Without You

~ a story ~

I travel down the path, the same one we took that cool October evening, when inexplicably there were still leaves in the trees that rustled in the soft breeze. I step down the path, slowly, intently, and think of you.

The trees are the same. Each pebble of gravel in place. Yet, this place is not the same. Every spot, every bend, each and every moment is missing you.

I cannot take a step without remembering all the places we shared. Where we ate our first picnic. The bench where you told me you loved me, brushed my hair behind my ear, and for the first time kissed me. The patch of grass on which we laid, a soft blanket beneath us, our hands intertwined as we cloud-watched for hours.

My life is not my life without you. My thoughts are not my thoughts. My breaths are not my breaths. My smiles, my laugh, my cries, my sobs. None are mine anymore. You are not mine anymore.

You are gone. You... are gone. How can you be gone? You were just here with me, just walking down this path, just holding my hand, just watching clouds and smiling.

I still wake up and wonder what you've made for breakfast. I still place my key in the lock of of our front door and for a moment hold my breath at the thought of your smile greeting me. I still reach for you at night, still roll towards you, still expect your arms to encircle me, squeezing me tight.

My life is not my life. My home is not my home.

You were my home. You were my partner in life, my pinky swear forever and ever bear. Without you, I have no home. My life is not my life.

Without you, my world is gone.

The Horny Butterfly

~ a kinky fairy tale ~

In the shade of a pop up tent, just outside her cabin, laid a beautiful naked girl. Spread out on a purple and black rug, she lounged, enjoying the warm air and slight breeze.

As she lazed, relaxing in her non-clothes-wearing-ness, only one thing was amiss. What she wanted, all she wanted, was to get off. Thankfully, she had packed her trusty Hitachi, and earlier ran a power cable to her rug, just in case.

Grabbing her favorite sex toy, she flipped the switch on, and brought the head to her pussy lips. Her body writhed at the touch and soon she felt her first orgasm growing.

But, just as she was close to climax, she felt a flutter by her ear. Into her vision floated a pretty pretty butterfly.

The colorful creature was a vision to behold, but the girl could not be pleased with its appearance. The butterfly had interrupted the girl's fun, much to her pussy's disappointment. Softly, she brushed the butterfly away.

Again the girl brought her Hitachi to her clit, a warm feeling soon rising inside of her. Her breathing turned into pants as her body moved closer to its release.

But, once again, the tiny butterfly fluttered near her, this time landing on her knee. The tiny tickle was enough to distract the girl, again depriving her from her pleasure.

The girl brushed the butterfly away once more, now annoyed. But, instead of flying off, this time the butterfly lingered in the girl's view.

"Little butterfly, please. I must feed my need. Shoo off, run; I need to cum. This distraction makes my heart bleed."

The little butterfly, however, would not go, choosing to land now on her Hitachi. This made the girl wonder.

Turning on the vibrator, the colorful creature did not move. Guessing its intent, once more the girl brought the sex toy to her crotch. The butterfly remained.

Writhing her clit against the vibration,
soon came the girl's exaltation,
her ecstasy fulfilled.
All the while the butterfly
did not move as she writhed,
as any horny little creature would.

Anxious

"Boring and more sedate is good for you." - Doc

As he read off the characteristics, one-by-one, I wanted to laugh. There I was in black and white. Well, actually he was reading off of his e-Reader, so maybe black and beige. But still...

At the start of our session today, I asked Doc to talk more about attachment styles. He had spoken about it last session and I wanted greater detail.

So, to drive the idea home, Doc pulled up the style we had agreed I was, anxious/avoidant. I'm a mixture, so I guess I'm kind of special in the not-so-fun way.

(For reference, about 50% of the population is secure, while the other 50% are insure/ambivalent/anxious, avoidant, or a mixture.)

As he read, point after point hit home.

- Has a hard time not making things about themself.
- Lets partner set the tone. (That one got a big guffaw.)
- Fears small acts will ruin the relationship.
- Difficulty explaining what's bothering them.
- Expresses insecurity in the relationship.
- Puts their partner on a pedestal.
- Feels like this is their only chance for love; it's too hard to find someone compatible for them.

And this was only the anxious side. When it came to my avoidant nature, though it was not as prominent, still a few points resonated.

- Values independence.
- Unrealistic romantic views.
- Mistrusts; fears being taken advantage of.
- Doesn't make intentions clear.
- Difficulty talking about what's going on between them and their partner.
- Says or thinks they are not ready to commit, but stays with partner for years.
- Forms relationships with impossible futures.

So, with that info dump, Doc and I then started talking.

We pinpointed that I am more anxious than avoidant, and many of my avoidant traits come from my reactions to avoidant people.

Unfortunately, because of my parents as models, I subconsciously seek out avoidant people as potential partners because my father was avoidant (my mother was/is anxious).

Doc cautioned me about my "in love" feeling. For me, we've identified "in love" as the reved up feeling I get from being juiced by someone who is avoidant (see The Gent). I get a taste of the person, and then they pull away.

Doc pointed out because I am so used to the up and down, to the high, I have yet to feel the secure middle. He explained that that security is what love feels like. Feeling secure in yourself, your relationship, the person you are with; no constant emotional roller coaster. Yes, there will be highs and lows, but the "boring and sedate" baseline is what I now must work towards.

Doc asked me to think about my friends. What kind of attachments do I form with them? Are they secure? Avoidant? Anxious? He encouraged me to use these examples when looking at potential partners.

And now that I'm armed with the knowledge that this is how my brain works, Doc also encouraged me to try to remember this each time I worry that a small faux pas will create turmoil, or when I think so highly of someone else while putting myself down.

But, most importantly, Doc reminded me to go for security, not instability; love will flow from there.

Leather, Sex, and Cars

~ a dream ~

My eyes opened slowly, the fog of sleep clinging to me like a wet blanket. Had someone come in? I wasn't sure.

When my eyes did more than peek open, the first thing I saw was black. It was a matte black, and I noticed at once that it was leather. My lids opened fully now, I gasped in amazement.

A dozen pairs of boots, short and tall, spiked and healed, graced a corner of my room, the corner right next to the end of my bed. Flinging off the covers, I rushed over to the boots like a child to her presents on Christmas morning.

The smell was wondrous as my fingertips graced the first pair. The soft supple leather was creamy to the touch. I picked up a boot and brought it to my nostrils, all the better to take in the aroma.

As I set it down, and looked at the rest of the pile, a thought dawned on me: I recognized each and every pair boots.

It was not a month prior that I'd gone out with a friend, Hoop, and we'd decided to check out a leather store. There I lost myself in the boots, trying on so many pairs. With each, Hoop took a picture. It wasn't until now that I realized why.

A cough from behind me startled me. I spun my body around and viewed a man dressed in all black with a ski mask on, sporting a mile wide grin. Instead of being scared, I ran to him. I recognized the form as DeepEnd, who had obviously been the one to sneak in all the boots.

"It was N3rddom's idea," he explained as my arms hung around his neck. "We all pooled our money. Happy Birthday."

I turned around to view my leather once again, but spun into another place. Beside me stood Dane Cook, who smiled widely. No longer in a night shirt (which I have not worn since childhood), I now wore a fun sundress that swished with my slightest movement.

I stepped closer to Dane, giving him an eager grin.

"We can't," he said. "We work together."
"I don't care."

He turned to walk away. I stepped into his path.

"Who would know?" I asked.  He thought for a moment, then slid his arms around me, a hand gliding onto my ass, and his thigh in between my legs.
"I don't have protection," he whispered.
"Leave that to me. I'll go CVS and be right back."

