Don’t Move

“Don’t make a sound, and don’t move” said The Texan as he covered my mouth.  He had been fondling me; feeling my nipples stiffen underneath my tank top and hearing my breath start to beat staccato, he must have known that I was awake.  His hard cock pressed into my back, and I ground my ass back against it, making the smallest nodding motion with my head.  Spooned close to me, he slid his right hand down the back of my blue lace knickers and breathed heavily into my hair when he felt how gushingly wet I was.  He pushed my panties down with that hand and rubbed my juices around my vulva, then smeared the rest on his cock before sliding it through my thighs and along my labia, teasing me.  My body tensed; I longed to whimper, to beg, but all I could do was gyrate and dig my fingers into his leg, willing him to penetrate me.

My body quivering, I tightened my muscles and remained as still as I could on my side as he pushed the head of his cock past my opening, pulled it back out a bit to wet it, and drove back in, little by little, until I could feel the ridge of his foreskin riding along my anterior wall.  I pressed back against him and angled my arm back to hold onto his ass, and he thrust into me in subtle movements – enough for both of us to feel the electricity pass between us, but not enough to shake the bed with any discernible noise.  Certainly not with the gusto we were used to fucking with.  Afraid to roll forward onto his sleeping wife, I held my breath, bit my lip, gripped him with the intensity of a rock climber, and came silently in ripples of intense pleasure.  Not long after, he gushed into me, pulling my body tight against his, and bit my shoulder just the way I liked.  He pulled out, leaving a trail of his come along my ass, and pulled my panties up.  “I want you to sleep like this,” he whispered, and cupped my crotch with his hand.  His spunk squirted onto the inside of my knickers; it was so uncomfortable and SO arousing.

I lay there until I couldn’t stand the squishy feeling anymore; getting up to wipe myself, I disturbed his wife, who wanted us to move around so she could cuddle him.  He moved into the middle, and I took one side.  We were all still drunk from several bottles of wine, so falling back into a deep sleep was easy; I remained so for a few more hours, until I awoke to feel him masterfully stroking my thighs.  I turned over to kiss him and stroke his cock – long, deep kisses, long, slow strokes.  I desperately wanted him inside me again; I had never felt so insatiable.  I knew he was feeling the same when he put a finger to my lips.  This time, the expression in his eyes was all it took to tell me not to move, and I understood.  Without a word, I turned back over, and tracing a finger down my back, he yanked my panties down.  We started all over again.

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

This had been sitting in my drafts waiting to be published for aaaaages; this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt “Continue” seemed like a good fit for it.  Also… it’s my 300th post!  Woohoo!

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Trust

A few months ago, I wrote a piece on blindfolds for KOTW; when I talked to The Engineer about this, he mentioned that while he loves blindfolding me, he wasn’t really into being blindfolded.  He’s a bit claustrophobic, so I think sensory deprivation and bondage generally aren’t comfortable for him.  But then he said: “If you want to blindfold me, you can.  I trust you.”  My heart melted.

Blindfolded Propaganda Woman Girl Walking

Fast forward to his recent visit; I was giving him a long body massage next to the fire one night, and inspiration struck.  I asked him to turn over to his back; I grabbed my new furry blindfold and asked gently if I could put it on.  The atmosphere was relaxed – candles, soft music, wine, warm and loving hands.  I started out by touching his legs, arms, and stomach, and then moved onto his cock – hard as a rock – taking it alternately into my mouth as far as I could and then back into my hands, stroking it and running my tongue along its length.  I sidled my body up his oiled body so that I could kiss him.  Being kissed (especially a deep, sensual kiss) while blindfolded is a singular experience.  It feels so intimate and electric because the sense of touch is heightened.  All of the other senses are heightened.  An ecstatic whimper emerged from his throat, and it was a beautiful sound to behold.

