Monday, January 28, 2013


~ erotica ~

Just so that you know, because I think you forget this: I always, at any given moment, want you to fuck me.

Whether it's in my mouth, all over my face, between my breasts, sliding over my clit, or pounding my pussy just right, I always want your cock inside me.

Any time. Any place.

Softly, gently, or roughly, brusquely.

A quickie. A marathon session. It does not matter.

I always want your cock.

And you always have leave to take my body in whichever way you see fit. Politely or impolitely, I want your cock more than I want conversations, meals, lessons, or other fun.

Be gracious if you wish. A simple caress from you would be enough to take my attention away, to end whatever interaction I had been engaged in and be only of you.

But if you are not inclined to even that simple courtesy, grab whatever part of my body you wish, be it hair or wrist or arm or neck, and pull me wherever you like to do whatever you like.

If it be your pleasure, take of my body right there, be it in whatever company. My flesh is for your feasting, and I want nothing more than to have you in me, on me, always. Whatever way you should ever wish, for every moment of every day of my too short life.

For there are not enough moments in a thousand lifetimes for my insatiable need to be yours, to feel you in me, on me, to be of you, for your pleasure.

My hunger for you, my hunger to be yours, can never be fulfilled.

Saturday, January 26, 2013


~ an imagined nightmare ~

I felt my body before I ever opened my eyes. I was tired, achy, from long days of work multiple days in a row. I didn't want to get up, didn't want to move, didn't want to rip off my covers and start another long day. But I had to.

Still, I could snooze, just a little bit.

I pulled my covers tight to my face, curled my body in, and...

Nothing. Where was it?

My eyes shot open. I tried again.

Nothing. Tension came to my neck.

Again. Nothing.

I sat up, the cold air of the winter morning less shocking then normal.

I tried to speak, tried to say something, anything.

Nothing. Again. Nothing.

My hands went to my throat. Tears filled my eyes. I cried, but I couldn't wail. I tried to yell, but there was no sound over my breath, no utterance except air.

I stumbled out of bed, tripped towards my door, and found it locked. I banged my hand against it. I pulled, wrenched at the doorknob.

Nothing. I slammed my fists against the wood. I silent screamed til my throat was raw, then slowly I slid down to the floor.

I curled into a ball again, my tears slipping sideways across my face, pooling on the hardwood.

I silently whimpered. I quietly wailed. I cried.

I closed my eyes.

And then I awoke in my bed, tense, exhausted, and alarmed. I took a deep breath. And I hummed, the soothing way I always hum when I'm waking from or slipping to slumber.

And the world was okay again.

Thursday, January 24, 2013


It started Monday night.  At first it was just a tickle in my throat, nothing new.  I fell asleep with a cough drop under my tongue like I'd done many a time before, believing this would be enough.

When I awoke the next morning, I still had a tickle in my throat, but it was just a tickle.  And I still had work...

As my day went on, the tickle mutated, growing into pain, bad pain, and my cough drops weren't helping.  In fact, it seemed like my cough drops were triggering coughing fits.  There were other symptoms: intermittant nausia and dizziness, feeling weaker than normal.  None of these were good signs.

By the time we were finishing up our tear down, I had to keep myself from crying.  I'd started coughing occasionally, and it hurt, really hurt, whenever I coughed.  I knew, just knew, something was very wrong.

The next morning I went to Patient First.  They tested me for strep and the flu, both negative.  Still, the doctor thought I probably had the flu anyway; he perscribed a flu medication plus some liquid codeine.  I filled the scripts, went home, changed clothes, and went back to work.

Wednesday was to be an easy day, a half day, a simple gig.  But, as I worked, I could feel it.  I couldn't move, couldn't function like I normally would.  It took me much longer to perform simple tasks, and it took so much energy out of me to just get through this simplest of gigs.

That day I continued to drink fluids.  Tea helped to soothe my throat.  I went to sleep at 11pm having taken my first dose of the codiene, the drug giving me a nice dull haze to slip into.

And then I woke up at 2am.  My throat was on fire, worse than it had been before.  I chugged more ginger ale, rolled over, and made myself fall back to sleep.

And then I woke up at 5am.  My throat felt even worse.  I made myself a hot toddy, went downstairs, and watched random television hoping my throat would feel better.  It didn't.

I tried to stay strong.  I kept hoping my pain would ease.  But there came a point when I was ready to ball.  I tried to speak to a roommate around 8am, and each word was a new level of pain.

I took two Tylenol, another dose of the codiene, curled up on the cough, my body in a tight ball, and cried myself to a restless sleep that lasted about an hour.

And then came the weezing.  It felt like something was obstructing my airway, like mucus was half covering my throat.  Every breath was a labor.  I gave it sometime, thinking it would go away.  With each breath, I grew more and more scared.