The tension between us was great, but still I pulled myself away. As I walked towards the entrance, I saw through a glass wall what looked like a tornado forming. The cone's gold and black crosshatching gave the storm a fantastical quality.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. The tornado riped apart and fighter planes burst forth. Half looked to be military, the other half alien.

As the two factions circled each other, the alien aircraft came in for a landing, morphing into Mini Coopers of all colors. The American fighter planes landed beside them. 

The cars looked cooler.

For Me

~ a dark thought ~

"I'm not answering your questions. Your questions are juvenile, amateur, rude. No, I will not answer your questions."

"Fine, then can you just tell me why. Why did you do it? Why? And to so many..."

"Now, that is a question I will answer. It was... the sounds.

"For me, well, I'm a very auditory person.  Low, reverberating sounds, bass, deep, bone rattling sounds are so very pleasing to me.  High pitch noises, nails on chalkboard, what have you, they hurt me, actually physically causing me pain.  But, there is... one exception to my odd auditory affliction.

"There is something about their screams, their wails and their moans. There is just something about the sounds they make.

"For me, the rest was just a means to an end. The blood, the blades, the mess...all just what it took to get them to make those sounds. Those beautiful, wondrous sounds.

"My favorites were when, when they still had fight in them, when they thought they would live, could live, through my ordeal, they would let out deep low guttural screams from the base of their stomachs busting out through their throats, propelled by every last molecule of air in their lungs. For me, that was the best part.

"Oh, that didn't stop me. No, no. Much like the first bite of dessert, when you know no other bite will taste as good, yet you keep eating, that was what it was like. Tasting the sounds of the screams, their moans, their pleas. Whimpers, whines, wails. Oh, the cacophony of it all still lives in my head. I had no need to record them. I remember every last syllable, every last note of them.

"For me, Sir, it had nothing to do with death, or gore, or brutality, though it took those things for me to get what I wanted, what I needed. For me, the sounds, the supple songs of their cries bursting forth, and my ears enveloping every moment of it. That was all I ever wanted, ever needed, and ever will need.

"So, Sir, do with me as you must. I'm resigned to whatever fate awaits me. Because, for me, I have a library of lyrics to play back each and every day. And no punishment you could lay down will ever be so great as to spoil the music ever playing in my ears."

Fall

~ a story ~

"Fall."
"No!"
"What are you afraid of?"
"Falling!"

I stood at the top of the diving platform, daring to look over the edge. The pool looked much smaller from up there, a Dixie cup I was attempting to not miss.

"Mer, just jump. You'll love it!"
"Shut up, Pike! I don't need your encouragement."

What I needed was to breathe and remember why I had decided to do this. Why had I decided to do this?

Pike was talking about his diving days in college, his Olympic hopes, his disappointment at not qualifying, but his joy at teaching kids most summers.

He talked about the rush he felt each time he leapt from the platform, the falling through the air, and then splashing hard into the water. The thrill, the adrenalin, the warm air and then cool water. Oh, the rush.

As he climbed up, I got nervous for him. It had been years since he had attempted such a feat. But he leapt, tucked, and somersaulted like any normal person would step back onto a bike. He broke the surface of the water, cutting it like butter. When his head popped up, his smile filled his face.

I wanted to feel that, the rush, the thrill. I needed to feel something that good. I needed to let myself fall.

"Just step off. That's all you have to do. Commit, and then do it."

Truer words were never spoken, yet he of all people knew they were the hardest for me.

I couldn't recall the last time I had committed to anything, or anyone. And, as I stood on that platform, nerves knotting my stomach and locking my limbs, I looked down on one commitment I wanted to make.

Maybe this was it. Maybe taking this leap, letting myself fall, would be enough to let myself fall for him. I wanted to, and I'd felt his interest. Maybe I could just leap.

Leap.

As my toes broke the water, my knees bent from the force of gravity and the pool slowing my decent. My skin tingled as bubbles swarmed around me and then rose to the surface. As my head bobbed up, I gasped for air.

"That was amazing!"

Pike swam over, and hugged me tight, lifting my frame mostly out of the water. I settled my hands on his shoulders, smiled wide, and kissed him. Softly, sweetly, he kissed back.

And right there and then, I fell.

Please

~ erotica ~

"Please."

One word, one syllable, one breath was full of me, full of my eagerness, full of my crazy manic lust for him.

"Please."

It was all I could say, the only word needed to convey all I wanted, needed, desired in that moment.

"Please."

Even with ropes around my torso, my arms restrained, my legs bound, on my knees, my eyes shrouded, still I begged for it. I could feel it, just beyond my lips, just beyond my reach. I could almost taste it, almost taste him, so close to my lips.

"Please."

His hands in my hair, holding back my head, holding back my lips. He needed to grip tight. My desire was great. But this he well knew.

Even with his digits gripping my strands, even with his ropes binding me tight, I forced myself forward. I pulled, pushed myself with all my might. I wanted it, I wanted him so very much.

"Please."

I imagined the dark smile on his face. The sinister grin I loved to see on him. The pleasure he took from holding me back. Making me wait. Making me beg. Seeing my desire. My carnal lust. My horny need. My sexual pain.

He knew I was soaking wet. He knew what I craved. He dangled the carrot just beyond me, just close enough to still give me hope.

"Please."

Bound, on the floor, knelt, waiting. I had heard him sit. Heard his zipper creep down. Felt his knees graze arms. Felt the heat of him so near me.

When I dared to lean forward, when I dared to seek my pleasure, when for once I was a brat, his fingertips pressed into my biceps, pushing me back.

My lips had grazed him, had grazed the beautiful cock I knew so well. A taste. Only the quickest of tastes before he pulled me off, pushed away.

And then the begging started. And the hair pulling. And I could almost hear the smile as it formed on his face.

"Please. Please. Please."

And, finally, who knows how many minutes of agony later, I said, "Thank you."

He slapped my ass and replied, "Don't talk with your mouth full."

Drunk Qualities

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Good Session

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but you really are clever. You do these really good things, but then you always find a way to put yourself down... How about you instead use your cleverness to find humor in how your brain twists the good you've done." - Doc

This past Tuesday I had another therapy session. As per normal, it did not go as I envisioned in my head. Don't get me wrong, it was still great though. Without fail each time I walk out of Doc's office I feel a million times better than when I walked in.

For this past session, we touched on a few topics. The first, which I found surprising, was the idea of therapy as work.

Doc wanted to dissuade me from viewing the homework he gave me, the tools he's imparted, and the ideas I have swimming through my head as work. To do so he felt was a trap, setting myself up to fail.

This was all in response to my non-meditation. I'm suppose to meditate fifteen minutes a day using a musical track he gave me. While listening to the song, I am to repeat a mantra, the lines focusing on parts of my life I wish to change.

I am open to love in all its possibilities. I see the beauty others see in me. I will love others for who they are, not for who I want them to be. I am good enough to accept and receive love from others.

The closest I've come to meditating was listening to the song a few times before I drifted off to sleep, recalling two of the lines as I slipped into rest. I promised Doc I would do better.

Second, we talked about my cleverness. I spoke to Doc about a good conversation I had recently, but I prefaced it with the fact I used baby steps to ease my way through the talk.

Doc immediately jumped on my downplay of my accomplishment. He wanted me to be proud of myself for even having the conversation. And he pointed out that "baby steps" was not a bad thing. In fact, it was what I needed to do to get myself through the conversation. It was what I was suppose to do.

