be around the next night; yes, he said.  I like to think I was breezy the next night when I approached him, but he could probably smell the “please please please fuck me right now”-ness on me.  We stayed up chatting until the other guests had gone, at which point I sat next to him and asked if he’d like to continue the conversation elsewhere.  I presented a challenge: that we fuck on every single bed in his dorm room (To everyone who stays in dorms and is grossed out by that, #sorrynotsorry).  No problem, he said; he used to be a professional athlete and had a LOT of endurance.  We vigorously and joyously boned in a different position on every bed, working up a hell of a sweat, and I came again and again and again.  It was that perfect one-night stand where you get along well and the sex is great, but you don’t like like them enough to want to see them again.  Sweet, sweet relief.  The hilarious part came two weeks later when I had another one-night stand with a German cop (it was bad, you guys), and over post-coital beers I found out that he’d happened to have met this Australian guy the very same day.

Which is to say: It’s a small, small world.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked
Normally I try to write a piece of fiction for Wicked Wednesday prompts, but this particular prompt is so intertwined with my real sex life that I couldn’t help but write non-fiction!  More coming on this theme…


Steamy Windows on a Windy Morning

When The Engineer and I visited Ireland this summer, I had my heart set on taking a ferry out to the Aran Islands and renting bicycles.  We didn’t know how long it would take us to drive to the ferry terminal in the morning, so we arrived early; sitting in the car, waiting for boarding time to come and not wanting to go out earlier than we had to on a very windy day, we started kissing to stay warm.

The Engineer has these super luscious lips; he uses an obscene amount of chapstick, which means they’re always soft.  On this particular morning, as he was kissing me – long, lingering kisses – I started thinking about the way his lips feel brushing against my labia, and suddenly my cunt felt slippery and warm.  When I told him as much, he took it as an invitation and unbuttoned my jeans, sliding his hand down the front and into my cotton panties; he rhythmically glided his fingers up and over my clit, then down and into my cunt juuust a little bit.  As he continued to touch me slowly and steadily – just the way I like it – the windows started to steam up, and I leaned into his touch.

Several people passed by; our car was right in the middle of the car park, and I had zero fucks to give.  I got up on my knees on the passenger seat and put my hand on his shoulder, grinding into his huge hand and begging him not to stop.  The part of my brain that says “Have an orgasm now AT ALL COSTS” completely ignored the time and the people walking to and fro all around the car until I felt myself tipping over and gushing onto his hand; still kissing him, I breathed my climax into him and gripped his shoulder tight.  When I looked around the car to see all the windows completely fogged up, I laughed and thought, “Well, at least we’re not completely visible.”

We did make it to the ferry on time, only to find out that the waves were too high for it to run that day; fine by us, we said, and held hands on the way back to the car, chatting about potential ways to occupy our time.



Paul stepped out of his Toyota Corolla with a concrete foot and a stomach full of moths.  He paused and looked up at the tall, grey, nondescript walls of his high school and stared at a waving American flag in front of the main entrance, lost in thought.  Would anyone remember him?  If they did, would it be as anything other than that kid that everyone called a fag?  Why did he even bother to come back?

Morbid curiosity, he supposed.  He tried not to wish various maladies and misfortunes on the countless people who’d treated him like shit when they were teenagers, but his revenge cortex couldn’t help it.  Lebanon, Missouri was closer to Kansas than it was to St. Louis; as soon he graduated, he hightailed it to Northwestern University and stayed in Chicago thereafter.  It was the first time he’d even crossed the border back to Missouri in twenty years.

Straightening his tie, he walked toward the school uneasily; he opened the door with a heavy heart and was relieved when the first person he saw was the girl who’d played Marion the Librarian to his Harold Hill.  He gave her a huge smile and warm hug.  She was thrilled to see him, too; almost immediately, she grabbed his shoulder and pulled his ear toward her.  “Paul,” she whispered – “He’s here.”  Paul knew who Loreen meant, but he didn’t want to create hope where there was none, so he played dumb.  “Who’s here?” he asked, painting a quizzical look on his face.  “You know who,” she scolded, lightly punching his arm.  It was true, then.  Dean.  Dean Walker – the wrestling champion who took their school to state finals senior year.  Thinking about his sweaty smell as he walked past Paul down the hallway after practice still gave Paul a raging hard-on.  Dean had been in his spank bank for decades.

Wrestling, Wrestlers, Olympics, Olympic

He continued chatting to Loreen as they walked into the gym and grabbed beers; while they caught up on their lives, he restlessly scanned the room until he saw Dean talking to his old teammates.  His eyes lingered on Dean’s shoulders – not as big as they used to be, but still strong and toned under his fitted T-shirt.  He gulped and remembered fondly one late afternoon that he’d gone into the locker room after school to use the bathroom and had found Dean coming out of a stall; Dean turned around when Paul went in and followed him back into the same stall, looking Paul square in the eye for a moment before Paul willingly dropped to his knees and pulled down Dean’s shorts, taking his freshly-showered, now hardening dick into his mouth.  He eagerly relished the texture of every vein and ridge and the moan that Dean didn’t mean to make when Paul squeezed his balls just so.  After Dean had shot his salty load into Paul’s mouth, he pulled his shorts up and walked out, leaving Paul on his knees; they never spoke of it again.  In fact, they never spoke again.