Finally, I couldn't deny it anymore.  I picked up my phone and typed out a note.  I walked up to the kitchen, where one of my roommates was fixing something.  I showed her my phone.

I'm having difficulty breathing; I think I need to go to the hospital.

She didn't need my note to realize I was not good.  You could hear every breath enter and exit my body.  We rushed to get shoes on my, grab my wallet, and bundle up against the frigid cold.

By the time we had gotten to the hospital, I had hacking coughed enough that whatever was hampering my breathing had been dislodged, but I had given up on talking; it just hurt too much.  I wrote out all my answers to the intake secretary. 

We waited for about an hour before they took me to the back.  As the nurse spoke, I just kept writing.

Before she even asked me any questions, I pointed to notes I'd already written:
Symptoms - painfully sore throat, chills, intermittant nausea and dizziness, weak.
It hurts to swallow, cough, or talk.
My pain is at an 8, a 9/10 when I cough.  Yesterday it was a 7.

They put in an IV.  They took blood for tests.  They gave me pain meds and fluids for dehydration.

About an hour later, with the tests run, and nothing coming up again, they had a diagnosis: throat infection.  They perscribed an antibiotic, more codiene in case I needed it, and gave me a doctor's note.

I'm still to take the meds Patient First perscribed, holding onto the hospital's codiene in case I run out.

It is so very hard for me to admit when I'm hurting, to admit when I'm in real pain.  It's incredibly difficult for me to take myself to the hospital.  But the fear...  That was the hardest part of all.

When you don't know what is wrong with your body, when all the things you try that normally work no longer make you better, when you don't understand what is wrong but you know something is wrong...  The fear was the worst part.

But I'm okay now.  The pain meds took me down to a 4 before I left the hospital.  I've been hovering there or slightly below ever since, making sure to take the Tylenol and codiene regularly.

Because when I don't, when the time comes up for me to take my next dosage, and I can feel the pain grow just a little.  When it feels like a cheese grater is against my throat ready to slough off its fill, the fear comes back and I wonder if my breaths will be my last.

For being the daughter of a doctor and a medical secretary, I kind of suck at this whole health thing.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A Few Things

~ erotica ~

It's 12:45pm, only ten minutes til we end. What else did you want to talk about?

Oh, just a few things...

That top looks great on you.


Your top, of course with the appropriate bra, displays your tits well. Makes them sit up, perky, in the way we both know is a wardrobe illusion. I like it, and the few others you own like it. You should wear shirts like that more.

The skirt today is a nice touch, too. Short, but not too short, showing off your legs. You have killer legs. Defined calves and thighs that feel great when wrapped around a waist.

I think we should...

I think you were a decent lay. I say decent because, even though I'm only seventeen, well eighteen tomorrow, and you're almost forty, I've had better.

Don't get me wrong, you were good. Sucked my cock like a pro. I loved fucking your face; you were such a cock slut. And your gagging was a nice touch, though I suspect that was more for your pleasure than mine.

But you weren't much for endurance. And you always wanted the same positions, all two of them. And you never took control. You're very controlling here, in your office, with your pad of paper and your very expensive fountain pen, but in the sack you're so... submissive.

And you didn't like being in control sexually?

Okay Doc, you got me there. But, I don't know, I guess I like a little of both. I would've loved to have seen you on top, riding my dick, your tits bouncing there in my face for me to play with like a kitten with its ball of string.

I like tits a lot; I don't think you knew that

Oh, I knew.

Really? You never shoved them in my face when we fucked.

I didn't want to give you everything you wanted. Spoiled little brats are made that way.

True. True.

Oh, and the last thing, since we only have a minute left before we're through and I no longer have to see you: since I was under age, and I stuck my dick in you multiple times to your insistent glee, you will make sure my therapy records are sealed.


Or both you and I will be fucked again by the other long after today.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Sense Memories

~ a story ~


Lollipops and candy drops and so many things so sweet, but none so sweet as the kiss of his lips when we wake each morning. Or after a long day of work. Or at the end of a long parting.

His lips are plump, like ripened fruit ready for tasting, and each time I do I let the sweetness engulf my now with happy abandon, and I feel the sugary high of him all over again.


His scent is a musk, rich with flavors of hard work, harder quandaries, and the difficulty of his days. The aroma of him fills my nostrils whenever I hold him tight, taking him into an embrace, my arms aching from gripping so hard to my love.

If I could, if life would make it so, I would never let my love go. But I do, knowing he works hard for me, knowing he lives for me, knowing we live and love for each other.


The heat of his body is a warm blanket of comfort each night as we drift to sleep and each morning when I wake to his weathered face and still lidded eyes.

Even in slumber, his heart pulses for me, his arms encircling my frame, pulling me into him, his warmth a constant easing to my days.


When I'm away. earning my share of our abundance, and his body is not next to mine, and his scent is gone from my nostrils, and his sweet lips mere wisps of memory from my mouth, I look to my remembrances of him, my sense memory evoking all the little things that make my love so.