Doc feels I don't give myself credit. I always qualify the emotional weightlifting I've done. I find ways to not acknowledge my work.

As a deterrent, or at least to shake up my head a bit, Doc suggested I use my cleverness to laugh at myself. Each time I put myself down, or find one small thing to harp on, he wants me laugh at how my brain works.

Laugh at how, even though I had this great conversation, I chastised my method. Laugh at how, after having an awesome time with a friend, I harped on myself for the lilt in my voice at our parting. Laugh at the ridiculousness that is, ostensibly, my Little Hater.

The last thing we touched on was The Gent.

"I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I'm going to tell you what to do."

I laughed.

You won't be reading much, if any, about The Gent anymore. We're done.

Somehow I found myself in a situation similar to my parents; big shocker there.

I explained to Doc how frustrated I am. How much I don't understand what's going on. How I wondered if The Gent even knew what he was doing was shitty.

I also talked about why the situation was so hard, why it is so hard to let him go.

The Gent is the stereotypical guy I should want, the guy I should bring home, marry, have kids with. He is handsome, successful, charming, intelligent, an excellent fuck.

"Emotionally distant and absent."
"Yes."
"Like your Dad."
"Dammit!"

Doc hit the nail on the head.

In wanting to make things right with The Gent, in wanting to tell him how shitty he made me feel in hopes that he would do better, be better, I was seeking love from a person who was not giving it back. I was sinking energy into a person who did not reciprocate my efforts. I was repeating the pattern I learned from my parents.

So now the hard part is not calling him. Not texting him. Not contacting him. The hard part is going against my nature to forgive, to give the second, third and twenty-sixth chance.

The hard part is being strong by not giving in. The hard part is putting me first.

So, yeah, good session with Doc this week.

In Praise Of Cock

To say I've been horny lately seems like an understatement. For the past few weeks, all I can think about is sex. And play. And fucking. But especially... cock.

I love cock.

Yes, I am pansexual and pussy is a beautiful thing, but I cannot deny my love for cock.

I've missed sucking cock.

I've missed playing with a cock. My tongue running up and down the shaft. My lips kissing it, surrounding the head, and then gliding up and down it. Sucking. Hitting the back of my throat. Gagging, and then relaxing, opening up my throat to except it.

I've missed being face fucked. A hand on the back of my head, pushing me further, pushing your cock farther into me. Being called a cockslut. Or your little whore. Or your fuck toy.  Or your good girl.  My hair being pulled to guide my face on your cock. Being so submissive in those moments when my mouth and your cock are my only world.

Playing with balls. Sucking one, then the other, and then both in mouth. Feeling the cock pressed up against my face as I'm sucking on your balls. Having the cock rubbed on my face, my cheeks, my eyes, my nose. As I'm sucking your balls, having my face being pushed into your crotch. And the sounds you make when I'm doing this to you, for you, and for my pleasure.

Fuck... being cock slapped. There is nothing like being cock slapped. It is this perfect moment of sex and domination and impact all rolled into one.

And especially when you hit me really really hard, and then the cock is shoved back into my mouth, and I'm sucking and gagging on it again.

Yes. That.

I love it when your cock is jammed into my throat. Pounded into my pussy. Slowly eased into my ass.

I miss being fucked right. There is sex, and then there is being fucked right.

Taking all of a cock in. Pumping hard, fast. The pain of it thumping my cervix, enduring the pounding with the waves of pleasures. Gripping my hips just right. This position, that position. A tiring, sweaty, nasty fuck. It's just me, your cock, and my screaming.

Oh god, and my hands on it. Stroking it. Hard, smooth. Playing with the head. Squeezing it firmly. Feeling my hand around your cock, your cock in my hand. Feeling it enlarge, grow from my manipulations. Positioning it just right, lining you up to fuck me. The head teasing my clit. The shaft teasing my cunt. Running it up and down my pussy lips until you finally slip in. All the way in. And I gasp.

Fuck, I miss cock.

ASA: Field Trip

"TNG."
I gave him a questioning look.
"The Next Generation."
"You mean like Star Trek?"
"No."

It was Friday, 5:15pm again. This time when I stepped up to his door there was no pensive waiting, no pacing. I simply gave a quiet knock.

Mr. Ebon beckoned my entrance, and I sat on top of the desk as before. My knitting stayed in my blazer pocket. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, ready to speak.

"You need to meet people, interact with other people in the lifestyle."
"Lifestyle?"
"Yes Ms. Ivory. Dominance and Submission, if so chosen, can be part of an alternative lifestyle. There are entire communities of people, friend groups and chosen families, who have similar desires as yours. You need to meet your own kind."
"But I thought you were going to teach me."

I didn't want my voice to sound petulant, but it did.

"I am teaching you, Ms. Ivory. And this lesson is about community. There is a TNG Munch..."
"Munch?"
"A meetup where there is no alcohol."
"Oh. There are meetings with alcohol involved?"
"Happy hours at bars. But since you are just starting in your journey, I think a munch should be your first step. Often they are held at a restaurant in a private room. There is a munch at an eatery near the community college every Sunday at 2pm. You will go there this weekend. Talk. Meet people. Learn what you can and report back to me on Monday."
"Yes Mr. Ebon. Is that the lesson for today?"
"Yes Ms. Ivory."

I hopped down from my desk and began to walk out. I was a little disappointed, but I hoped it did not show on my face.

"Ms. Ivory, before you go..."
"Yes!" As soon as the word left my lips, I wished it hadn't. My eagerness dripped from the syllable.

Mr. Ebon did not seem to notice.

"A word of caution. Before you walk into the meeting, decide how much of yourself you want to share with the world. You are young and don't yet know what turns your life will take. Consider using a nickname."

Disappointed again, I simply said, "Thank you Mr. Ebon," and walked out of the room.

~

"So, Ms. Ivory, how was your first munch?"
"It was okay."

It was Monday afternoon, 5:15pm, and I again sat on top of my desk conversing with Mr. Ebon.

"At first I was nervous. Very nervous. Everyone was older than me."
"That was to be expected, but go on."
"Since I was nervous, my stomach a ball of knotted twine, I didn't buy any food. I found the room in the back, knocked on the door, and heard a chorus of come-ins. As soon as I stepped inside, there were a lot of smiling faces. That was nice.
"I introduced myself. There were five people there, two guys and three girls, who went around saying their names. I can only remember one of them, though. He..."
"He?"

I wasn't sure, but there seemed to be a note of jealousy in Mr. Ebon's voice.

"Yes. He was one of the leaders of the group. His name was Alex. Since it was my first time, he welcomed me and talked to me about the rules.
"One, no play at the munch. Two, everyone buys something so the restaurant stays happy. And three, any and all disagreements are dealt with outside of the munch; no fighting in the restaurant."

Mr. Ebon's face turned grim.

"Mr. Ebon, is something wrong?"
"Ms. Ivory, rules are made for a reason."

My face gave an implied "and...?"

"If there is a rule about fighting, there must have been an incident in the past. Be careful."
"I was careful. I used my middle name, and no one there knew me. It was fine."

Out of habit I'd already been twirling a shoe lace, trying to ask what seemed like a dumb question. Mr. Ebon picked up on my unease.

"Ms. Ivory, is there something else you need to say?"
"Actually... this seems like a silly question, but what is play?"

His face stayed grim.

