Washing Station

We never expected them to be so red or so lustrous.  Walking along a burnt and dusty road, grateful to have finally left a trail of children behind us, we crested a hill overlooking a cerulean lake and noticed clusters of bushes littered with scarlet berries.  Neither of us had seen coffee cherries before and could only guess at what they were based solely on the fact that we were in a coffee-producing region.

Once we arrived at our guesthouse, the owner offered a tour of their coffee processing facility for a small fee; we gladly took the opportunity to learn more.  You rolled a cherry between your fingers before pressing it just hard enough so that juices seeped out slowly.   Watching your nimble fingers wheeling the berry until its seed poked out its shoulder, glistening and coy, I ripened.  You abruptly opened your mouth to make a joke about popping cherries, but thought better of it almost as soon as the thought had formulated.

We were disappointed by how the scent of coffee beans isn’t intoxicating until roasted, fascinated by the silky slime of the beans in their natural state (much like a skull sliced open to reveal a brain), delighted with the contrasting colors of the sloughed-off skins against their innards.  Having a tactile experience – any tactile experience – breeds my desire for more, and by the time I’d run my fingers through a scattering of beans left to dry, I was ready to feel all of your textures.  The cartilage maze of your ears, the soft spirals of your hair, your layers of blood-warmed skin covering taut muscles.

The countryside sleeps early – farmers who are used to a cock’s awakening have an internal clock that knocks them out as they lie – but we were buzzing all night.  Unable to sleep, we crept through rows of pale moon beans until we reached the shores of Lake Kivu below.  We’d intended to sit on the sand and canoodle a bit, but as soon as your lips touched mine, everything was on the table.  You slipped my Cool Max T-shirt and sports bra over my head, not put off by days of hiking stench; I slid my much-too-short pajama pants off your long legs, and we edged our way to the water.

We inched in together, but I was the first to submerge, diving in fingertips first, coming up to smooth my hair back and wipe the parasite-infested water from my eyes.  My breasts shone in the half moonlight – incentive enough for you to swim over to me to cup them lovingly in your massive hands.  You kissed my neck and I encircled your cock in my curling fingers, stroking it to the music in my head.  We glided deeper into the water, and I wrapped my legs around your waist.  You stood deep enough to allow you to grip my hips and pump my body along the length of your cock, the buoyancy of the water aiding your effort.  I tried to hold on, but your seal skin made me feel like a drunk girl on a mechanical bull.  My hips bucked this way and that, my hands fishtailing all over your back.

A sudden breeze chilled me; I flopped backward into the water, dolphin-kicking away toward the beach.  You followed, grabbing my ankle and dragging me back.  “Not so fast,” you said, wrapping your arms around me in a vice grip.  “You owe me one more kiss.”  I leaned in, soaking, til my lips were just grazing yours, and I breathed into you.  “Bring me back up that hill and I’ll give you much, much, more,” I replied, my promise fluttering in echoes, bouncing off the silent, drying beans which were winking at us under the moon.

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

The Engineer and I both hiked the same trail in Rwanda, but not together; this is a fantasy of what I would have liked to happen had we been hiking in tandem.

 

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Brought To My Senses

I close my eyes and think of scratching.  I see the pale skin and broad shoulders of my first love, the one who faced his back to me whenever we fell asleep together (his parents let me sleep in his bed with him when we were high school students, which I still find shockingly progressive) and asked me in a plaintive voice to scratch his back, followed by a relieved and happy sigh.

I feel my nails – always bare and cut short, but no less sharp – dig into the haunches of a dozen lovers, carried away with scraped-out longing for my legs to spread wider so they can be deeper inside of me.

I smell pine needles as bark scratches against my hip bones and hands while The Texan fucks me hard against a tree just off a hiking trail.  We can see a hiker walking by 150 meters away; we don’t stop.

I taste a lover’s cunt in my mouth as she begs me to scratch her, to bite her, to just fucking mark her in any way I can and god make it hard.  Make it hurt good.