Roused by my memories of Sex and Lucia (if you haven’t seen this movie, stop reading right now and go watch it), I wet a finger and traced it along his lips; I dipped one nipple between his parted lips, followed by the other, which he relished.  I raised myself so I could kneel over his face and gently lower my clit onto his waiting tongue; I’m sure the pressure of my knees against his ears and the resulting lack of sound added to his expanded tactile experience.  He lapped at my swollen vulva, sticky with webs of viscous juices, until I needed him inside of me.  I straddled his cock and slid him into my longing cunt.  Usually the first contact is the most exquisite; especially so in this case.  While riding him, I took off the blindfold and kissed him.  We ended up having some of the best sex we’ve ever had – I felt so deeply entwined with him and completely present in the moment; he told me later that he felt the same.

Sometimes experimentation goes awry; however, sometimes it opens us up to new and exhilarating feelings and experiences.  If you have a partner you deeply trust, try something new with them that you never thought you would like.  You may end up having a pretty fucking great night.

Pursuit of Horniness

Memories are jigsaw puzzles with loads of missing and misshapen pieces.  I don’t remember what we were drinking that night (…were we drinking or smoking? Probably the latter…) or how we all got together; I remember vaguely what their apartment looked like, but have no idea what neighborhood it was in.  At some point, we – myself, a classmate from a writing class, his roommate, and a coworker on whom I had an immense crush – decided that playing strip Trivial Pursuit would be a smashing idea.  This is something I did often in my early twenties – strip board games with coworkers.  It was a surreal and exhilarating time, y’all.

The idea is this: Get an answer wrong, take off an item of clothing.  Get an answer right, put one on.  Play until someone loses all their clothes; everyone else is a winner.  I’m not a competitive person in general; once in a while the small and fierce competitor in a tiny, cobweb-covered corner of my brain comes out swinging, but I don’t think I tried particularly hard this night.

We continued playing until most or all of us were naked; the next thing I remember is my coworker going off with the roommate to his room while I straddled my classmate on his kitchen floor, my arms and legs wrapped around him, riding his dick while he fingered my ass.  I wasn’t even really attracted to him, though he was a good-looking guy; I was just mega-horny from being naked with my coworker.  Hearing her cries from the next room filled me with an even more eager lust, and I used my classmate’s cock to get off.

Not too long after – actually, who knows how long?  Time stands still when you’re stoned – they came out of the roommate’s room.  My classmate and I were still sitting on the floor, though not fucking anymore; my coworker came over to me, grabbed my hand, pulled me up, and walked me over to my classmate’s bedroom.  She dragged me in and locked the door behind us (to the sounds of muffled protests), then pushed me down on his bed.  Er – his mattress on the floor, in any case.  She spread my legs and went to town on my pussy, and I entered a dream-like state.  I don’t know if I came; I do know that it felt fucking amazing and that I wanted my face in her cunt.  I wanted my hands and mouth all over her body, really.  She told me later that I tasted like chocolate chip cookies (I wish!).

Chocolate, Chips, Cookie, Sweets, Pastry

Being tangled up with her in the dark, my heart pounding – kissing her and tasting my juices on her lips – was enough to confirm that yes, I was straight-up-and-down-the-line bisexual.  She wasn’t the first woman I’d slept with, but she was the first woman I had strong feelings for that I had.  She was also the first married woman that I had sex with.

That night – that life – seems a million miles away.  I see it through the prism of highways and oceans, fractured and foggy.  I kept in touch with my classmate and stayed with him in New Orleans while I looked for an apartment there, though we never had sex again; his roommate died young, which was devastating.  My coworker, whom I eventually came to love, got divorced and remarried and divorced again; the last time I saw her, she was preaching the gospel of Ayn Rand, and I haven’t spoken to her since.

I still love a good game of Trivial Pursuit more than any other board game; I don’t play very often these days, but when I do, my clothes stay on.

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

 

 

Image taken from Pixabay (StockSnap)

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.

 

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.”

 

Second Time Around

When I was teaching in Korea, I noticed a large cultural difference in terms of how students would address creative questions.  This became very apparent when I asked my university students the following question:

“If you could travel back in time, when and where would you go?”

In the US, students might answer that they would go see ancient Egypt, dinosaurs in the Jurassic period, or Woodstock.  My Korean students, however, would always – without fail – tell me that they would revisit a time in their own life in order to change it (usually to study more or take a test over!) or return to an age when they had more free time.  It’s because of their answers that this idea popped into my head.