"Excuse me, Ms. Ivory?"
"That first rule: no play at the munch. What is play?"
"You didn't ask anyone there?"
"Well, no."
"But Ms. Ivory, you were at a munch. And you had a legitimate question."
"I was nervous. And we didn't talk at all about anything that wasn't SciFi related, which was rather comforting actually. Aside from introductions, a discussion of Star Trek versus Battlestar Galactica took up the entire two hours."

Mr. Ebon gave a great sigh, dropping his head into his chest.

"Well, at least you made a few friends," he said more to his shoes than to me.
"Yes, and I'll be back next Sunday. But Mr. Ebon, play?"

He raised his head, his eyes meeting mine, his intense stare now boring through me.

"Each time I have pulled out my ruler, each time I have reprimanded you, that was play. Play is how we define what we do."
"Sir...?"
"Yes, Ms. Ivory." I saw a small glint in his eyes, and the beginning of a grin on his lips. He liked it when I called him Sir.

I wanted to ask another question, not sure I had the nerve, but in a mood to be bold, I just said it.

"Are we going to play today?" A smile crept across his face.
"Yes, Ms. Ivory."


~~~~~~
After School Activities
ASA: The Words

My September

Yes, I know it's insane. Let's get that out of the way now.

Yes, I indeed know what I have signed up for is just shy of nuts. And yet...

Right now, I am in the lull. It is the calm before the kinky storm. I've had days of nothing, of sitting around my house, relaxing on the wall of couches, watching lots of NetFlix (read: not spending money).

Right now, I'm optimistic. And terrified. Right now I'm planning, sort of. Right now I'm not in the game. All that stuff, the logistics, the stress. All that stuff can wait another week.

Okay, not really. I think this is the last day I can put if off. In fact I know it is. Wednesday will be when it starts.

To be completely honest, I know it's already started. I bought the tickets for all the events. I bought my plane tickets. I made sure to not schedule work, sort of. (I'll get to that later.) So it's kind of started.

But Wednesday is it. Wednesday is when I start thinking about clothes, and food, and bills, and scheduling sleep, and figuring out when I'm going to write.

I am attending four kink events in the month of September.

I'm gonna let that sink in for a few sentences. Four events. In one month. Yes, I am not kidding. All paid for. All planned for, somewhat. It is happening.

I know it's a lot to handle. I know I may get overloaded. I, however, think I'll be fine, but I also have the beautiful naivete of youth. (Snicker as you will.)

Also I have an ace in the hole: for the first time ever, I will actually leave two out of four of the events to go to work.

When I crewed Fusion, my friends Amethyst and ManKraken! gave very sound advice. The things that kept me mostly sane were my visits off campus. Pulling myself out of the camp mind frame helped me not emotionally breakdown once the experience was over.

Now, with basically an entire month of kink on the horizon, I've scheduled work days in the mix. I will be forced to reset my brain, forced to pull myself from the immersion. And, most importantly, I won't go broke doing this.

At the end of my four event month, I will achieve my goal of ten events in one year... with two more planned before 2013 begins. Go big or go home, I guess.

The thing is, though, I'm enjoying all this fun. In moments like this, when I'm just starting to worry about the incidental parts of this journey, I'm still smiling, because I realize, really, my life doesn't suck.

Sugar Coated

~ a story ~

There is a little coffee shop by my apartment. I don't go to it much, but when I do I always see her.

She looks like you.

Not exactly like you, but close. She's a little older, a little taller, and a bit less cheerful. Still, every time I see her I think of you.

I order my drink, and she gives me a half smile. I pick a spot in a corner, pull out a book I won't read, and sit. I sip my drink and stare at her. I'm always to her side, out of her eye line.

I like looking at her profile. Her small pointed noise, like yours. Her soft chin, like yours. Her long dark hair, longer than yours actually. She always pulls it back in a tight braid.

Sometimes my mind drifts on the thought of her hair out, brushing her back, flowing about, a cascade of chocolate strands. I imagine my hands in it, my cheek against it, closing my eyes and falling into her hair. Like I did with yours.

I sometimes wonder if she smells like you. Not at the coffee shop; I imagine she smells like the latest hipster brew most days. But when she's not at the coffee shop, when she's out living instead of making a living, I wonder what scent sticks to her skin.

Yours was always sweet, a fruity body spray that at once made me smile and gag. You loved that shit, dosing yourself in it every day, but especially when we went out. A cloud of sugary berries surrounded you. To think...there was a time when I was happy to be floating in your cloud.

I don't think you'd like her. You were always so bubbly, like the world would end if you weren't cheerful at all times.

She... she's more real, like life has seen her. Like she knows the good and the bad, the easy with the hard, the sacrifice, the struggle, and yet kept on.

If given the choice, if a magic genie gave me a wish, I'd wish to have known her instead. You were candy; she is sustenance.

As I sit in my corner, sipping my drinking, holding the book I never read, I always wish I had met her first. Because to now meet her, to now know her, is a fool hearted measure.

No matter how much better than you she is, because I know she is, I will always think of your smile, your hair, and your smell. I could never love her, be sustained by her, because you tainted my heart with your sugar coated self.

Another One

~ Sunday afternoon at The Floating World ~

I first noticed him during a class. He sat a few rows behind me.

I happened to turn around and glance towards him. I first saw his boots. And then, slowly, up trailed my eyes, taking in the head-to-toe leather. Finally I saw the soft smile on his stern face, his gaze not on me.

I made myself turn towards the front. I knew it, as soon as I saw him.

Shit, another one. He was a leatherman.

When class ended, I walked out into the hallway, avoiding the incredible urge to go say hi to him.
It was the last day, and I was about to go to my last class.

I passed Lynk in the hall, and doubled checked where Sadistic Massage would be held. He pointed me towards a nearby room. I sat down my things and wandered about the convention center during the break as the classes turned over.

I stopped by the bootblacking station, checking in with D3 and rabbit to see how they were fairing. Few pairs of boots had graced their seats that day.

Wandering back towards my class, there he was. He stood, showing off his cricket bat to a man I did not know.

Meh, I thought. Why the fuck not?
 
I slowly approached him and lightly touched his shoulder. He turned, looked at me, and smiled.

"Hi. I just wanted to say your cricket bat looks awesome. I have a friend who uses one for play, and it's a lot of fun."
"Why thank you."
"I'm poetic."

He introduced himself. I smiled wide.

"Nice to meet you."
"You say your friend uses a cricket bat?"
"Yes. In fact for my birthday, during my birthday spankings, I got hit with his cricket bat. And a pool stick. And a hockey stick."
"Really?"
"I like pain. May I look at your bat?"
"Sure."

He showed it off to me.

"Yours looks rougher than his."
"Ah, his is finished."
"Finished?"
"Laquered."
"Yes. And stingy as a hell. Well, I have to go. Class."
"Which one are you attending?"
"Sadistic Massage with Lynk. It's happening right over there."
"Sadistic Massage? I may see you in there."
"That would be nice. Well, it was nice meeting you."

I smiled, turned, and walked away.

Fuck me; another one.

I am such a sucker for a man in leather.

Attempt Number Three

~ a story ~

I've tried to write this letter, twice. This is attempt number three.

Attempt number one was mean, angry. Lots of curse words. I called you an ass multiple times. An asshole I think only once.  The word fuck was also used a lot. 

I tried to get you to understand how your actions made me feel, but probably not in a way that you would listen.
 
My handwriting, though neat and pretty as is my style, was full of large letters and big spaces; passionate.

My first attempt was venting.

My second try was more calculating. That evening I was listening to music on my way home, heard a song lyric that fit, and worked from that angle. It talked about actions over words. That seemed rather fitting.

