what the-

•January 13, 2008 • Leave a Comment

I’ll let you take a peek at what I’m working on right now.   It’s not about the writing, just about getting ideas down as accurately as I can, unrealistic or not.  It’s a lil emotional too cos of my mood.  But funny and cheezy at times too.  Oh and it’s hot.  To me at least.  It’s very much catered to me.  But I hope you enjoy.

This is a delicate thing, to watch your easy seduction of another woman. Rather than parse it out, I prefer to say what I always do, that I hate it and love it at once.

On the shared bed, you have already taken charge gently in that way that makes me twinge inside, it is so familiar. She is down to her bra and panties, and then minutes later, completely naked. I have followed suit like I have done before, almost automatically, without your asking. Sitting close by with my feet tucked under me, watching, I feel like the most naked one in the room, the proud, sullen statuette, unmoving. You are not at the moment paying much attention to me. I stay frozen, my heart pounding.

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la petite mort and all that jazz

•January 10, 2008 • Leave a Comment

An orgasm so terrifyingly deep all that slipped out of my mouth when you told me to fall in was no. No.

An orgasm that was a long-time coming and a long-time staying. Dwindling after-shocks to my after-shocks right up to the next day.

An orgasm I came to by avoiding it with all my might, desire like rapid rivers to feeble dams of will power. Desire lining damp panties, taking hold of clocks,catching my breath with a sudden distinct in-out throb of my cunt.

My heart raced when the alarm finally went off. I did not dare touch myself as you began talking for I knew I would lose control. Was just heady enough to try and carelessly talk back to you. I did not touch my clit at all. I pushed in with lovely dread only right as you led her fingers in. Her fingers inside me, your cock in her. My head about to explode, just pounding-pounding-pounding with jealous vicious need, and writhing from trying not to go over the edge and near black-out after that right until the no staggered and tumbled out of my lips.

But then the orgasm that made an unearthly high-pitched shriek come out of me, splinting out in shards from my mind, sweeping through my body, sound deepening into a moan as it exploded in my cunt.

My cunt walls swelled up instantly like an opening umbrella, and my fingers were suddenly rendered cramped by fleshy wet pads from all sides, nearly pushing me right out, and incredible searing fluid surging up, trickling out the side of my thighs.

An orgasm that made me feel like every inch of my body had puffed outwards. My breasts especially were swollen taut, I was suddenly aware how they were strained against the cups, how the underwire of my normally comfortable bra was digging painfully into my ribcage.

An orgasm that left me trembly, teary, though I tried to hide it as I shut the phone, wracking my distant brain for what one says as one shuts the phone . And then minutes later downright sobbing, then a little more later yawning over and over like my throat and mouth is about to tear.

And then twenty minutes or so later, finally pulling my fingers out of the gooey mess, out with a last yearning wince like you’d pulled your cock out of me. More liquid trickled out,warm.

Hours later still sounding shivery and shaky, like I had only just cum.

(Even later a tugging yearning melancholy that slowly gave way to quiet content.)

An orgasm a small step up from many other orgasms already so high, but on an exponential scale, and the closer I get to this ineffable something, the more this vertigo draws me in.

I’ve dipped quills in pooled awe before and been a scribe of you and acts and many things, etched it all onto memory-slates and paper-thin-skins. But I had an orgasm that makes me cringe, embarassed at my knock-kneed doe-eyed wonder-words. An orgasm that, makes it difficult to be ironic about, makes me hot and nowhere near cool enough, though as you might see, I do try.

PS. I would edit this properly, but I’m too horny to lol.

orbital dysphoria

•December 9, 2007 • 2 Comments

If I write things like ‘call’, it is because I like to stretch myself away from my pull to you. There is no point denying myself of you unless if it is when I want you terribly too.

It is like an archer tugging back before she releases the arrow from her bow. I can only hold on for so long though, before I snap. So I let go.

I let go and normally I would hurtle back into you full-force. I would show up at your doorstep, dazed and dizzy and ready, and your cock would be bludgeoned inside me before I could know how.

But now the target is indefinite. I remain in orbit; sometimes it is freeing, sometimes it is hopeless. (And sometimes, I make a mess of my metaphors. )

When I am like this, all my fantasies with you jangle in my jungle head, reluctant to come out fully.

I scrawl incoherent notes instead.

on my back, you are plugging my ass with a vibrator, i am parting my legs, anticipating your cock. you force my legs closed, shut my cunt into a slit, tighter pressure. you wiggle finger to my clit. i want to spread, force closed, wriggle, explode, fast cum, obscene liquid core, now you may push in. (squelch)

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dirty/damn

•December 4, 2007 • Leave a Comment

Walking out of a supermarket bathroom with pants hastily pulled up and buttoned- but your cum leaking out from my cunt, some dribbling out the crease of my underwear.  And a smudge of meshed mutual wetness between my legs and ass cheeks…

thanks

•November 27, 2007 • Leave a Comment

Afterwards I lie limp, still shuddering and sighing to myself now and then.  I shut off my bedside lamp, pull the covers over me with a smirk, revel in the cozy toastiness both inside and out and fall asleep.

When I wake up, it is only just turning dark outside and my cell phone is resting propped against my upper thigh.

call

•November 22, 2007 • Leave a Comment

(And dive.)

Imagine you have a girl sprawled in front of you, her ass facing you, naked. Her skin is white with a pale gold tinge. She is young, she is lithe, and she is under the stretch of your hands. She is soft and she is smooth as a water-worn pebble. Her back is heating.

