Dirty

This one is for you, my nest.

 

I come home one day to find you out back in the garden; you’d come home from a long day at work, ready to relax, only to remember that you’ve got a ton of stuff to take to the tip, and it has to go in the morning – so you’d better load up the car tonight.  By the time I get home, you’ve spent an hour carrying armfuls of heavy rubbish; you’re sweaty, dirty, and sore.  I float in, cool as a breeze after having been in an air conditioned office all day, to see your back muscles flex as you pick up the last load.  You turn around, look me in the eye, and drop it where you stand.

I chuckle.  “Long day, lo-?” I start asking, but before the words are out of my mouth, your lips are pressed against it and you’re clutching me with soil-crusted fingernails, not giving a shit if you leave streaks on my pale peach blouse.

You are ravenous.

You charge, forcing me to the trellis against the back wall of our building – the one with the overflowing plum-colored bougainvillea – and crush the flowers with my back as my purse slides down my arm and slips to the ground.  “Stay,” you order me, as you rummage for something among pots, tools, and patio furniture.  You find a length of twine underneath a pair of gloves and swiftly tie my wrists together like a boatswain before attaching them to the trellis above my head.

Bougainvillea, Flower, Blossom, Bloom

You unbutton my blouse and shove the top of my undershirt under my tits, letting them spill out so you can apply vacuum pressure to my nipples; I’m so taken with surprise that it’s a few minutes before I realize that the neighbors could see this.  All of them.  The thought of it makes my cunt burn.  I want to get on my knees in the earth and take you in my mouth, only I can’t.

As soon as I think it, your belt is unbuckled and your cock is out, popping up from behind the confines of your jeans.  Watching you stroke yourself and not being able to touch you is torture and rapture.  You reach under my skirt and move my knickers to the side so you can gather up my nectar with your fingers to use as lube to stroke yourself with.  I watch you take the flowing juices from my body and use them as your own, wanting to tell you that it’s not fair – if you’re going to smear them on your dick, do it by sliding into me – but I don’t.  Instead, I watch wide-eyed, heart thudding, as you continue to wank with fervor.

Suddenly you stop.  You press your mouth to my ear and whisper, “Do you want my cock inside of you?”  I choke back saliva, and before I can answer, you’re on your knees, yanking my knickers all the way down and my skirt all the way up.  “Well done, love,” you say, taking a hooked finger and drawing silky webs away from my thighs.  I whimper.

You draw up a chair, tell me to spread my legs as wide as I can, and continue wanking.  Deep into your reverie, you stand up and leave me alone outside for a minute, exposed for all the world to see; you come back, work a large dildo into my cunt, and tell me to clamp my legs.  You sit back down and watch me intently while stroking yourself until your pleasure forces you to close your eyes halfway; I try to clench the dildo hard enough to make myself come, but I’m not quite there.  Perhaps you take pity on me seeing me strain – or perhaps you just want to fuck me.  In any case, you stride over, take me down from the trellis, and lead me in by the twine, assuring me that the best is yet to come.

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Overflow with Pearl

Many of you have probably, at some point, played this adolescent psychoanalysis game with your friends wherein you describe your favorite (animal / color / place / season / what have you) and it’s supposed to belie a deeper meaning about how you see yourself, how others see you, your worldview, etc.  The last question in the version I learned asks participants to describe the ocean – and it’s meant to be interpreted as the way in which the participant views sex.

Wild.

Calming.

Uncontrollable.

Life-sustaining.

Mysterious.

Dangerous.

Fluid.

Relaxing.

Wet (hardy har).

Nurturing.

Powerful.

Overwhelming.

 

Erotic.

Tempting.

Seductive.

 

One of my favorite films opens on two lovers entwined in the ocean underneath a full moon; they writhe and twist as they kiss, splash, and grind against each other with the assistance of salt water to keep them buoyant.  From the first time I saw this movie, it’s been a fantasy of mine to act this scene out – which mainly involves finding water that’s warm enough and isolated enough to fuck in.

While I don’t eroticize the sea itself, I have a lot of wonderful memories interweaving it with sex and romance.  From making out in a secret water cave during a travel affair in the Philippines to sitting next to a bonfire on Ocean Beach and telling my girlfriend I loved her for the first time to running naked into the sea to wash the cum off of me while beach camping with the Texan, the ocean has always held a special place in my… heart.

I made plans with a partner once to have sex in the ocean while beach camping; we left our tent behind and walked to the shore to shed our clothes.  I dove headfirst into the water so the shock of the cold would wear off; he was not so eager to freeze.  He didn’t even get in up to his knees before backing out, saying maaaaybe we should fuck in the tent instead.  To say I was disappointed would be a major understatement.

Until last summer, I had always loathed the beach; I refused to go with my friends despite living in a city full of beaches.  It wasn’t until I experienced topless / nude beaches for the first time that I finally felt comfortable lying in the sun, sweat dripping down the sides of my breasts, listening to music and inhaling the delightfully coconutty scent of sunscreen.  The first time I got in the sea to swim naked I remember feeling distinctly animated and fluid – and completely unsexualized.  It seems a bit ironic to me that people are more sexualized on beaches that require clothing than beaches that don’t.