I broke down your actions, listing all our interactions that I could remember. I listed the good with the bad, and where I saw the switch happen.

And then I started using feeling words, but only for a short paragraph. The word hurt came up a lot.

Next I listed questions, questions I feel I shouldn't have to ask. 

Do you care about me? 

What am I to you? 

They were questions I should already know the answers to, and yet I don't.

Still in my planning mode, I gave another list, this one with tips for you. Communication was a theme.

Yet still, that letter wasn't right. I don't want hot headed anger, nor do I want cold calculating logic. 

And even now, I don't know how to express to you how your actions have made me feel.

Even as I write these words, as my pen sails across the page, I don't know if I'll mail this piece of paper either.

How can you express how someone has hurt you just in simple words?  Even big words can't convey the pain I felt, the pain I feel whenever I think of you.

And there is this lingering pinch in my side, wondering if you have any clue how much you hurt me. 

And how much all I want is for you to be better. Not perfect, but better.

I guess attempt number four will be tomorrow night.

e[Lust] #39

Photo courtesy of Ava Grace

Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #40? Start with the newly updated rules, come back September 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ Top 3 ~ Never Pinch a Sadist: 50 Shades of Plaid - If you don't know kink, don't feel pressured into it. If you wonder what it is about, join Fetlife and find local event to teach you about it.

Collars & closure & owning myself - there is triumph in realizing that your paths are diverging, repacking your shit, and moving on with dignity and respect.

The Quarry - We agreed to meet up on the weekend and go out to the quarry. It was an old, flooded quarry. I didn’t know it, but the queers had taken it over.

~ Featured Post (Picked by Lilly) ~
The Pussy Pride Project

~ e[lust] Editress ~
"I can't orgasm without a vibrator" So What? - Embrace it. Bring it in to your partnered sex life. Be happy that you can achieve orgasm whatever way that works for you.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Writing
A Guest for Dinner
A Beautiful Need
A Purring Machine
A Hard Man is Good to Find
Chlorine Kisses
In a different world
I Crave You!
Lolita Twenty-Twelve, Part Four
Mojo Back
My 69th Orgasm
Owned Part 4
Sensual room service
Summertime
Tease Me
Travelling
The Space Between
The TextThe Wicked Wench of Wupert Stweet
The Desk of Power
Use Me What I'm thinking about when I'm...
When Frederick Met Camille

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Living with an Alpha Sub
Make Her Cum
Restless
Swinging and safe sex
Talking with the Lights Off
The Promiscuous Bisexual
Why Do I Have More Respect For Men Than MRAs?
What not to do for anal sex
Wants, Needs & PolyWifi Sex?

Kink & Fetish
A Boot Scene
Consent as Torture
Mores and Behavior
Pursuit of Squirting
Playing With Lightning
Submissive men: A celebration of beauty
strapping on...my first time
Submission for a Femdom Facesitting Film
Steeped
rethinking warmup

A Prickly Affair

~ Sunday night at The Floating World ~

I saw him walking through the Dungeon dragging his kit behind him. I popped up from the floor, leaving my things behind, and walked towards him.

He looked left, outstretched his arm, and extended his index finger towards me.

"Well, I guess I'm getting needles then."

Amethyst followed close behind Lynk as we all assembled in the medical play area.

I disrobed and hopped onto the massage table they'd covered with chux for our scene. As I looked up at them, Amethyst warned me, "Him Sadist."

"Please be nice," I begged.
"I'll be nice," he answered.

His first needle in, I screeched.

"You said you would be nice."
"That's about as nice as I can be."

Amethyst explained needles in the thigh hurt more.

One in towards the left, one in towards the right, both buried, and cherry topped with a half inch needle stuck straight in at the center of the two. The configuration was matched on both my thigh.

On my chest, Amethyst practiced layering needles for the first time. Hint for all you needle tops: a great way to mindfuck a needle bottom is to mention how something you are about to do to them is your first attempt at it. I know that was not Amethyst's intention, but it worked quite well.

Each breast received a button, three layered needles, the tips buried.

It was not long before I was floaty.

Amethyst tapped on my buttons. Lynk took great joy in flicking the cherries. I high-pitched-low-volume screamed. And each time they stopped, and I took a breath, the endorphins washed over me.

The meter of my voice slowed. Sentences elongated in time to deliver, while also shortening in number of words.

Lynk often flicked at my cherries, my high pitch calls piercing my ears. Amethyst redded for me on those, ceasing his evil fun.

To spice things up, Lynk practiced some of the sadistic massage he taught in a class session earlier that day.

Choosing the meaty sides of my thighs, he pressed in and ran his fingers down the length. I guttural screamed and wailed from the pain. I cried, tears welling up. I never told him to stop.

A little worried, in my slow half speak I assured him my crying was good. Sobbing was a good sign. He assured me he had no intention of stopping his manipulations unless I told him too.

Switching spots, Amethyst tapped my thigh pricks while Lynk sunk his finger tips into my chest, working the muscles above my needles, an area sore from previous play.  (Punching my chest is a pretty popular activity.) 

Later, our scene over, Lynk hugged me hard, pressing into my chest, my ow-ing groans inciting his glee.  To reiterate Amethyst concise description, "Him sadist."

As we finished up, a trickle of blood tickled my ribs. Since we'd played with the needles more in this session that in my first with Amethyst, I bled quite a bit.

With a mirror, I saw my pretty buttons. When I sat up, I saw my boxed cherries. In all, twelve needles were stuck in me, twice the amount of my first scene with Amethyst.

I still like being a pretty pincushion.

On Top

~ Friday night at The Floating World ~

"I don't know which I like better: sucking your tongue or sucking your cock." - D3
"Good thing you don't have to choose." - me
"Good answer." - D3

I felt powerful. I was in control. Not only was I the Top, I was the Domme. It was... amazing.

I was nervous, very nervous. I bought the strap-on thinking maybe. Maybe I'll get to use this. Maybe he'll want to suck my cock. Maybe.

It was flimsy, purple (not my color), but I wasn't willing to risk a large amount of money on a maybe. 

I bought a new dildo for it, choosing one that if I didn't grow the balls, if I never brought it up, I would still like having the new dick in my repertoire of sex toys.

And then we ending up on the futon.

I'd already suspended him. He wore only his boxers and his boots. My dress (cotton with a black top connected to a gray skirt) and boots remained on.

As he had floated in the air, I'd gotten my face down to his level. I'd asked him how he felt. He was flying high.

We kissed. He was in my ropes. His lips were against mine. I expected no more for my night.

But then we were on the futon. 

And he was free of my ropes. And we were kissing. And I looked into his eyes, so close to mine that I could see my reflection.

And I said, "I can see my reflection in your eyes."
And he said, "You know what I can see in your eyes? You wearing your strap-on and me sucking it."

And that was it.

I grabbed the harness, put it on, tightened it as best I could, and attached the dildo. I pulled out a condom and handed it to him. He slid it down my cock.

My ass on a chuck, he closed his lips around my cock and began sucking. He gagged. Oh, he gagged. His eyes were locked on me. Lines of saliva dripped from his lips.

I bridged my hips up, fucking his face. I called him my cock slut. I said he loved the feel of my cock in his throat.

There was a hunger, a need in his eyes. My hand on the back of his head, I pushed lightly. That was my mouth and I wanted to fuck it right.

Bucking my hips. Stroking his head. I got my first strap-on blow job.

Open

~ erotica ~

"Open."

He jammed his cock to the back of my throat. I coughed and gagged. He pulled out.

"Open."

He did it again.

This time I knew it was coming. I closed my lips around his cock, used my tongue, and opened my throat, accepting his manhood into me.

I loved the taste of his cock. Loved the small drip of his precum. His precum tasted better than any of my other lovers'.