Pocket Watch, Clock, Time, Old

If I could go back in time, where and when would I go, professor?  That’s a hard question.  Maybe you want me to say something about some big historical event or a famous person I might meet, but to be frank, there are moments in my life I want to go back to.  Missed opportunities.  Moments of regret.  No, not the chance to study abroad or take more advanced classes.  The chance to have more lovers.  You’re blushing, professor.  No need; I am just answering your question.

Let me give you an example.  You always ask us to give examples to show our answers, right?  So here’s mine.  Last summer, I took a trip to Europe with Jun to celebrate our last year in university; you remember me talking about this before.  We were at a hof one night in Zurich talking to a small group of Swiss women; Jun wasn’t feeling well and went home early, but I stayed.  I was left with two women, both so beautiful.  They had shiny hair, soft skin, perfect teeth.  They were young like us, and we talked about the difficulties of expressing our thoughts in English.  Well, to make a long story short – we all drank many beers, and these girls started kissing each other.  I had never seen that before; there are gays here, but they hide.  I watched them, so surprised – and so… well, it was exciting.

One of them took my hand and leaned in to my ear; she asked if I would come back to their apartment with them.  I had never done sex with one person, and here were two girls asking me to come with them!  Professor, I was so scared that I couldn’t.  I was afraid that I would be bad at it.  That they would laugh at me.  Now, I regret that.  So to answer your question, professor, if I could go back in time, I would say to those two Swiss women, “Yes.  I will come with you.  But I am inexperienced, and I need guidance.”  They would say to me, “Yes, we will help you.”  They would take me home and teach me everything.

I would give them as much pleasure as they wanted, and I would touch them the way they wanted me to touch them.  I would lie back and let them touch me and kiss me, wondering about my luck.  I would have – what is the expression you taught us? – seized the day.  Professor, I don’t want to say too much, because you seem uncomfortable.  But in my mind, I live that night every night.  If I had a time machine, I would make a girlfriend in my first year instead of getting high test scores.  I would kiss many girls on my trip.  And I would enjoy my time with the two women I dream about every night.

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

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.

But.

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.

 

Work in Progress

I love butt stuff.  Plugs, fingers, vibrating plugs, rimming, beads, plugs of various shapes and sizes, pegging, and – have I mentioned plugs?  I love them.  That said – anal sex isn’t really my thing.

Having a partner slide a finger into my ass while licking my puss?  Definitely my thing, and my clitoral orgasms are so much more intense when combined with anal stimulation.  I often incorporate beads and plugs when I wank, especially to tip me over the edge.  Riding a partner’s dick with a vibrating butt plug in so he can feel the vibrations through my vaginal wall?  Absofuckinglutely.  I often fantasize about double penetration – sitting on a dick reverse cowgirl style and lying back on that gent while having another fuck me missionary style while other people watch.  Giving languid analingus at the end of a long body massage makes me drip, and putting on a strap-on, making it goopy and slick with lube, and sliding it into a wriggling ass that can’t wait to be penetrated, only to hear a deep groan of satisfaction, makes my heart pound.  PIA, though?  That I could take or leave.

Then again – maybe I just haven’t given it a fair shot.  The first time I tried anal was in uni; we lubed up, used fingers first as a warm up, and… it was good.  Not great, but good.  The second time we tried I really got into it.  Then one night my boyfriend was pounding me hard from behind and his dick accidentally slipped into my ass (yes, this really does happen); it hurt so bad that I didn’t want to try anal with him again.  I tried with another partner a year later, and then didn’t do it again until a decade later when I started dating The Texan, and then only once.  I think that part of it is that I’ve gone on dates and had one-night stands with a lot of men who want to fuck me in the ass, but would never in a million years allow themselves to be pegged – and that just doesn’t sit right with me.  If someone expects me to take their cock in my rectum but won’t even try a finger in theirs to see what it feels like, they’re probably out the door.