When I am cold in my unfamiliar bed, I snuggle up tight and imagine the covers as his arms around me.

When I wake, and he is not next to me, I nuzzle my head into my pillow and envision his lips kissing me.

When I yearn to feel connected when time gives me no leave to do so, I recall his scent, recall the richness of his essence, surrounding me.


At our reunitings, there is always a thunder of emotion. A meeting of great waves of wanting. Clothes are cast aside. Thoughts of anything but the others body are gone as we take in the feel of familiar flesh, familiar scents, and sweet familiar kisses.

And I smile and skip and sing, and am more than happy to have my love with me again.

Friday, January 18, 2013


Today I want to talk about a subject that, for me, is frivolous. It has almost no impact on my life, yet is prevalent throughout our culture: makeup.

Some of you who know me may smile at the thought of me writing an entire blog entry about this topic, being that I don't in fact ever wear makeup, but that is part of the reason why I decided to take a moment from my hectic day and expound a bit on the subject.

Recently a male friend, when I offhandedly mentioned that I don't wear makeup, asked me why. I thought about it for a bit. Not many people ask me that question. Most just accept the fact when I randomly mention it and move on.

There are the practical reasons why I don't. It saves me money and time in my hectic day. It isn't necessary for me to be made up for my job, and could actually be a distraction/hassle in my work.

There are the superficial personal reasons. When I was young and tried it with my mother once, I didn't like the feel of it on my skin. I've seen my mother all done up (she LOVES makeup, by the way). The look just didn't fit my personality; it's just not me.

And then there are my deeper thoughts about the cultural practice in general.

I'm not trying to sound above others when I say this, but I like knowing I look the same to someone when I go to bed with them as when I wake up beside them.

I don't see the need to hide my flaws from people, to smooth over the blemishes on my face. I like to believe there are people who will be attracted to me for me, flaws and all.

I find it empowering to not have to wear makeup, to not have to conform to this particular cultural norm, to just step up and step out as plain old me, accepting, embracing my less than perfect skin and still feeling beautiful.

I've seen certain people, my mother included, for whom makeup is an art that heightens their beauty. With them, I understand why they love such adornment. There is a reason why professional are called makeup artists, because it is an art. But it is just not something that I wish to absorb into my own sensibilities.

The closest I've come to wearing makeup is body glitter on my eye lids and cheekbones to accentuate my face. And, truth be told, I like it when I find the random flecks of glitter here or there on my person.

I've thought about trying mascara, though this would specifically be for scenes. Being that I cry a lot, I've wondered how it would look to have my face blackened from my tears. But I have yet to play with this.

I have one tube of lip gloss that is probably five plus years old, as well a single tube of black lipstick that I've owned since high school. Neither has been used in years.

I adorn myself in jewelry (necklaces, earrings, bracelets). I have a growing and eclectic sock collection. I'm increasing the hot dress section of my wardrobe, and I hope to increase my shoe selection as well (though, with a 10 wide foot that has been challenging).

There are plenty of ways that I am very much a girl. There is no doubt about that. But this one thing, this one part of the cultural stereotype of feminine, just does not fit me. And, well, I'm okay with that.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013


~ erotica ~

Thoughts of you haunted me all day.

First when I rode the bus into work. The behemoth lumbered along slowly, rocking back and forth at the slightest deviation in the road. I stood, holding onto a rail above my head for stability. As I swayed, my body remembered a similar movement, my frame jostling violently when we fucked last night.

A quick flash of memory filled my mind as my cunt ached for your cock inside it. I gripped the rail a little tighter, closed my eyes for just a pause longer than normal, and bathed in the remembrance of that moment.

Next was when I visited an office friend at their cubicle. I leaned over and rested my forearms on the top of the flimsy wall, making sure not to put too much body weight against it. Standing in the generous walk area, my hips naturally kicked back, my ass just barely presented. But it was enough.

Immediately thoughts of your hands gliding onto my hips, gripping, and pulling me back. Your cock finding my ass, my back arched, popping my rump up for your approval. Your fingernails sinking into my flesh. Your cock pounding my cunt.

I bit my lip, hid my face in my rested arms, and hoped my friend didn't notice the smile beaming from my eyes.

Then there was the two o'clock blues. Sitting at my desk, my neck tense, my shoulders and upper arms tight. I closed my eyes, rolled my neck, and tried to relax. And suddenly it was as if I could feel your hands in my hair. Your lips on my neck. Your teeth nibbling softly.

Soon, I assured myself. I would see you that evening.

Finally, I just couldn't take it anymore. My body pulse, throbbed at the thought of you. My nipples were erect, begging to be sucked. My clit ached from wanting.