Feeling uncomfortable as his cock started to stiffen under his trousers now, Paul excused himself momentarily and started walking toward an exit.  He couldn’t help looking toward Dean as he strode – and Dean looked back at him.  They made fleeting eye contact before Paul stepped out to inhale lungfuls of fresh air.  Standing against a wall, he closed his eyes and tried to think of anything that would make the blood leave his cock. He started when he opened them and Dean was next to him.

“Hey, Paul,” he said.  “It’s been awhile.”  Paul squinted his eyes a bit, befuddled by this sudden friendliness.  “Y-yeah,” he stammered, “It has.”  The last word came off like a question as his brain tried to comprehend what was happening.  “I got a new truck,” Dean said in a way that suggested they were old fishing or hunting buddies.  “You haven’t been around in a long time – want to see it?”  “Sure,” Paul said, drawing out the word.  He followed Dean to a silver behemoth at the far end of the parking lot.  “Chevy Silverado,” Dean said proudly, tapping the hood twice.  “She’s real comfortable for a truck and even has heated seats if you can believe that.  Want to go for a test drive?”

Paul opened his mouth, but no words came.  Dean opened the passenger side door and offered up the seat to Paul.  “Hop in,” he said.  “She’s a beaut.”  Dean drove them west on 64 until they came to the gravel parking lot of an abandoned diner, which he pulled into, treading on a linked chain that meekly attempted to keep cars out.  He turned the engine off and turned to Paul.  “I owe you something,” he said, his voice deeper than normal.  “I don’t – ” Paul started, but Dean interrupted him by sliding a large, rough hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.  Now Paul really thought he was dreaming, so he made the most of it and kissed Dean back with the ferocity we reserve for fantasies.  Suddenly, Dean was taking apart the clasps at the top of Paul’s trousers and pulling his cock out of his boxer briefs, licking around it before taking it into his mouth and then into the back of his throat as Paul grew thicker and longer.  Paul was so taken aback that he held his hands up at first, motionless – but as Dean’s head movements became rhythmic and he started groaning, Paul placed his hands on those shoulders he’d spent so much time thinking about during meetings and held on.  Feeling Dean’s tongue slide along the length of his cock and his strong hand gripping the base was almost too much to handle.  He felt his core tighten and his legs tremble; “Fuck,” he muttered, “I’m going…” his words trailed off as his face screwed up and his whole body clenched, then released.  His breath slowed as Dean licked every last drop of cum off of him.  He closed his eyes.  “I wasn’t expecting that,” he said, his head tilted back, feeling body-drunk.

Dean put his arm around Paul’s shoulders and rested his chin next to Paul’s ear.  “We’re even now,” he said.  “But maybe don’t make it such a long time ‘til you come back to visit.”  He started the engine and turned the truck around, back toward the school, and drove silently while faded music played on the radio.

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

Lust Highway*

Asphalt, Environment, Grass, Highway

We’re making flirty banter as he’s driving down a highway; I watch one of his smooth hands guide the steering wheel as the other moves gracefully to the knob on his left to change gears.  Looking at his large hands, I suddenly want them all over me – but seeing as how he’s driving, I opt to put my hands on him.  There’s a moderate amount of traffic along the highway, including tall trucks wherein the drivers could see us from their cabs; I ignore this fact and reach my small, pale hand over to unbuckle his belt.

I’ve done this before, so he’s not surprised; rather, he leans his pelvis forward and grins at me.  I unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down carefully, and pull his stiffening cock out from his pants.  He closes his eyes for a tenth of a second and sighs with barely-parted lips as I start grazing his cock with the tips of my fingers.  Once it gets a bit harder, I lean under his left arm and wrap my lips around his warm flesh, taking him into my mouth and running my tongue around his head.  I eagerly blow him as he struggles to concentrate; when I have to move so he can change gears, I look at him with pleading, lust-filled eyes and tell him how desperately I want him inside of me.

He turns right down the next road; we search for a place where we can pull over, but there is no place.  We’re right outside of a mid-sized town, so it’s all driveways and private field entrances.  We turn around and come back toward the main highway, my hand stroking his shaft.  He asks what I think about just pulling over on the side of the road to make out a bit; sounds good to me, I say.  But I want so much more than that.  I take my panties off under my skirt and grab a condom from the backseat; I ask him what he thinks about fucking me on the car juuuust a little bit.  Before anyone can pass us.  Just a few thrusts, I say.

Within two minutes I’m bent over the bonnet, my red sundress up over my hips, and he’s pushing into my swollen and waiting cunt, jeans mid-thigh – I’m slippery and he eases in, taking his time to tease me even though we don’t have it.  We (surprise!) don’t stop after a few thrusts; the taboo of fucking in public in broad daylight is so arousing that I tighten myself around him and beg him not to stop.  He puts one of his beautiful hands next to me on the car and holds my hip with the other, just like when he was driving – only now, he’s driving himself into me.  We can see cars and trucks flying by fifty meters down the road along the open highway, and I’m gasping with wanting him deeper.  More.  I wonder what the drivers would think if they could glance over and see us.  We don’t want to push our luck, though; after a few minutes he pulls out – neither of us completely satisfied, both of us feeling a temporary relief.