Anal sex is not a casual sex activity for me.  It’s something I’ve only ever wanted to do in relationships in which I feel I can really trust my partner to pull back, slow down, or stop if I feel uncomfortable – so maybe now is a good time to give it another try.  A noble goal for 2018.  The Engineer and I are keen (but he also has quite a sizable cock, which makes me a bit nervous), and it’s something we talk about doing often; I’ll make working up to it a goal for our next visit.  “Let’s go home so you can put it in my butt” would probably make a welcome airport greeting, don’t you think?

He Thinks of Everything

The Engineer picked me up from Gatwick holding a handmade sign on which he’d written a pet name for me; he stood in the arrivals hall for thirty minutes holding up this 8×11 piece of paper while I went through immigration*, chauffeurs and business associates staring at it with confusion and amusement.  I’d told him not to bring flowers because I wanted to jump into his arms.  “No problem,” he said.  When we arrived at his car, there they were, in the boot instead.  “You told me not to bring them in,” he said when I protested.  On the way to his, he went old school as we listened to a mixed CD he’d made of all the songs that were important to us.  “I got you a sim card,” he told me on the way home, “So you can reach me when I’m on the road.”

At the entrance to his flat were a pair of purple fur-lined slippers for me; they fit perfectly.  I dropped my bags in his room; he showed me the shelves he’d cleared for me, and we flopped onto his new bed to make out.  We shared the contents of our shag bags and laughed over the fact that I’d brought a lot of things with me that he had bought, so he could return them… and we could find other things we liked.

In his lounge, a pot of my favorite flowers sat on the dining table and a huge bottle of Bailey’s – which he loathes, but I can’t get enough of – was perched on the bookshelf among other bottles of booze.  DVDs of a couple of my favorite horror movies were placed into his collection; he’s not a horror fan, but thought it would be fun to watch one with me.  In the kitchen: a French press and a bag of dark roast (despite the fact that he’s not a coffee drinker) and two different jars of cranberry sauce in the cupboard.  “I know you wanted these for Thanksgiving, and I wasn’t sure which one to get,” he told me.  In the bathroom, a bag full of bath bombs so we could take hot baths together on cold days and a bottle of massage oil for our weary fuck-exhausted muscles.  He thought of every detail to make me happy and comfortable.

When we fall asleep at night, I’m the big spoon; I wrap my tiny body around his giant frame, and for some reason it feels right. Sometimes he falls asleep on the couch, his head in my lap.  I stroke his hair and whisper, “Let’s go to bed, honey.”  When we wake up in the morning, he pulls me toward him and holds me tight for a few minutes before diving deep under the covers to spread my legs and lick me, waking up my center and my hunger.  He gets ready for work while I drift back off; before he leaves, he comes in, leans down, gives me a kiss with his full lips, and whispers, “I love you, Hummingbird.”

Last night, when he came home, I was sitting on the kitchen counter wearing a zip-down vinyl dress, fishnets, and his red silk tie, mug of mulled wine in hand.  “Cup of wine?” I asked quietly as he walked toward me, bathed in candlelight.  “No,” he said, never taking his eyes off me.  In between kisses, I let soft words dance into his ears: “We still have some toys to play with.” He retrieved a couple of floggers and a bottle of lube from the bedroom; when he returned; he turned me around and gave me the beating I’d been longing for before putting me back on the counter, sliding my copper-colored lace panties down over my legs, and hitching the dress up so he could plunge his lubed-up cock into me.  I wrapped my legs around his waist and breathed deeply as he moved in long, slow strokes, building up anticipation for when he pulled me off the counter and bent me over it, pressing my hands to the tiled wall and sinking his fingers deep into my hips.  I came twice standing there, my hair spilling out of its band, and once more in his bed – our bed – after he carried me there.  Lying underneath him, I unzipped the dress, exposing my pale breasts and belly, the red tie pointing down toward my swollen cunt.  I held him to me, whimpering in his ear, calling him “mi amor” in hushed, desperate tones.  He was sweating by the time he came; I inhaled the scent of him, and my body unwound.

The duvet glittered with my juices after they dried – a visual presence of our lust.  When I’m gone, he’ll still hear my whispers in his ears, and they’ll hold him in their arms until he can make it across the ocean into mine.

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

 

 

*Imagine the immigration officer’s delight when I declared that not only was I here to visit a romantic partner, but also that I’m currently unemployed.