I hear the sharp intake of my sub’s breath as he feels the tips of my steel claws, not knowing what they are or what I’m going to do with them.  I scratch them lightly up the inside of his thigh and punctuate his scrotum, walking up his balls with the tips.  I press them harder into him until he cries out – and then I press a bit harder.  I tell him to turn around and drag them slowly down his back, his ass, and hope that the marks vanish before he goes home.  Claws leave beautiful, precise marks – and you don’t need to press very hard to leave evidence.

I love having any kind of marks on my body, and scratch marks are no exception; when someone accidentally scratches me during sex and apologizes, I press their nails harder into my body and whisper, “I’m your canvas.  Paint me red.”

 

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.

 

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.

 

Reunion

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

Faithfully

It’s late November; I’m sitting upstairs in a Starbucks reading a long, dry textbook chapter, and Billie Holliday’s version of “All of Me” comes on.  I try to focus on the text, but when I stare down at the page, the black marks swim and crash against each other until I have to close my eyes.  I remember you gliding your hand up my right arm, pressing my palm into the cabin wall while biting my neck.  You reach behind my shoulder with your other hand to untie my bikini string; the top falls from my breasts and you yank it down, taking your left hand off my right and sliding your fingers into my wet hair.  I still feel your muscular arms wrapped around me, picking me up to wrap my legs around you and pressing me harder into the rough wood so you can penetrate me, banging me against the wall with all the force of youth’s desperate wanting.  I try to find something to hang onto, but you tell me you’ve got me; I don’t need to put my hands anywhere but around your neck.  You sink your grip deep into the flesh of my flanks and find a way to get deeper into me, tasting lake algae in my kisses and hearing me whimper into your ear as I come hard onto you, making sure no one outside hears us.  There won’t be campers until the next day, so we spend all night tangled together, listening to Billie Holliday’s love songs on the cabin’s CD player.

_________________________________________________

I’m driving through Death Valley on a long stretch of empty highway, looking around at colorful rock strata and abandoned mines, and “Shameless” by Garth Brooks comes on the radio, crackling because I’m so far out.  I think of another highway in another state; of tall firs and stars.  We’re in your 1981 Ford pickup, and this song – our song – comes on the radio.  You pull over, shut off the engine, and ask me to dance.  With my window rolled down, we can hear the song loud and clear; I have my hand on your shoulder, caressing your neck with my fingertips, and you have your hand in the small of my back; I sigh, feeling connected and safe.  Mid-dance, you reach under my skirt to slide my panties down under my dress and over my flip flops, flinging them through the window.  You return your hand to my back and touch me with the other; still swaying side to side, you take the now-flowing juices from inside of me and lift them up and over my clitoris, clumsily moving your fingers, but still gratifying my easily-satisfied body.  After the song, I hop into the truck bed and offer you my hand; you grin and take it, scrambling up.  I unzip a sleeping bag and put it down, pushing you onto it and laughing.  I take your boots off and unbuckle your belt, then unzip you to find you commando and hard as a rock.  I let my dress straps fall over my shoulders, taking them off as I straddle you, and put on your hat.  I interlace my fingers with yours and sink onto you, giving you my very best cowgirl.  You buck up like a mechanical bull and I stay on for the long ride.  The night is black around us, and I still smell pine sap and distant bonfires.

Moon, Sky, Night, Pine Trees, Silhouette

A band at Coachella sings “Billie Jean,” and I remember sneaking off with you at a Halloween party, finding a dark room where we meant to make out but ended up fucking with abandon on a couch.  We were too greedy for each other to be careful about not being seen or heard.  Too young to be drinking; tipsy with vodka, but soused with oxytocin.

I hear “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by the Temptations in the supermarket and am transported to an intense and steady stare in your eyes across a field of running children; I blush, feeling a taut line between us where everything else fades.  I feel a tug on my hand and look down; it’s a seven year-old camper.  “Delivery service!” she squeaks, smiling big with a couple of teeth missing.  I pop the balloon handed to me and take out a piece of paper that reads, “I want to make you come so many times that you beg for mercy.”  I stuff the paper in my pocket and blush deeper, trying to will my nipples to deflate, feeling an uncomfortable and warm gush in my knickers.  “Mercy,” I mouth to you, and you salute me.