He gripped my hair and fucked my face. My eyes teared up a little. From the pain. From the pleasure. I loved sucking his cock.

He shoved it all the way in and held it. Held it.

I coughed as he pulled out, letting me breathe.

"Open."

I licked my lips. He shoved his cock back in.

Whenever it came close to being too much, I squeezed my hands together, pushing myself further.
He never wanted me to use my hands. At first he tied them behind my back, but I learned to just leave them there.

I liked the challenge. Taking all of him. Taking as much as he wanted to give. Enduring. Being his fuck toy.

Occasionally, when I was a good little fuck toy, he let me play with his cock. Then I could use my hands. Then I could run my tongue and lips up and down the shaft. Then I could suck on his balls with abandon. I loved sucking on his balls. But that was a treat only for a good little fuck toy.

He pulled out his cock, held one side of my face, and used his cock to slap me. He then slapped the other side of my face with his cock. I loved it when he cock slapped me.

"Open."

I sucked harder now. I gagged more. I opened my throat further. Licked, sucked, and gagged.

I looked up. I looked into his eyes. I loved the intensity in his eyes. Loved looking at him as he looked at me sucking his cock.

In that moment, that connection, so much more than just my mouth was open.

Splayed

~ erotica ~

I was vulnerable. I was restrained. I was unable to do anything but take what came next.

My body laid on his bed. My legs parted. My arms pulled aside. Naked. A black blindfold over my eyes.

His sheets were soft. The pillow under my head was silk. I smelled candles burning. It was the most comfortable one could be, naked, open, and waiting. Wondering what he would do to me. Wondering what my next moments had in store.

Was he still in the room? I didn't think so. My heart raced, at first, but it had calmed finally. I could've heard a pin drop, if he had hardwood floors. He didn't. Plush carpet. An unremarkable color.

I heard the click of the door. I could feel he was in the room now.

A cold drop kissed my lips. Was he holding an ice cube? I felt it now, on my lips, the heat of my breath melting the liquid into my mouth.

Mischievously I snapped up the cube with my teeth and crunched it happily. I knew I'd be punished for that. I didn't mind.

He still said nothing. I felt the sting on my inner thighs and cursed loudly. I called him a son-of-a-bitch, knowing that would only egg him on more. Another sting. Another curse. We had our routine.

When he tired, either out of fatigue or boredom (since I couldn't see his face, I didn't know which), I heard him put the cane away.

A few breaths later, his thumb was on my lips.

"Say it." I wouldn't, and bit him. He pulled his thumb away.

"Say it." He held my throat. I had no more words. No more bratty comments. No more curses. He asked for what I could not give.

The sting of his slap on my breast. He knew I really hated that.

"Say it." His slap on my chest again. My silence remained.

He wanted too much. He needed too much.

"Say it." His fingers on my clit. My hips lifted towards him, towards his hand.

It was not long before I was begging, too, for his request was begging, pleading for my words.

But now I pleaded for my pleasure. I pleaded for that sweet release. I pleaded for us to be something other than the man who loves a woman who could not tell him she loved him too, even though she did.

"Say it."

I couldn't.

And as I laid, splayed out on his bed, so close to sweet ecstasy yet so far away from release, I realized I wasn't the only naked vulnerable person in the room.

My Heart

One of the latest long term homework assignments Doc has given me is quite simple, yet also very effective.

Everyday I tell myself that I love myself.

It's often in the car when I'm alone, listening to music, speeding along to here or there.

Occasionally it's when I'm sitting around with friends.

Once it was when I was about to start working, knowing that day's crew had two people I didn't care for.

Each time I use a easy method Doc suggested: I touch my heart. On my chest, just to the left, I rub in small circles, applying pressure until I feel the beating.

It is an amazing and humbling moment each time I feel my heart beat.

When I'm alone, I usually say it out loud.

"I love you. I love you."

I usually say it about five times, sometimes more, sometimes less.

Often I tear up. Doc says that's because it is a sentiment that is hard for me to take in, hard for me to accept, hard for me to believe. It stems from my self worth issues, the neglect from my father, and the example of my mother as a doormat.

My father never told my mother that he loved her.

Do you love yourself?

I love myself...sometimes. I like myself most of the time.

Sometimes, though, I don't. Sometimes I am mean and downright cruel to myself.

Sometimes the background noise in my head points out every defect, small and large, and amplifies how much I don't love those parts of me, even though the sum of it, all of it, makes me.

Sometimes I want to scream and gnash my teeth and rage at myself and the world.

But only sometimes.

More often then not, especially lately, I'm good. More often then not, I love me, flawed imperfect me. Changing, ever growing me.

But always, whenever I put my hand over my heart, and say those three words, over and over again, I feel wondrous. I feel joyful. My heart is full, almost bursting. I feel loved.

There It Is

~ erotica ~

I can hear the rest of the party in the background. The loud DJ. The coworkers laughing and dancing in the awkward drunk way drunk people do.

The door is locked. The door...is...locked. I locked the door when we snuck in, I think. God, I hope I locked the door.

She smells so good. She smells so...fruity, berry, something good.

Her lips taste so right. God, I love the taste of her lips. And the lime tinge of her drink still on her tongue.

The feel of her thighs, crotch grinding against my leg. My hand gripping her ass, pulling her closer. My fingers entangled in her hair.

Our breaths, so heavy. Her tongue, my tongue. We are kissing. Holy shit, we are kissing! I am making out with her in the supplies closet! Holy shit!

The feel of her body against me. Sucking on her neck. Oh, that sound. Her little lilt, and then a sigh. 

Her hands in my hair, gripping my hair, pulling me in closer. She loves this. Good, cause I love doing this to her.

Teeth? Yes, teeth. Is she moaning? Teeth and suck and her neck and her scent and her body against me and our breathing and fuck...

How long have we been in here? Fuck, I don't care.

Against the wall, the cool dark supplies room wall. Could I? Should I? Slowly. Do it slowly.

Fingertips, fingernails, softly scratch, down the side of her ass. Fingertip. Hook the skirt. Dance on the edge. Will she? Will she? Up a little. A little more. God I feel how near I am. I feel the heat of her crotch.

I just want to... I just want to... I just want her to cum. I want to hear her cum.

Just a little flick. A light little touch. A soft circle. That was definitely a moan. A harder circle. A harder circle. Two fingers. Her hips. Her hips are in rhythm with me. Fuck, I want her to cum.

Faster. Faster. Faster. She smells so good.

Faster. Her moans, oh God her moans.

Faster. Faster.

Is she building? Is she building? Her hands are gripping harder. Her hips are grinding harder.

Faster. Faster. Faster. Faster. Faster.

This. Is. It. This. Is. It.

There it is.

Angry, A Rant

Fair warning: This is not a sexy post. I will understand if you do not wish to read it.

Fair warning: This post will cover not fun things. Really not fun things.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

It never occurred to me that people would not realize I am angry. 

But, as I sat on the couch last night chatting with my roommates, who spoke about their experiences with trying to uncloud the eyes of well meaning (or downright ignorant) people, the subject of being angry came up.

I am angry. Very angry. I don't show that side of myself much. I don't like to.

I often display bubbly, or eager, or quiet. There is shy or whimsical or horny. But angry, don't show that much.

However, for one blog entry, let's face it.

As a light skinned black woman with some Native American ancestry, I have quite a bit to be angry about.

There is the state of the lives of current Native Americans; a quick Wikipedia search brought me this gem:

"It has long been recognized that Native Americans are dying of diabetes, alcoholism, tuberculosis, suicide, and other health conditions at shocking rates. Beyond disturbingly high mortality rates, Native Americans also suffer a significantly lower health status and disproportionate rates of disease compared with all other Americans."