In her heated sprawl, her small rounded breasts hang, pointed nipples beaded hard at the tip. Your fingers reach under for them, overly familiar, purposeful. Her head hangs low and weak in a barely there moan, while the rest of her body begins to tense.

Imagine your cock stirring from within, rumbling low and persistent.

Her cunt lips are temptingly prominent and fleshy. You let your hands move across them firmly, gliding fingers in between to part her. She shifts, breathes slowly and as you coax a finger and begin to stroke, she slickens to your touch. She pushes out against your probing finger and then fingers, opening and then grabbing, wet and then even wetter. Her mouth parts in a shy pant.

(Deeper breath.)

Imagine if as you positioned your slowly swelling cockhead at her cunt opening, getting ready to feel her wetness coat your head, you could pick up a phone and call me.

Imagine I already knew, and she did too. Imagine her sighing and laughing, vulnerable and self-conscious. And myself along with her too.

Think of what you would say right then to me, as you crouched ready to slide inside her, and I waited helpless on the other side.

You barely speak to me at first, just now and push, as her cunt adjusts and sheathes tightly around your bare shaft. She lets out a small cry. I think I may have heard her. You move inside her, stroking and feeling her out. Liquid walls tensing around you.

You are just words- the ones I catch and the ones I don’t- tight. hot. wet.- rushing out surprisingly urgent, ending in a groan.

Everything is turned over with this, crisis explodes into the air all at once and I moan desperate and plaintive into your ear. My cunt aches dark and deep and debilitating, blood rushing forth into vessels at fever-pitch.

(Rush.)

You have sunk onto her, brought her flat onto her stomach, the way you have always done me. You can mutter into the phone this way, and your voice creeps near her ears. She shudders and gasps as she listens and you can barely hold on as you thrust harder into her – past the point of caring.

I can envision with damning precision, the moving hump of your bodies, the creak of the bed, the smell feral and dank and the clamor rising as your cock tightens and swells more, straining. I wait – sometimes I know where you are, how you are, sometimes I don’t, but your fucking never leaves me.

(Can’t. )

I am too hot to touch, the throb all over in painful pangs. I sink fingers in, one, two, three, not enough. My walls pulse swollen and glazed with my wetness. It is unbearable. I know I will bear. It is the same dream-nightmare I have been through. I try to plunge deeper into me, close to uncomfortable and then pull out and then slide back in.

I don’t know how long you have been fucking her, just that you must be close now. I can tell from the fervor in the words you breathe.

You tell me she is about to cum, her moans punctuate your every word. I know you will cum with her, I can feel that edge. And as I wait for your taut cock, stretched wide and long to its peak, the circle closes in on me too. As I wait for you to let go into her, groaning out, cum bursting out in one burning chill, in that final thrill of a suspension absolute and complete- I plead with you in frantic meaningless words, hoping only that you will let me cum too.

(Come to surface. Release.)

Note: I am always on the other side in this fantasy, listening. I wonder at how contrary it seems at first, when I crave your cock so much, never mind how much I just need to get laid, and how much even I play around with the idea of being used. And yet when the roles are so strongly demarcated, the choice is more clear-cut; I want to be in your mind right then.

docile

•November 12, 2007 • 1 Comment

It is strange the things that will get me really hot. I think save talking and listening to you, the simple act of writing down ideas is what can get to me the most…

There is a desire to be docile sometimes. Not just to be submissive, but to be sweetly so, entreatingly so.

This should not be confused with just wanting to please you, struggling to adhere to some social contract of give and take. No, I actually get off on this want. I get off on this offering.

The most striking image I get around this word, docility, is just a tiny instance that runs over and over, like the heightened climax of a whole fantasy yet to unfold. That random moment during sex when you realize where you are, what you’re doing and just how perfect it feels.

In the image I am on all fours again, you are behind me, your cock plumb inside, fucking in urgent pushes. I get a sense that whatever you may have been doing prior, we have reached the point in our sex where I am uncontained and I can only give and give in more. I have very nearly lost myself. There is the burning growing pleasure and there is you.

I’m sure I’ve felt just this before, said this more than once, even written it down.

But this moment is linked to many others. Like there was a moment when I was licking carefully at her cunt with your cock buried inside her. You were forceful, moving inside her, and I was trying to be careful, hunched down, licking at this stranger’s filled cunt, salty and mild. Trapped between your bodies and submerged in wanting to help. Lick her just right, hoping you can feel it. Do anything to be just right.

Or I can remember when I was in a restroom at school that had that backroom with a couch. How I sat there and talked to you on the phone, and I came- three times. And when you asked for the fourth time, I felt free, nothing was impossible, so long as you asked. I huddled in one corner of the couch, shivering as my shrivelled fingers sunk in once more. Thoughts of ever leaving this room, ever questioning, ever stopping seemed distant. I resigned sweetly to what was coming again and whimpered happily.

The real aha moment in this fantasy where you fuck me incoherent from behind is when I picture your hand resting for a moment on my head, just between thrusts. This is what first comes to my mind, the image that gets replayed. My hair is mussed up, plastered against my scalp, straggling in small strings across my forehead. You don’t tug, just rest your fingers there. You’re still fucking me. Your hand moves down further to the side of my cheek, grazing against an eyelid carelessly. You never pause your fucking. I am warm and flushed, clammy from cooling sweat.

I moan and mewl and rub against one side of your hand- a pet.