At karaoke one night, someone gets up to sing “Faithfully” by Journey.  I deeply inhale and think about the last time we kissed, slow dancing at the Bear’s Den in front of your bros, multi-colored lights flashing around us.  You had a girlfriend, but that had never stopped us on either side.  I listen to the lyrics – “Being apart ain’t easy on this love affair / two strangers learn to fall in love again / I get the joy of rediscovering you / oh girl, you stand by me – I’m forever yours, faithfully” – and reminisce about the promise of love, the consequences of lust, and the fact that there are some people you never stop wanting no matter how much time has passed.

 

 

This piece was inspired by an erotica writing contest over at @EA_unadorned’s site; he came up with a brilliant set of writing prompts based on song lyrics.  Please check out not only the prompt page, but his site in general!

http://exhibitunadorned.com/2017/10/19/erotic-writing-contest-song-lyrics/

 

 

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 

 

Reunited, and it felt So. Good.

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.

 

Happy Endings (NSFR)

I

We’re the first ones to arrive at the club; it’s wide open, with tons of couches and tables scattered across a huge, darkly lit room.  There’s a costume closet with a bunch of dresses and shirts and a few toys in it – one small flogger, a long leather paddle, a dildo.  We settle into a “room” adjoining the main area; I’m using quotation marks here because instead of walls, there are just metal bars separating these spaces.  Nowhere to hide.  I was putting off coming here for months because I felt a little shy, but now that I’m here, it feels comfortable.  A little dungeon-y.

Shortly after we open our bottle of Jack and pour ourselves small cocktails (swinger’s clubs in Korea require the purchase of bottle service for entry), we look around more.  I see a large swinging hook hanging from the ceiling; I grab the rope I brought with me and tie myself up to it, asking my playmates to grab that paddle and hit me with it; they gladly oblige.  Soon another couple comes up and asks if they can spank me, too; yes, I say, delighted!  Actually, one of them started fondling me without asking first – a common occurrence at this place.  I had to tell two people (in a language I’m not fluent in) that night to ask before touching.

We’re the first ones to have sex that night; I’m riding him and she’s sitting on his face and she and I are making out, and suddenly I look over to see that everyone in the room is intently staring at us.  It doesn’t bother me because I’m in the sex haze where nothing else matters but my orgasms.  Enjoy, I think, just don’t interrupt me while I’m coming.

II

A beautiful young woman comes over to play at some point while I’m being fucked from behind with a strap-on by the woman I came with (her first time using one!); the owner had whispered to us when we first saw her that she was a lesbian and wanted to play with women.  Whispered it because same-sex play is relatively uncommon in Korean clubs.

She looks like a real doll.  Like a straight man’s fantasy.  Perfect skin, fake breasts on a tiny frame, false eyelashes, long hair.  She’d come with a much older man but wasn’t really playing with him; he followed her everywhere she went, but I didn’t see him interacting with another person until the end of the night, when most people were drunk.

I was already on my hands and knees; she asked my friend if she could play, which got relayed to me; I answered with a resounding yes.  She kneeled behind me and started licking me.  At some point she started rimming me; afraid she would start licking my vulva again afterward, I stopped her (I’d already had to explain to the friend I came with that you can’t do that; she had no idea!) and asked her to lie on her back.  I started sliding my hand up and down her labia, smiling at her, before sliding a finger inside and asking her which spot she preferred I concentrate on.  I eventually worked up to three fingers, pushing into her G-spot with a steady rhythm; I suddenly felt a rush of liquid gushing into my hand.  I looked more closely and saw that the tissues around her urethra were so engorged that it looked like the head of a penis!  I stopped momentarily, a bit shocked, and everyone around me shouted, “No, keep going!”  Soon there was a flood pouring out of her and onto the floor around her, jets of ejaculate flying onto my dress. It. Was. Amazing.  It was my first time seeing a woman ejaculate, and it truly felt like a miracle!  I high fived her as my friends went to grab a sheet to mop everything up.  “Kiss me,” she said in a small voice, and not being one to deny someone so lovely, I leaned in and brushed my lips on hers.  They felt like petals.