I hurried to the bathroom, checked that all the other stalls were empty, and chose my quiet doored corner. Lifting my skirt, my fingers manically played with my clit, glided up and down my pussy lips, and slid in and out of my wet cunt easily.

But I didn't cum, not yet. That I wanted to save for when my torment would end, for when I saw you next, in just a few short hours. I saved my cum for your cock, and your lips, and your hands, and our fucking.

Monday, January 14, 2013


So... this is the blog I didn't post on Friday. The feelings-rich not-fun bad things blog.

This is a rant. This is not sexy or funny. This post is going to touch on some horrible shit that's been happening in our country lately. I give this warning in case you don't want to read something like this today, or from me, or ever. 

[Trigger Warning]

I live in a bubble. It is a bubble of my own making, my own choosing.

I think it is both a characteristic of my personality and a self preservation device that I tend to see the best in people. I tend to believe the world is a happier, safer, more loving place than I know it to be.

I choose to don rose colored glasses in my everyday because to not do so would have me confront the horrible nature of the world around us all the time, and, frankly, who the fuck wants that?

But life always has a way of breaking my bubble, no more so than in the past month.

When the shooting happened in Newtown, I was at work. I'd been awake since 4:30am and had been working since 5am. The particular facility I was working in that day had poor cell phone service for my carrier, so I had not bothered to check Twitter or social media.

During a break, though, around 10am, one of my coworkers, who did have cell service, popped on Twitter. And then the words "school shooting" and "little kids" came out of her mouth. She is a mother of a child close in age to the children who were killed that day. She was alarmed, scared. I was numb.

I went on with my work day, which would last longer than anyone liked. I got about thirty minutes of sleep that night, not because of concern from the news but because my next gig started at 6am. I didn't have time to think, really think, about the news as it trickled into my existance. I had to work.

The following day, after another eighteen hours of work, eight hours of sleep, and four more hours of work, I found myself in a restaurant with some coworkers eating burgers and barely noticing the President talking about the shooting.

I did, however, have my PDA/hand moment, so I guess my subconscious was tuning in while my id made me push through my job.

As the holidays came, as I saw family and friends, as I felt myself overjoyed by immersion back into my community, it was easy to blow my bubble back up. The shooting had deflated it, but not quite collapsed the structure. Frankly, "school shooting" is a phrase I've heard many times since I was a kid, since Columbine, and another elementary school shooting, and metal detectors, and all the rest you know.

And then, a few days ago, I was on Twitter. And I happened to click on a link. And I read about the rape in Stuebenville.


The bubble, which had withstood the shooting mostly because of exhaustion and forced ignorance, finally burst.

And now I'm hearing all those things I was trying to ignore. Now I am noticing how angry I am. How frustrated I am with our govenment. How much I want to scream at the head of the NRA for his fucked up speech. How much I want to scream at this country's rape culture. How scared I am for my four year old niece and the world she was brought into.

I had an appointment with my GYN today. If you've read this blog for a while, you will know I have less than stellar thoughts concerning her, but I keep going back because it's convient. Sometimes I hate how much I put up with because it's convient.

And, as per usual, when I mentioned I wanted an STI screening because it's been six months, and I've had two new "sexual" partners since last seeing her, I could just feel the judging going on in her mind. At least this time she didn't talk. This time she just pursed her lips, mumbled "mmm hmm", and proceeded to take the cultures.

But it's her reaction, that judgement, the belief in the denegration of slut, that is part of the basis for some of the evils in our world.

Now my GYN is far from evil, just a judgemental prude. But it's the culture of judgement. Of slut shaming. Of believing "she wanted it but just couldn't say it". Believing that some rape isn't really rape. Believing that there is an inappropriate way of expressing my sexuality with another consenting adult, or an inappropriate amount of sex that I'm having with an inappropriate amount of people, that is more than rage-making.

Some people have been permeating the thought that if gun laws had been less severe, the Jews could've protected themselves against Hitler. Really? Really!?! Read a fucking history book, go visit the Holocaust museum (I have), and shut the fuck up.

These folks also have a problem with a national registry of guns.  I have to ask, Do you own and drive a car legally?  With the title, tags, and... registration?  Does your car still have its VIN branded on multiple parts of its body?  Then shut the fuck up.

I don't know what it will take to curb the evils of gun violence and sexual violence in this country, but I know what won't. Ignoring the problems won't solve them, but will instead make them worse.

Believing that more guns solve the situation is a level of lunacy I am not willing to even entertain.

Shame around sex, talking about it, teaching it to our children, will only make sexual violence more pervasive.

What happened to compromise? What happened to working together? Oh, right... It's much easier to get elected when you rail against a problem than when you fix it.

Sex is not the enemy; violence is. Sex is not the enemy; rape is. Sex is not the enemy.

Consent counts. Consent, in fact, is all that matters when it comes to sex. No means no. And being too drunk to walk is not an invitation into someone's pants.