I let my skirt fall and he pulls his pants up and I turn around to kiss him as fully as I can; how often do you get a partner who’s down to fuck in the middle of the day on a car near a busy highway?  I smile and tell him he’s the best; he says I’m swell, and we kiss again, and the love I have for him fills me up.


*God I hope there’s a porn with this title.



Image from Pixabay; credit: Pexels 


Good Call

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.

Phone, Communication, Connection

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.”

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

Image taken from Pixabay; credit: markito.


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.


El Nido

Last post before I depart!  I thought a travel sex story would be fitting.

I’m not someone who loves Valentine’s Day, nor am I one who scorns it.  For me, it just comes and goes like the tides.  There is one Valentine’s Day, however, that is forever etched into my memory, and thinking about that particular day will always make me smile.

Two years ago, I was travelling in the Philippines; I was sitting at a bar my first night on Cebu, and I started talking to the gentleman next to me.  Our conversation flowed so easily that it felt like we’d known each other for years; we skipped the small talk and jumped right into deep conversation about our travels, life philosophies, families.  We laughed and talked for hours, then agreed to meet the next night.  I arrived that night with a huge group and dragged him from the bar to our table… then proceeded to ignore all the people I came with to talk to him.  I felt so drawn to him – to his laugh, his easygoing nature, his penetrating questions and openness (maaayyyybe to his extraordinary body as well).

We met again the following night – same place, same time – and as we were chatting on a porch underneath a full moon, a photographer asked if he could take pictures of us “while we were flirting and the sparks were flying.” Yes, of course, we said, laughing.  As he walked away, I put my hand on Neil’s leg and said, “Just so you know, I am flirting with you.”  He smiled nervously and we continued to talk until I absolutely had to go.  He walked me out; we were both planning on heading to another island around the same time, so I asked him to come north to meet me when he got there.  Sadly, he said, he was heading south, but he’d keep in touch and maybe we could meet up for a day before I left.  I grabbed his hand, leaned into his ear and tipsy-whispered, “No – you need to come up north so I can fuck you.”  He kissed me lightly on the lips and said he’d try to make it.  We said our goodbyes; I didn’t sleep a wink that night thinking about how his strong hands would feel running down the length of my body.

Fast forward a week and a half.  I have just arrived in El Nido; I’m walking back to my hotel, and who should cross my path but the one person I’ve been wanting to see this whole time?  We hug, we laugh, we beam at each other.  He tells me that he was warned not to go south because there was political turbulence, so instead he came north, hoping to run into me.  Looks like the stars aligned!  That night, we had dinner on the beach, the surf literally touching our toes.  We ate freshly-caught fish and drank fifty cent beers by candlelight and talked like children do when they have a secret language.  The wait staff finally had to tell us that we had to leave – they were closing.  We looked behind us to see that they had taken all the other tables and chairs off the beach and we hadn’t even noticed.  I looked him in his clear, blue eyes and asked if he were going to take me home with him some night that week; he asked what I thought about tonight?  I kissed him in response, and we walked uphill to his hotel, me in bare feet.  We got a bit lost along the way – the good kind of lost.


We spent the next three days going on adventures (sightseeing, kayaking, snorkeling, making out in secret caves), eating amazing food, and fucking like bunnies.  My last day in El Nido happened to be Valentine’s Day.  That morning, I got a massage, bought a dress (a rarity for me), tweezed and shaved my travel body, and told him to come to mine before dinner.  As an avid fan of Dan Savage, I knew it was best to fuck first – so when he arrived, I was only wearing a sarong, which quickly got flung aside.  Even with the air conditioning on, we were soon covered in a slippery layer of sweat, which we’d earned.  We relished every inch of each other’s bodies and slid all over each other in the heat of the tropics until we were starving and exhausted.


Time does seem to sprint by when you’re enjoying yourself, so I remember the night in flashes: We’re sitting at an Italian restaurant overlooking the ocean, devouring pizza and sipping on cocktails.  We’re dancing at a club, our bodies jumping and bouncing to pop music along with a packed crowd, rum and cokes in hand.  We’re outside, dancing in the ocean to cool off, spinning and dipping.  We’re sitting on an old, overturned, wooden kayak, making out like teenagers.  He’s facing me toward the ocean and putting his arm around me and asking if I’d ever come back to El Nido – and if he were there, I’d be back in a heartbeat.  We’re walking back to his hotel at 3:00 am to fall into a deep sleep in each other’s arms – but not before taking silly pictures with each other on the balcony. We’re waking up at 6:00 am to the sound of church bells, and I have to go.

I’ve had interesting Valentine’s Days before and since, especially while traveling, but I can’t imagine any topping that night – a night that felt perfect.  A night that capped off a magical movie-like travel romance in an idyllic setting.  A night when the stars aligned.