III

I start fucking this guy, straddling him, and I keep trying to take his shirt off; he keeps pushing it down.  When I take my dress off to reveal a completely nude Jo, I hear an audible gasp from several people in the room.  I look around, and everyone – even mid-orgy – is wearing a shirt of some kind.  Mostly button-down men’s shirts.  Doesn’t quite seem the place to be modest, I think, but I come from a completely different culture.  What do I know?

IV

Because one of the friends I came with is a marine and there’s a military curfew, we have to stay out ‘til 5:00 AM.  Around 3:30, I feel totally exhausted and just want to go – until a Danish woman and French man come over and sit with us.  They’re coworkers.  Not sure how the lifestyle came up in work conversation!  I tie her up and we take turns spanking her; I take her down and she hops onto her coworker.  It’s so hot it makes my jaw drop – he’s holding her up, his back against a wall, bouncing her on his dick.  I teach the marine how to tie a dragonfly harness; he ties me up, grabs a spreader bar upon my request, and locks my ankles into it.  The Europeans are taking a break, so I look over at the French guy and ask politely if he’ll bend me over and fuck me while I suck the marine’s cock; he gladly does.  It’s hard to get into a rhythm, but I’m having the time of my life being pushed back and forth by two dicks, precariously balanced.  While this is happening, the woman I came with starts spanking me, and the Danish woman whispers in my ear, “You’re such a good English teacher!  You take his cock so well!”  I come in waves, pleasure undulating through my body, satiated with the rapture of having a long-standing desire fulfilled.

I just think: Thank gods for the military curfew.  We eventually clean up and leave at 5:00 to get pho across the street, drained and content and maybe a little sore, looking forward to a long morning of deep sleep.

Exhibitionish

I don’t think of myself as an exhibitionist.

This is strange, considering how much I love having sex in public.  (So. Much.)  The potential of being seen – not actually being seen, but just the possibility – makes my knickers slicker than a snake oil salesman.  When The Texan suggested we go off the trail while hiking for a quickie, I almost died of pure joy.  Seeing a hiker off in the distance – not close enough to see us, but close enough to want to investigate should we make more noise – made me clench around him tighter.

There was an evening a couple of years ago when I was walking around a playground taking pictures with a partner when he suddenly reached under my dress to slide my red panties off (putting them in his breast pocket like a gentleman), sat me down on a piece of equipment, pushed my skirt up, and started lapping at me; I think I came in under a minute, and it was incredibly intense.  It was the only time I ever had an orgasm from oral sex with that partner (whom I otherwise had a MILLION vaginal orgasms with); he thought for sure it was because we were outside where people might see us.  I shrugged that idea off – until I started taking naked photos of myself.

I cannot get through a photo shoot without wanking.  Something about knowing that I’m taking these photos to show other people – that I’m exposing myself to someone who at the time of the shoot is unseen, someone who might be turned on by those pictures – arouses me to no end.  If you’ve seen Sinful Sunday photos of me, you can be sure that a) my cunt was shiny and slippery at the time, and b) I stopped taking photos at some point in order to rub one out.

I love walking around my apartment naked and fucking in windows, always wondering if anyone is looking up or over and then won’t be able to get it out of their head for weeks; I also have stranger gangbang fantasies that I don’t actually want to enact.

Still – I don’t consider myself an exhibitionist.  I don’t want to watch other people watching me.  I don’t want to directly expose myself to people without their consent, my sexual gratification isn’t reliant on other people’s reactions, etc.  The idea of going to orgies or swinger’s clubs doesn’t really appeal to me except as a novelty.

But.

Thinking about someone happening to look over from their apartment to see my sweaty body pressed against the 18th story window as I was getting pounded from behind this summer in my friend’s apartment – hoping that it’s a catalyst for a wave of desire that then consumes that person and carries over into their sexual relationships – makes my pulse quicken.

Riding The Texan on a picnic bench in the dark last year, his dick barely out of his jeans and my dress hitched up around my waist, knowing that anyone could stumble into the area of the park we were in at any moment – even if it was highly unlikely – engulfed me in a desperate, greedy lust.

Not seeing you, but knowing you’re there – invisible, but felt – makes my body stand on edge, warm and wanting.