When a coach defends his rapist players instead of standing up for their victim, instead of trying to figure out what went wrong, it's obvious that he is part of the problem. When it takes Anonymous to help pull forth the truth, when people are willing to live Tweet this horrendous crime instead of coming to the aid of the victim, I don't know what to think about this country except disgust.

In India, a woman was gang raped and people rioted in the streets. In America, children were killed. In America, a girl was gang raped while people blogged about it. And we are arguing about semantics?

Land of the free and home of the brave...? Complete and total bullshit.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Is This It?

~ my poly adventure continues ~

I had this ranty angry full-of-feelings blog written out earlier today. I was sitting, waiting for my car to be serviced, with plenty of time to delve into some not-so-fun topics, when I roughed out a fairly good blog entry.

But that's not what I'm posting today. You'll get that one next time.

I feel like I can't post that blog, not now, not when my cheeks hurt from smiling, not when I feel like this.

Some may know what the name of this particular blog entry is in reference to, and if you don't that's okay. I'll explain in just a moment.

I picked the name for two reasons. 1- I've been working on a project (that I'll hopefully debut soon) that happened to feature that very line exactly one year ago; I found it quite apropos for what I'm writing about now. And 2- It was what I was thinking earlier today, what kept circling through my mind, while I had a long chat in a coffee shop.

I've made it known that I'm trying out OKCupid with varying degrees of meh. Up until recently, I had mostly less-than-stellar persons messaging me, mostly looking for casual sex, which in and of itself was not a bad thing, but the lack of caring in even the initial gestures was, well, shitty.

Recently I revamped my profile and came at OKC from a different angle: I would be discerning, and blunt, and not put up with less than I felt was worthy of my time and energy.

This did two things. (Can you tell I like lists?) 1- The volume of my messages severely decreased. And 2- The quality of my messages greatly increased.

Thus I found myself today going on my third OKC date.

Being that my first two had been less than desired, I decided to give myself a carrot for the possible stick that would come. I swung through a nearby shop and glanced through their clothes. I saw a few things here and there that I liked, and I promised myself that if I just got through the date I would allow myself to come back.

So, having perked up my attitude, knowing at the very least I would reward myself with something from the store if everything else about the next minimum fifteen minutes went wrong, I walked to the coffee shop.

I popped open my OKC app to look up the gentleman's name and glanced at his picture again so that I could find him among the crowd. As I stepped into the line, I looked to my right and saw a rather handsome man sitting at a table.

Is that...?

I checked the app again.

Holy shit. I think that... Yes. Yes!

I took a few deep breaths, containing my glee. My stomach growled, so I picked up a snack with my hot chocolate. I paid. I centered my thoughts, tamped down my giddiness, and waited for my drink. Everything in hand, I walked over.

We exchanged hellos. I sat down. We started chatting. The chat lasted for longer than fifteen minutes.

I won't go into much more detail, but I will say this: I found myself asking, over and over again, Is this it? Is this it? Could this be a person I spend more time with? Befriend? Fuck? More than fuck?

Obviously, I didn't get my answer; it is far too soon, having just met him.

Well, actually, no... I did get an answer. Maybe. Maybe this could be something. Maybe this is it, whatever it is. And that was way more than I had expected, or even hoped for, when my day began.

As our talk progressed from the coffee shop to a few nearby stores, including picking up some more fun/funky socks for myself, I found myself smiling and laughing and genuinely enjoying my time with him. We talked Dr. Who, BSG, and the Whedonverse. So far, I really like this guy.

What do you know? Doc was right. I just had to stay open and keep looking.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Good Service

~ a story ~

- "I've never chained up ladies before. Hmm, I kinda liked it."
- "Did you get enough meat?"
- "Be careful, these are wet."
- "I'm just going to give you a little extra time so you can write your phone number down."

"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"The waiter, what he just said."
"What did he say?"
"Your phone number."
"Giving you extra time so you can write your phone number."

Her eyes grew wide and her mouth slacked open. He had... He was... Was he...?

Their server had been funny, joking throughout their meal. Her and her work friend just had an hour before needing to rush back to a late night meeting that evening. And she had been quite hungry. The restaurant was new and nearby, but her friend assured her the service was fast, and the stir fry was delicious.

She hadn't noticed the chain quip when he explained the way the meal worked and then sectioned them off from the rest of the line. She thought he was just checking on their meal he made mention of meat, making sure they'd chosen well when they piled their bowls of food high for the grill. And the cups were damp when he brought their refills. But, in all of that, she hadn't noticed the server's innuendo.

Sure, he was attractive and funny, delivering those offhand comments each time he came to their table, but she didn't take notice in that way. He was just being funny. He was just working hard for his tip. Apparently, though, he was after more than twenty percent.

