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Amen
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Jul. 17th, 2011 @ 01:04 pm
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"It never ceases to puzzle me that, while men's and women's bodies fit jigsaw-tight in an altogether miraculous way, their minds remain wretchedly unaligned.” ---Taff Evans reflecting on his last night home before sailing into history on the Terra Nova.
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After
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Mar. 4th, 2011 @ 09:27 pm
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M asked for doggie and I complied, bracing myself both literally and figuratively, letting him pound away and pretending to clutch at the sheets in order to egg him on, to speed it up, to make it stop.
It was ordered, mechanical, just so.
Not like you.
With you, it was organic, it was animal, not to say bestial. You'd brook no resistance. You'd be bulling me all the way up the bed and I'd be clawing at the mattress, striving to remain earthbound, trying to hold on and always failing, and you flinging me off into ecstasy in the dark rain of your sweat.
*****************
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A suspender belt, sheer stockings, say 10 denier, and heels were required wear.
He made no bones about this: show up without it and you go home. The colour he left up to me, so of course I chose black: black for playboy-bunny playful, black for provocation. Black for hot , fast, and dirty. He met me in the hotel lobby and led me by the wrist to the room. After a short but hard spanking for a previous disobedience, he instructed me to make myself presentable. The bathroom echoed with my every move as I undressed, unzipped my bag, fished the silky black nothings from their cellophane packaging, and coaxed them on, at one point bumping my head resoundingly on the towel rail. The stilettos, black peep-toes with an ankle strap, clattered on the tiles as I shoved my feet into them. One of the fasteners on the belt had been sewn on backwards, so I had to twist it to make it work. I prayed he wouldn’t notice. There’s this thing about suspender belts: you always see them advertised with panties---they have to be, I suppose---but surely the whole point of them is to get fucked in them. The black strips of suspender and the lacy black tops of the stockings suggest, as bondage gear does, flesh contained, flesh outlined, flesh presented for enjoyment, for use even to the point of dissipation. A thong or panties gets in the way: you have to undo the belt to get them off or else fuck around them. I left them off.
One last check: I stuck out my tits, sucked in my tummy, and dared to look in the mirror. You must understand that I am no longer either young or slim, and I had feared that I would look, well, silly in raunch. I didn't. I looked like a fucking babe.
As my lover said a little later, The belt frames the cunt so beautifully.
Not to mention the upraised arse.
*********************
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A day like this is fit only for sleeping too late, rising slowly, making a perfunctory stab at washing and dressing, eating without paying attention and with not a little irritation---say, a peanut butter sandwich while stood up in the middle of the kitchen---, curling up all afternoon in a daddy chair reading Leonard Cohen and chain-drinking strong tea with mug after mug going cold, until shadows loom up in the corners like the monsters of childhood and threaten to swamp the room---the hour when people like my husband who hate this time of day rush around tutting and turning on lights (sitting here in the dark, for godssake!), but when people like you would finally arrive after a long journey through the deepening dusk, take me to bed, and fuck me and fuck me and fuck me all through the moonlit darkness until we make the sun rise.
************* |
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I dread having to pretend to want him.
I dread having to pretend to want to fuck him.
I dread having to make the first move, every single time.
I dread having to lie there naked and coy, seduction personified, as proof of my desire because it's not enough any more to comply with his desire, I have to prove I desire it too. (It's not that he's suddenly become considerate, it's just that he can't get it up unless he thinks I want it.)
I dread having to prove something that is not true and never was true and never will be true.
I dread the way my heart turns to stone every time, every bleeding time I have to act this part.
******************
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Thumbing through my sketchbook, he stopped at a drawing of my bare feet propped on the coffee table and crossed at the ankle.
The line was minimalist with a splash of crimson watercolour on the nails, and both the pose and the colour no doubt recalled one of his favourite photos, the one he took of my feet in peep-toe heels hoisted against the door of the hotel room. He said, I like this. Then he turned to me and said, Would you do me a drawing like this, of you? A naked self-portrait, in other words. Et voici my current project. It's so simple: you just strip off, grab your materials---I'm using a charcoal pencil and in lieu of a big sketchbook, a clipboard stocked with chopped-up newsprint---and strike a pose in front of the mirror. In fact, you don't even need a mirror: you can simply disport yourself on the bed and scribble away, knowing that you are gaining valuable practice in foreshortening while making some very lively drawings indeed, especially if you keep your non-drawing hand busy. This getting back in touch with myself quite literally was part of the fun of naked self-portraiture: full-time work and a retired husband leave me with almost no time for self-pleasuring these days. Drawing my own breasts, belly, and cunt, I had to look and touch carefully, and dare I say extensively, in order to get the curves and contours the right shapes and in the right places. All very stimulating and satisfying, of course, but most fun of all was the thought of my lover's face, and yes, I'll be honest, of his cock and how it will stir and stiffen when he opens this little portfolio of drawings and sees how shamelessly and how joyfully I have displayed myself yet again for his pleasure.