Someday I’ll advance my sex-in-the-ocean mission.  The Engineer and I are planning a fun trip next year to a region with lots of tropical beaches, and I think he might be amenable to the idea of wrapping my legs around his hips and plunging himself into me while our soaked bodies smack tightly together, his long fingers entwined in my brine-tangled hair.  Might be.

Rain, Rain…

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

Sinful Sunday

Kiss Me through the Phone

I’m on a public bus

in a hostel common room

in a café

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

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

at a friend’s house

in a locker room

in a department store changing room

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

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

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

We need this.

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

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

Echo

It was one of those nights when the city sweltered.  When drops of sweat ran down glasses and dogs would lie in front of cars rather than get up and move.  My roommate and I had just run out of Modelo, and I drew the short straw.  Coming in from the fire escape produced pearls of sticky perspiration that would soon be pasted to the tank top I threw on.  He tossed me the keys as I lumbered toward the door, dreading the two-block walk to the bodega.

I never got used to being in the stairwell of our building. Being in there alone – the utter silence punctuated by rare echoes of slamming doors, the unsettling atmosphere of automatic lights that didn’t always function – kind of unnerved me.  When I turned the first corner and failed to be assaulted by a sudden flash of dull yellow, I assumed that the light was broken.  The second corner of darkness made me think otherwise.  You may find this ridiculous, but when I heard the door open two flights up, my first thought was that a serial killer had cut the lights and was coming for me.

Stairs Stairwell Dark Stairway Steps Stair

Shoving this notion aside, I shouted up, “Careful!  A couple of the lights down here aren’t working.”  “None of them are,” came back a cheerful, semi-familiar voice.  “There’s a city-wide blackout.”  Ah.  Perfect timing.  I stood still and listened to the rapid patter of her light footfalls tripping down the rigid, worn surfaces of each stair.  She stopped on the landing above me.  “Where you headed?” she asked.  “Was headed to the store to buy beer, but who knows if they’ll be open,” I replied.  “Oh,” she said, coming down to meet my voice.  “The blackout might not last for long.  They usually don’t.”  She felt around in the darkness until her fingers grazed my forearm.

“How is your skin so cool?” I asked, awed by how refreshing her grip felt on my melting skin.  “I’m always cold,” she replied with a shy laugh.  “I like how hot you are.”  She drew closer to me; I could feel her other hand an inch from my torso.  “It’s like waves of heat just radiate off you,” she said.  The sheer fabric covering her breasts brushed my arm as she moved even closer; I could feel my cock start to stir under my shorts.  “It is literally 95 degrees,” I said, not daring to move.

“If you’re so hot,” she continued in a silky wolf voice, “Why are you still wearing clothes?”  “I – I mean, I was planning on going outside,” I stammered.  “Stay awhile,” she directed.  The smell of oranges drifted from her lips as she raised onto her toes to find mine.  She felt like buttercream.  Not just her mouth – her everything.  I relaxed as she slid her hands around my waist and her tongue between my parted lips.  I swung her around so her back was against the wall and lifted the skirt of her sundress, dropping to my knees, preparing to slide her panties down – but finding none.  “If you’re so cold,” I said, “Why aren’t you wearing more clothes?”  “It’s the only part of me that’s hot,” she replied.

She was right.  Her labia warmed my tongue; my moist breath floated around her lips as I circled her clit.  She grabbed the back of my head and eagerly held it in place while I lapped at her, her cream smearing my chin.  “Hold on,” she said suddenly, pushing me back and dropping down to grope around the stairs for her purse.  “Ah, gold!” she exclaimed upon finding a condom.  She dragged my shorts down, and my cock sprung out to meet her waiting hands; she took me into her mouth for a wondrous minute before tearing the wrapper open and rolling the condom on me.

She faced the railing and leaned over it; just as I started to slide inside of her (god, that first thrust is always so glorious), we heard a door open above and heavy footsteps start to proceed down the stairs.  I put my hand over her mouth, picked her up, and backed up into the corner.  We stood there silently until the other tenant was out the ground level door.  I pushed her against the wall and gripped her hips as she pushed back onto my dick in long, even strokes, both of us panting and sticky as hot buns.  Her stifled groans echoed throughout the sealed stairwell; I cupped her breasts and steadied her as she rocked back and forth against me while touching herself.  Finally, exhausted and soaking, she tiptoed up and off me, turning to face me.

“You didn’t come,” she said.  I leaned in to kiss her; her cheeks burned, and her hair was plastered to her face.  “Sometimes it takes me a while,” I said sheepishly.  “You feel amazing.”  “Come see me after you get that beer,” she said, squatting down to feel for her purse.  “7C.”  With that, she leapt down the steps into the darkness, rendering me no longer unnerved by the empty stairwell and its echoes.

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

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!

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.”