Now she understood why her friend kept giggling each time he walked away, why her face was red and flushed, her body caved in and to the side of her seat, her arms literally around her middle. For the entirety of their meal, she hadn't noticed a very attractive man had been flirting with her shamelessly.

Her friend quickly slipped in her credit card to the bill and left it on the side of the table.

"For entertainment factor alone, this is one me."

The man flew by, picked it up, and went to run the card. She had but a minute to figure out what to say, what to do, before he came back.

When he walked back over, he sat the bill down by her friend, but then slid a piece of paper towards her.

"Here's my number. Call it any time. Any where. Any position." He then stared straight into her eyes, rolled his tongue over his lips, and walked away.

Her eyes shot to her friend.

"Let's go, now."

She nearly had to drag her friend out of the restaurant, doubled over in laughter.

"Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod! Did you? Did you hear him?"
"Hear what? I just saw the slip of paper with the number. What did he say?"
"Any time. Any where. Any position."

Her friend's voice descending into a pitch she had never heard before.

"And then he licked his lips."

The two women melted into their car.

"Are you gonna call him? You have to call him. That body. Those arms. And he licked his lips."

She thought for a moment about his arms, his chest, and those lips.

She pulled out her phone.

"You're gonna call him right now?"
"Not call..."

She typed a message on her phone:
So, when do you get off?
And hit SEND.

She waited, seeing if he'd take the bait. Her phone chimed.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Hickies Are Real

~ erotica ~

"Where did we stop last time?"

She knocked on my hotel room door at 10pm sharp, same as last time. She walked in, counted her money, and disrobed, same as last time. But this time I had an once of bravery in me earned from my previous payment and my previous lesson.

I sat on the bed as I had left her, clothes off down to my undergarments, hands and lips itching to take in her breasts again. As soon as her words left her lips, my mouth surrounded a nipple, my hands found her flesh, and I found myself feasting of her body again.

"Yes, there."

She stroked my hair while breathing hard. I just barely noticed the caring way she massaged my scalp, pushed back my auburn mane, and soothed me as I sucked on her.

"You obviously love to play with my breasts," she began. "But is there anything else you would like to do or learn about today?"

My head shot up.

"Am I do something wrong?" I thought she liked this, thought she wanted this, thought I was doing as I had done last week. Had I sucked or bitten too hard, licked in a wrong place? Was I screwing it up?

"No, this is quite lovely, hun, but there are other things to enjoy besides my boobs, that is if you want to try something else."

Duh. I could've slapped myself in the face, but my hands were still otherwise disposed having never left her cleavage.

She was correct in her estimation of my love of her bosom. Something about her breasts, the shape, the feel, the taste... I loved marveling in her chest.

But I didn't pay her just for her boobs. I paid for her, all of her, even the thing in between her ears. Somehow, I'm not sure how, she had become my teacher and I had begged to be her willing paying student. I would let her guide me.

"What... What did you have in mind?"

She smiled warmly.

"Something else simple."

Simple. That was what I was and how I felt, but I tried not to let her see that.

"How about my neck? You can still caress my breasts, but use your lips on my neck."
"Did I hurt you with my teeth?"
"No, no. You..."

I could see the struggle for her to find words that wouldn't hurt me. Her efforts were in vain, though. I already hated myself for my timidness, my quiet reserved nature, my inability to talk to women, let alone pursue them. And yet, nothing she could say would hurt more than the things I already told myself.

"I think you pay me to come here because you need lessons in how to please a woman. And don't worry, you're not the first I've taught. Many men, despite their bravado, don't know how to talk to women while in bed, but they know how to pay for me. So, occasionally, I've taught them a thing or two.
"I think you want me here because you see women and think they are impossible. But we are just people, hun. Bodies and brains. You seem like a person who knows the brain part. I'm just here to relate to you about the body."

She softly brushed her hand against my cheek, the kindest touch I'd felt from a woman in a long time. I closed my eyes and leaned my head into the graze, so soothing, so comforting. When I opened my eyes back up, she was smiling kindly.

"What did you have in mind next?"
"The neck."

She craned her head back and to the side. I'd thought it a myth, a stupid-high-school-kids-television-show myth that girls liked for you to kiss and suck on their necks. I was wrong.

Reaching out her hands, she took my head in between them, brought my face to the crook of her neck, and continued with her lesson.

"You can kiss a neck. You can lick and suck on a neck. You can use your teeth more here, harder, but make sure the person is okay with bruises."
"Hickies are real?"
"Yes, hun, hickies are real. To make one you lick, bite down, and suck while you are biting. Go ahead. Try."

I was tentative at first, not knowing what was too hard.

"It's okay. You can go harder," she instructed.

I sunk my teeth in more. She gasped.

"Yes, like that." I started to suck. She moaned a little.
"Yes, that's it. Now softer, hun. No bruises today."
"My hands?"

For this whole time, my hands had never left her breasts, but I felt awkward now with my attention split between the two areas.