***************
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An anniversary of sorts: four years ago today, on a stretch of beach none too deserted and in full view of assorted beachcombers, tourists, and dog-walkers, my lover swept me into his arms for the first time and kissed me like I'd never been kissed before. He took my breath away then, and he does so still, every single time.
***************
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Last night you had me restrained at wrist and ankle with my legs spread to each side, on some kind of upholstered bench that was just the right height for you. A fucking bench, I suppose.
I was immobile, exposed and helpless.
You were wearing your suit, the dark one, the one that makes you look dangerous, with the jacket unbuttoned.
You had my nipples clamped.
I thought you would drive me mad: you fingered and tongued me at your leisure, repeatedly bringing me to the brink of orgasm but never letting me come.
Not until you unzipped and fucked me so hard I exploded with you.
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It's been a long time since he touched me---with a real touch, I mean, not a furtive brush of fingers across a table like prisoners at visiting time, but the naked bulk of his flesh moving onto mine, his palms on my breasts, his belly to my arse, his cock to my cunt. It's been a long time, far too long. Life has intervened in all its irritating pettiness, and for now we are constrained to meet for the occasional coffee, or quick kiss if we're lucky, and always for the banter that sustains us, that makes the broken whole and the blind see. Perhaps we take it for granted, he and I, but together we have a sort of genius: from the raw grey stuff of twenty minutes on a park bench, we can conjure up a secret fastness against the hustle-and-bustle of shoppers and traffic, a private oasis shimmering and tense with passion. And sometimes there’s more, something closer to what we crave: pain, and an echo of ecstasy. Last time, without warning, he gave my nipple a savage tweak. I gasped. “You hurt me!“ “Yes,“ he said. “I love you so much I want to hurt you.” Every time he tells me that, I remember the first time: how the fear swelled and rose to a crest where it hung trembling for a split-second before it broke over itself in a huge joyful and cascading wave of relief. Yes!! Yes. At last. Yes, I love you so much I want you to hurt me too. He ordered me into the bushes then, spanked me hard, let me touch his cock that was reared up hard and thick in his pants. He left me with my head spinning, my arse burning, my mouth dry and my cunt wet, I was that hungry to straddle him right there in that public garden, and all around the cock songbirds squaring off and the frog ponds bubbling and roiling with spring. It’s been way too long.
********************
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I was ready even before he returned from his trip: scrubbed, trimmed, and polished, tarted up in sheer scanties with proper stockings and stilettos, ready for his enjoyment. I was there, waiting, when he came through the door. His breath was smoking in the cold. He stopped and looked me up and down. Shut the door behind him, put down his case, unfurled his scarf, hung his coat on the hook, all without taking his eyes off me. He didn’t smile. “Bitch,” he growled. “Come here.” One step and I was within arm’s-length: he lurched out, twisted his fingers in my hair, yanking me to him like a falling man clutches a life-line, kissed me hard, gulping at my mouth like a drowning man gulps at water. He smelled of frost, sweat, jet fumes, stale coffee. The wool of his suit was damp and scratchy to my belly. His fingers found me just the way he likes me, slick and hot. He clawed what there was of the bra up, mouthed my nipples, and fumbled at what there was of the panties until with a curse he ripped them and flung them aside, in shreds. He didn’t touch the suspender belt and the stockings. He likes those. “On your knees,” he ordered. “Take out my cock.” He loves how I choke and struggle when he fucks my mouth. But he’d been away a week. We had the whole night ahead of us, and he was too hungry to wait right now, so that was enough of that. He dragged me to my feet, whacked me back against the wall, and with his hands under my thighs, shoved me upwards, the better to pull me down onto him, to sink himself up into me. I clung to him for dear life. Screaming. And that, girls, is how to welcome a man home.
******************
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