— The U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, September 2004[134]

But my knowledge of the lives of Native Americans is as an outsider. So instead I'll focus on my own life experiences.

I grew up in a majority minority city. Still, when I went to high school, I was part of only ten percent of my small class that was black. Hmm...?

Could that be because my high school charged a tuition that the people living in the homes surrounding it couldn't afford? Pretty much.

My parents could afford it, though, because of two factors. One, my father was a doctor and made a decent living. Two, I received an academic scholarship, which paid between a quarter and a third of the cost. 

Before college, I actually never went to public school. My parents always found other schools to send me to.

God, even as I write this, just this, I want to stop.

I shove down my rage at this country, at my life, every day. 

At the blatant sexism. 

At the institutionalize racism. 

At the disgust and hatred for undocumented workers, who are just trying to make their lives better for their families. 

At the acceptance and blindness of those with privilege.

Do you read Captain Awkward? I think they're pretty awesome. I am fairly new to the blog, with my introduction being the lovely gems of entries #322 & #323 (Sad Panda & Proto-Rapist) and #324 (My Friend The Rapist). 

Jesus fucking Christ people.

I mean really. I was yelling at my phone as I read the entries, but thankfully Captain's response to the letters posted calmed me down.

As a woman, I am angry and scared.

Scared one day some guy on my crew is going to get pissed off enough at me to attack me. Angry that un-funny sexist jokes get told by someone higher up than me, so I feel like I can't say anything.

Scared when I drop off the truck at ridiculous o'clock at night, all by myself, someone will be at the warehouse, or just pass by, and decide it would be fun to attack me. Angry that I feel if I voice my fear to anyone but female coworkers, I'll be seen as weak or I worry too much.

Yup, I'm pretty angry.

Still, I know I am privileged to have had a good education. I know I am privileged to be light-skinned, with a skin tone that often baffles people who meet me. ("What are you?" Yup, that gem.) I know I'm privileged. I know I have it better than many others of my race.

But I also see the ownership of the companies I work for, the upper level staff, and the crews I'm a part of, all dominated by white men.

When I do, when the full measure of shit-i-tude stares me in the face, I just shake my head, take a deep breath, and move on. Because there is rent. And bills to pay. And I have to eat. So I shove down my anger everyday. Everyday.

I turn on the work face or the social face. I give you pleasant or relaxed or upbeat. I give you what you want to see and say what you want to hear because it is just easier.

Most times it's just easier to ignore my anger, easier to not have the conversation. Easier to not feel the despair, the hurt, the pain. Just... easier.

But don't be mistaken. Under the facade, in my heart of hearts, everyday I am angry.

Very angry.

Not The Suckiest

~ a story ~

I knew it. I knew as soon as she opened the boxed that I had fucked up. Maybe it wasn't the right color. Or the right size. Or maybe it was just something she found utterly atrocious.

Either way, I knew I fucked up.

"You hate it," I stated plainly.

"No. No, I love it."

"You're lying. I can tell when you're lying. You do this thing with your eyebrow."

"I'm not lying."

"You did it again."

I am always horrible at gifts. I never get it right.

At least this year I got the date right. I'm horrible at birthdays and holidays. And don't even get me started on anniversaries.

I really don't know why she puts up with me.

"Why do you put up with me?"

"I told you, I love it."

"Seriously. I never get this right. It's always the wrong color or wrong size or...just something is always wrong. I'm surprised I at least got the date right this year."

"Yeah..."

"I got the date wrong, too."

"You were only off by one."

"Well, I guess one day isn't bad."

"Week."

"Week!?!"

"Love..."

"I was off by a week!?!"

"Love..."

"Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Love, you're bad with dates; I know this."

"Shit, nervous people are bad with dates. Pre-historic writings are bad with dates. I suck at this. I'm like the shitiest partner ever."

"Love, stop. You are not the shitiest partner ever."

"Have I ever gotten your birthday right?"

"No, but..."

"Have I ever gotten the present right?"

"Well..."

"I suck at this."

"No, you don't. You suck at dates. You suck at gift gving. You're generally a slob. You spend too much time in front of the TV. You never order enough food when we go out and you always end up stealing half my meal. But you're kind. You always tip the waiter at least twenty percent. You never buy me anything cheap for my birthday; I have the gift receipts to prove it. You always make sure to DVR my shows so I can watch them later. And you always are home at night to rub my back til I fall asleep. You are not the suckiest partner ever."

"Really?"

"Really. Just... can you please try to at least get your clothes in the hamper. I'll take care of the washing, but just get them into the hamper and not all over our bedroom floor. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes. And... can you secretly write your birthday on my calendar next year. One week?"

"I knew it was coming. It felt like a surprise, when you'd finally remember."

"God, I suck."

"Meh, I've had worse."

My Toy

~erotica~

He wore just a plain white jock strap and his mid calf boots. He knelt before me, head bent in supplication.

I stood, looking down on this toy for me to play with.

I could tell he was staring at my leather, a pair of boots ladder laced up the front in red, their end just below my knee. The legs of my black cargo pants were stuffed down the leather. My black t-shirt stuck to my skin, the sweat of the day's heat exploding on my back.

I stripped off my shirt, but still wore a white tank top underneath. My breasts were bound against my chest. I was in a very un-girly mood that day.

I unbuckled my belt, letting its opening dangle at my front. I hadn't decided yet just how I was going to play with my toy.

I saw him twitch when he heard me undo my belt, and again when he heard the sound of my zipper's opening.

"Take it out."

He tilted up his head, his stare now fixed on my crotch. His hands pushed aside the slit in my boxers and pulled out my black cock, which I'd packed just for him. 

I knew he liked the black one more than any other of my rainbow assortment I had at home. The length and circumference were perfect for his mouth.

He licked his lips when he saw it.

"You have a mouth; why aren't you using it?"

My hand on the back of his head, I shoved my cock down his throat. He gagged for a moment, then began hungrily bobbing his head up and down my shaft. He was such a piggy when it came to sucking my cock.

Each of his downward strokes hit me just right, increasing my arousal. I didn't care that by the end of this, my boxers would be soaking wet.

"Gotta get it all nice and lathered up, my little cock slut. It's going in your ass tonight."

His eyes lids flared opened, a mixture of fear and excitement beaming up at me.

"Is it wet enough my little cock slut? Do you want it in your ass now?"

He vigorously nodding his head yes.

"No, I don't think so. I only heard you gag that one time. I don't think you really want it."

His sucking grew even more desperate. I could feel my cock hit the back of his throat. He gagged with each of his strokes now.

"My little whore, wanting it so bad in the ass. I think you've earned it."

I pulled his face off my cock and looked him dead in the eye.

"Hands and knees. Face down, ass up."

He quickly turned around and presented himself. I knelt behind him.

I brushed my cock against his asshole, teasing him at first. I heard his desperate whine.

With one good push, I slid in the head. He let out a sigh. I then thrust my hips hard, deep into his ass. He yelped and pushed back, his ass hungry for my cock.

I stroked his head, bent down, and whispered into his ear, "Such a good little cock slut." I could hear the smile form on his face.

I fucked him hard, pounding my cock into his ass. I grabbed his jock and ass for leverage and rode him harder still. I bent down and bit his ass, a hunk of meat for my tasting. He pushed back with all my strokes, wanting as much of my cock as would fit in him.