"Do you want to move them?"
"I... shouldn't I?"
"You are enjoying my body, hun. What do you want?"
"Where would I if I wanted to?"
"My hair... the back of my head... my back... gripping the sides of my arms... my hips... my lower back... Any place... Any place that pulls me closer to you... makes it easier... for you to enjoy... my neck."

Her voice had turned breathy, as if she were floating on a cloud. Something in her voice told me, whatever I was doing, I was doing it right.

I released one hand from her breasts and placed it on her shoulder blade, pulling her in closer.

"Yes... like that."

I loved being this close to her, feeling parts of her body on my skin, knowing I was making her feel this way, that I could make someone feel this way.


"I'm sorry, hun. Time's up."

She brought her hands to my head and softly pulled my lips and teeth from her neck.

The same frustration as before came over me. The same wanting more of her, more of her body, more of her lessons filled me with terror and sadness.

She kissed my forehead as before, redressed as before, and left as before.

But, before she stepped out of my hotel room, she turned back and asked, "Same time next week?"

She knew she didn't have to ask, but she had anyway.

"Yes, same time."

I was thankful for her kindness.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

First Time

~ erotica ~

I got the knock on my hotel room door at 10pm. She was prompt.

"Come in," I called, having latched the door open in anticipation of her arrival. She stepped in and closed the door behind her. It locked instantly.

She was beautiful, yet unassuming. She didn't look like the fantasies I'd imagined, the movies or television shows I'd seen. She could have been any attractive woman walking in downtown or cruising around in her car, top down, wind rushing through her hair.

And yet, she was a call girl.

She carried a purse which she sat next to the end table by the bed. Her envelope was there, which she picked up and counted.

I sat in a chair as far away from the bed as I could. I was nervous, fidgeting, having never done this before. Getting her number in the first place had been a joke, it seemed. A friend wanting to help me out. Though, in retrospect, even with all his bravado, how had he the number if he didn't need a little help himself?

"It's all here. We're good."

She started to strip. Quickly she was naked, standing by the bed, looking at me. Her body was even more beautiful than I had imagined: tight and muscular but with gentle curves in all the places one would love. I wanted nothing more than to take in the vision of her, to touch her, to taste her, to be with her.

But I found myself glued to my chair, my hands gripping the arm rests, unable to speak, unable to move.

She walked towards me.

"Would you like to fuck in the chair or on the bed?"

Her words seemed so harsh, crude, but it was the bare truth. I called her, asked her to come here, and paid her to have sex with me. She was being professional; I was being immature, childish.

Still, I couldn't move, fear of the wonder of her body, the wonder of such an act freezing me in my tracks.

She looked at me still, waiting for my answer.

"I, um..."

I couldn't form words. I didn't know what to do. I struggled to form coherent thoughts, let alone the phrases to convey them to her.

"Is this your first time with a sex worker, hun?" She was giving me a way in, a way to start talking.
I took a deep breath and replied, "Yes."

She stepped a little closer to me, catching my eye line.

"It's real simple. Really. You tell me where and how you want to have sex and I'll do that for you. I brought protection, so no need to worry about that. I do almost everything. You just have to ask."

She came right up to me, knelt down, and put her hand on my leg, gently rubbing my thigh.

"All you have to do is tell me what you want, what you like."

Her touch felt like fire inside me, burning all over my body. This beautiful woman asking me for sex. And still, I could not speak.

"Hun?" This knowing look appeared on her face. "Is this your first time... ever?"

My eyes darted towards hers, locking on her gaze. I'm sure my face looked alarmed. She had guessed my issue, my problem, my secret.

"Oh, hun. That's okay." She pried one of my hands from the arm rest.

"Let me do the work."

She stood up and pulled on my hand, coaxing me out of the chair, and led me towards the bed.

Stopping at the foot, she slowly unbuttoned my work shirt and pulled it off. She undid my pants and pulled them down, but then realized my shoes were still on. She giggled a little as she had me sit while she pulled off my shoes and pants in one big clump. All that remained was my undershirt and boxers.

She sat next to me on the bed, leaving my underclothes on.

She kissed me softly on the lips and grazed the sides of my cheeks. I didn't know what to do with my hands, but she anticipated this. She took hold of my hands and lifted them to her breasts. The skin was so soft, supple, like everything and nothing I had expected.

"Grip firmly, but not too hard. Use your thumb to circle the nipple. You can suck on them if you want."

And I did. I bent my head down and kissed her nipples much as she had kissed my lips.

"You can use your tongue to lick as you suck."

I used the tip of my tongue, thinking I would tickle her. She gasped and gripped my hair. I guessed it worked.

"You can use your teeth too, but just lightly grazing the skin."
"Like this?" Very carefully I glided my teeth along her delicate flesh. She gasped again.
"Yes, like that."

I kissed, licked, nipped, and sucked as she moaned into my ear. This beautiful body so close to me. These beautiful breasts in my hands, in my mouth. Tasting her flesh. It was almost too good to be true.

And then I heard a beeping sound. With her grip on my hair, she gently but firmly pulled my head off her chest.

"I'm sorry, hun, but your time's up."
"You paid for half an hour."

I looked over at the end table. It was, indeed, 10:30pm.

She stood up, walked over to her clothes, and began to dress.

"I'll... I'll... I'll pay for more time."
"I'm sorry, hun. I have another client I have to get to."

My heart sunk. I tried to think of something, someway to not make this moment stop.

"I... I..."

She walked over to me and put her finger on my lips.

"I have to go. But you can always schedule me again. Same time next week?"

She kissed my forehead, turned, and walked away before I spoke. She already knew my answer.

Friday, January 4, 2013

Trust And Intimacy

"Why do you think I haven't been in a relationship for as long as you've known me?"
"Do you foster trust and intimacy?"

I've been going to Doc since April of last year. We've talked a lot about my emotions, my attachment style, who I find myself attracted to and why, and what I want from my life.

Recently, while listening to an older episode of Pedestrian Polyamory, in which the hosts were responding to listener mail, the duo gave a piece of sound and poignant advice. They suggested the email writer seek advice from a good friend, going up to them and asking bluntly, So, what's up with me? What's my deal? What's off? Why did the friend think the email writer was not getting responses on a social dating website.

This got me thinking, as podcasts often do. Maybe I should do this. Maybe I should ask a friend or two what they thought concerning my lack of partners in the time that they've known me.

A good number of my now close friends I met through my explosion into the greater public kink scene, which happened after I left my Ex. None of these folks have met my Ex, have never seen me inside of a commited partnered relationship.

When I asked a friend, their response was the question above. Of course that go me thinking deeper.

Trust and intimacy.

From their viewpoint, the way you find yourself in a relationship, the way one starts a relationship the first place, is through the development of trust and intimacy with another. In the time they have known me, they've only seen me foster these two important components of a partnership with one person.

Thinking back on the past three years, I could not disagree with them.

As I've spoken about with Doc, I have trouble expressing my emotions to others for fear of rejection on basically every level of my life. This has gotten much better since I've been speaking with Doc, but the process of therapy is a series of baby steps, small moves. And it hasn't even been a year yet.

With that in mind, I have yet another goal for myself for this year, one focused soley on my heart.

I will trust others with my intimate thoughts and feelings, believing the people I care for and love will care for and love me back even when I let my guard down, even when I'm not full of smiles and cheer.

I will know that blending in is okay, but being me, and all that entails, is even better.

I will be open, really open, with those around me, even though it's scary and nervous making.

I will be strong by letting go of my defenses.

I will know, deep in my gut, that I am worthy of my emotions, that they are important and valid and need to be expressed just as much as those of others.

I will foster trust and intimacy in my life.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Write, Revise, Repeat

With a new year ahead of me, and so many thoughts swirling in my brain about things I want to accomplish, I thought I'd take a moment to focus on one specific area of great importance to me: my writing.

As I mentioned previously, writing an average of one blog a day was difficult last year. Still, I liked having the increase in content and the constant practice of using my imaginiation, literary skill, and shear will power to pump out posts.

However, with two rough drafts of novels waiting to be polished, plus a third uncompleted story I have sitting on my netbook begging me for attention, I have other important projects I want to give time to. And, frankly, NaNoWriMo, though difficult, was still amazing.

So, with that slight build up, the following are my writing goals for this year:

1) Write

For my blog, at minimum, I will post once every other day. Now hopefully it will not be an average of every other day, but actually every other day. I thought about picking odd or even calendar days, but technically that wouldn't be every other day. I may end up doing this anyway, but I am still mulling it over, so, for now, we're going with every other day.

I started a novel some time ago but have not touched the material in a few months with NaNoWriMo, work, and time with friends and family as constant distractions.

Each time I look at my desktop, the folder for the book is right there, waiting to opened, waiting for my words, waiting to know where the story will go. So, by the beginning of November, I will have the rough draft for my third novel written.

2) Revise

I have two completed rough drafts to work on. I love both stories, as different as they are, probably because they do not live in the same universe, or, for that matter, the same genre.

I know it will take a lot of work, but I want to polish them enough that they are ready for showtime (i.e. e-publishing). I know this will require setting a time table, and living by it, but at this moment I can at least set one goal: I will finish editing my two novels by November. Which leads me to my last goal.

3) Repeat

I will participate in NaNoWriMo again this year. With the first draft of my third novel complete by the beginning of November, I like the idea of having two rough drafts of novels to start my 2014.

Wow, 2014; that is looking way far ahead. But I wrote it. I am putting it out there into the ether. May fortune favor my boldness.

So... here I go.
hit counter
hit counter