As I felt my arousal surging, I increased my strokes. Even with my quickened pace, he kept up.

"What do you say when someone fucks you right little cock slut? What do you say when someone rides your ass hard, pounding their cock into you?"
"Thank you."
"What?"
"Thank you."
"What!?!"
"THANK YOU....!"

He screamed as he came, obscenities falling from his lips.

When I came, I dug my nails into his ass, sunk my teeth in once again, and slumped on top of my toy. 

My little whore had done well.

Two States Away

I saw my Ex at The Floating World.

I looked about one hundred feet across the playspace, near its entrance, and there he was. I instantly recognized the brown skin, bald head, and stocky build.

I immediately turned around.

For good measure, I looked again. Yup, it was him. I turned back around.

I followed a friend outside and stood with them as they smoked. I took deep breaths and tried to forget I had just seen my Ex, who I believe didn't see me.

Two states away, yet he was there.

Two states away and this was the first time I'd seen him at an event. I suppose I should feel lucky. It took two years and two states for it to finally happen.

Though, really, it didn't happen. He never saw me.

After chatting with my friend outside, he departed and I went back into the play area. I found a person I'd offered some rope time to, and we went over some basic ties. I taught her the gunslinger harness and two basic chest ties. I showed her how I could suspend myself (though I never do) by simply sitting into a gunslinger. (I find it too uncomfortable.)

I talked about more basic rope info: types of rope, lengths, diameter. I encouraged her to take more classes and practice practice practice. She left happy.

When I packed up my rope, I found Big Bro and watched him tie for a spell. I saw my Ex pass by while I stood near a vertical support beam. He was walking about fifty feet away, heading for the door, I assumed after having played. I never saw him again.

So no, it hasn't actually happened. He hasn't seen me. Event me. PoeticDesires me.

In my new clothes, with hair curly, wearing my boots.

He hasn't seen me tie, or get tied. He hasn't seen me give cigar service. He hasn't seen me bootblack. Hasn't seen me get pummeled, with the tears and sobs and snot.

He hasn't seen who I've become since I left him.

I don't know if he knows how I've changed, how much I've changed, since I made the hard decision to not hang on to him, to not hang on to what was us.

As I drove home yesterday, and thought about my event, I regretted not going up to him, not talking to him, not at least saying hi. I regretted that I felt the need to avoid him, to not engage, to not try to be if not friends than friendly.

I didn't get to talk to Doc about this today, but I have the distinct feeling he would say something like, "Why would you try to be someone you're not?"

In the moment, I needed to not talk to him. In the moment, I felt it best to not go there.

So I didn't go there.

Commitment

A few things from my day.

It's Tuesday, which more often then not lately has meant I get to see Doc.

As we talked about the happenings of my past week, my practice of his homework assignments, and things bugging my brain, an interesting topic came up: commitment.

Well, more to the point, my lack of commitment.

I've found myself in a freelance job that requires no commitment. I can take on as much or as little work as I want without fear of loosing my position, so long as I do my job well when I am there.

I am not in a relationship, nor are prospects likely that I will be in one anytime soon.

I've rented for the entirety of my adult life and actually never want to own a home.

I can trace back all of my non-commitment choices to fear.

I fear opening myself up emotionally to people, keeping most at semi-arm's length, and thereby shutting out those I could be more with.

I love my job, and my career field, but I've chosen to not accept positions that were more stable, many times over, because I feared the shackles of a normal 9-5 work week.

With the housing crisis, and seeing my mother deal with her home, which is paid off, I know I never want to own a house.

Fear of being hurt. Fear of being trapped. Fear of financial collapse. Fear. Fear. Fear.

Doc said the one thing I seemed to be committed to was my lack of commitments.

And then, the second moment of my day occurred.

I held in my arms a tiny human, less than two weeks old, who hiccuped and sneezed and kicked my belly. I held my niece, a new person to this world, for the first time this evening.

She is so so tiny, with tiny fingers and tiny feet and beautiful slate blue eyes.

"Every baby in your arms in the cutest baby in the world." My gem for the evening.

But she is so very cute.

Holding her, in my lap, in my arms, and against my chest. Feeling her breathing. Feeling this little life in my hands. I damn near cried a few times, though I didn't let my friends see.

Talk about commitment. My friends have a daughter. A year ago they were trying and now they are parents.

I think back on me telling Doc today the things I wish to accomplish to fulfill my life. Become a published working author. Get married. Have kids.

And I rightly pointed out that my fear of commitment is seriously hampering my hopes, seeing as everything I listed requires the most solid of commitments.

And then I held a tiny human in arms.

And I knew, no matter the fear, no matter the extreme levels of terror and dread, that indeed a family is what I want.

I don't know when. I don't know how. But I certainly know it's what I absolutely want for my life.

Of course how I'm going to get it is another story.

Stupid

Boys are stupid. 

Boys. Are. Stupid.

But if I keep giving boys second and third and twenty-sixth chances, I think that makes me stupid too.

It doesn't take much to placate me. The occasional call or text. A conversation. An acknowledgement that both you and I are still alive. Really, not much.

Honesty, respect, simple consideration. Really, not much at all.

And yet I find myself in a situation with a boy where I want to rip my hair out.

If I text you and say I'm free in the middle of the week, and you say cool I'll text you and we'll hang out when I'm free, and then you never do, no phone call, no message, and my free days go by, with me doing other shit because I have come to expect you to cancel (Did you catch that? I expected him to flake even as I asked to spend time with him.), and an entire week goes by, and I don't hear from you, so I call you, and no pickup, in my mind one of two things has happened.

1- Are you fucking dead?
2- You just don't give a shit. Because even if the shit hit the fan, even if your life blew up, even if work or personal affairs exploded in your lap, one short fucking text would be enough. One text to explain why you flaked on me, again. Or one text to say you needed to flake on me again. One text. I didn't even get a fucking text.

This past weekend at The Floating World, I attended an amazing sermon delivered by Laura Antoniou. Laura Antoniou, by the way, is fucking awesome.

I call it a sermon because that was the disclaimer at the beginning. This was not a discussion, nor a lecture. This was preaching and it was a message we all needed to hear.

Though many things resonated with me, one in particular hit me today on my way back from TFW when I realized he had not contacted me in a week. When I realized he didn't call or text. When I realized it would be fun to see him but I didn't expect it to happen, so much so that I planned aftercare absent him knowing he wouldn't pick up his phone when I called. I didn't bother leaving a message.

Laura spoke about how we have to take responsibility for the people in our lives, take responsibility for the relationships we've been in, examine why these people were in our lives, and what that says about us.

So it got me thinking. Through my work with Doc, we've established my skewed vision of love, with my parents as my models. We've identified distance, both physically and emotionally. We've talked about the doormat nature of my Mother and how I have the tendency to both loathe her actions yet emulate them in different but somehow similar ways.

And so I think of my current situation. I think of being dangled by a hook. I think of being ignored, strung along. I think of all the times I've spent with him. And I wonder, is it worth it? Is it worth it to even try? Why do I try? Why do I give a bazillion chances? Has he earned any of them?

And I push back the tears because I know I'm better than that. I deserve more. I am worthy of more.

I didn't text. I called only once.

I think this is it. I think I'm done with stupid.