black bra and g-string

Evening. My instructions are to have my bath and then get dressed in a black bra and G-string. The foam cups of the bra are thin and smooth. And small. The bra is still in good nick, but I’ve had it for years and it seems that my shape has changed a little. Specifically, my breasts seem to be a full cup size bigger. I’m spilling out.

He is dressed, sitting on the bed, his back against the wall with his legs outstretched. I’m to kneel, straddling his lap and facing away, then he gently pushes me forward to lie down and rest my chest on his legs. He touches and caresses my exposed ass, my hips. Pulls that bit of string out of the way and touches delicately, dipping down to check if I’m wet.

We rearrange: I let him up, he stands, and I lie back. Standing by the foot of the bed, he directs me to caress my clit. I move the black triangle of fabric away and I comply. My snatch is slick while he watches.

He goes for his shower. Until he comes back, I’m to continue working my clit. The room is cold, so I retreat under the covers. When he returns I’m almost completely hidden in the billows of down and, as he asks if I’ve obeyed his instructions, he climbs on the bed beside me. His face is close. In mute reply, I reveal my hand and offer him my wet finger to suck. “Good,” he says. I understand: my obedience, my taste, our evening.

Now he calls me out from under the cozy covers, onto the floor, on all fours. He tells me to continue with my clit, using the vibe, and I comply. Then he slowly slides his cock into me and works my cunt. Slowly. Smoothly. Slowly. Smoothly. I get close and hover there, the goal just out of my grasp, attention split between cunt and clit, and I ultimately come.

It was sweet, but small. I want, still.

Back to the bed. His fingers slide in so easily and he presses on my G-spot. Not rubbing, just a firm pressure, and he gets me close again. It builds up, and the pitch of my moans gets higher and higher.

And then, oh fuck! oh yes! I shudder and groan, and all the muscles that had clenched and tensed finally relax, and I melt.

take me for a ride

I want to go for a ride, but I want you to drive.

I don’t need to know exactly where we’re going. Take me on the scenic route.

There’s no speed limit here…

Floor it, throw me back into the seat, downshift and accelerate into the curves.

Make me laugh in delight… or swallow my smile until

it turns into a conspiratorial smirk,
my glittering eyes peeking
through lowered lashes.

“fresh” Boobday over at A Dissolute Life Means… runs a meme on the last Friday of every month, which she calls Boobday. The purpose is “for us to honor breasts of all shapes and sizes belonging to all types of folks.” Click the icon above for more info.

Boobday inspired the first photo that I posted. This month I’m participating in the Boobday round-up — the theme is “fresh”.

How is this “fresh”? Well, as it’s my first time, I’m a fresh face. Or chest, at any rate.

Head on over and check out this month’s collection of lovely “fresh” boobs. And if you do drop by, leave some comment love.


[I was originally going to call this “sex injury” but rejected the title as being a little melodramatic. But now I have Soundgarden’s “Head Injury” (with the necessary slight revision to lyrics) on a loop in my head.]

When I’m trying for an orgasm, I’m usually on my back, working with some combination of vibe, G-spot toy, my partner’s mouth and/or fingers. I tend to unconsciously press my pelvis up using abs (sometimes) and legs (always). I did have a few days of sore abs, but I seem to have gotten past that quickly. The leg muscles that get engaged depend on the angle of my legs. I guess. I’m not honestly paying a lot of attention to my leg muscles in the moment. I’ve routinely given myself sore hips and glutes, and I’ve had charley horses in my thigh — the right thigh only, two or three times in the last 6 weeks or so.

I complained to my physiotherapist about a particular ache in one of the groin muscles and she figured I had strained the adductor. She seemed a little puzzled that such a thing had occurred and guessed I had slipped while walking. In the circumstances, I’m not so sure…

My upper back tends to be in good shape thanks to dance, but it bothered me while I was trying to sleep last night and has been pretty sore all day today. My first thought was that I overdid it at dance class last night but, no, class was low key. And then I remembered: we had quite the vigorous fuck yesterday morning, and for part of the time I was on my front (ass up, chest flat on the bed) and pushing against the wall in front of me. Aha! This explains why my lats (mostly), traps (some) and triceps (a little) are sore today. I guess it works my back more (or at least differently) than maintaining second and fifth position arms.

And despite yesterday’s spectacular(ly) hard fuck, my cunt is none the worse for wear. I guess it’s already in shape.

quick clean-up

My friend is dropping by in a few minutes for a visit. Quick, gotta make sure that the place is decent.

Sex toys washed and put away — check.

No condoms visible in the garbage — check.

Fuck-me shoes moved from dining room to bedroom — check.

OK, ready for company!

short hair

I like my short hair because
it doesn’t get in my face, and it doesn’t accidentally get leaned on;
“just-fucked” hair is never a big deal;
the nape of my neck is always exposed
and sensitive,
especially when he
my stubble.

give me that fuck now

He gives me my instructions: I’m to have my bath, and once I’ve toweled off I’m to get dressed in a tight little T-shirt, a black thong and stilettos. When I’ve readied myself, he orders me into the kitchen and, with firm hands, bends me over the counter. I know he’s intending to fuck me, and I wait, warm, while anticipation clenches in my stomach.

But it turns out to be a false start. So much of this is still new for him too, and this time focusing so much on exercising domliness renders him less than hard, throwing both of us off our game.

He heads to the bedroom, no doubt revising his plan, and I’m to follow. I’m feeling slightly snappish: after my bath I put lotion on my feet as usual, but the order for the stilettos came after the lotion, and I’ve been worrying about the lotion wrecking the shoes, so I ditch the heels. I retire to the bedroom and now spanks are on the menu. Mood or no mood, I’m at least fairly confident that his hand on my ass will get me in a better frame of mind, as well as wet. I can take it a little harder now, and he gets a few nicely stinging ones in.

Once I’m good and warm, and he’s good and hard, the pounding can begin. One: from behind, with my ass in the air, knees together, and chest pushed down into the bed. Two: on my right side with right leg straight down; I start with my left knee lifted a little toward my chest; after a bit I straighten the left leg and hold my ankle up approximating the splits. Three: on my back with my ankles on his shoulders; then I grasp my feet and stretch my legs up straight almost to the wall behind the head of the bed (thanks, yoga); finally I wrap my legs around his hips and draw him into me.

Thinking to encourage him further with a bit of dirty talk, I demand, “Give me that fuck now.” Given the circumstances, it’s a bit redundant, but he manages to give it to me harder. A little too hard, actually.

I rapidly recant: “OK, maybe not quite so much of a fuck!” and we both dissolve into laughter.

Dark Ages 9: Three strikes at the club

[Or, “Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll”]

Back home, I started hanging out at a new, low-rent (and low-ceilinged) live music venue. It was a shoestring affair in a basement under a restaurant, with scrounged furniture, no staff, no till and no liquor licence. I even helped out a bit behind what passed for a bar, selling soft drinks in cans. It was an alternative kind of place, which is probably why I earned such side-eye for wearing dress pants and a fitted blazer. But hey, I successfully stood out.

Strike 1

One weekend at the club, I met Tiny Tim. He was short (though still 3 or 4 inches taller than me), not much to look at, but entertaining and had the gift of the gab. We left together to grab some food at the only place that was open at that time of night: a much too brightly lit, late-night sandwich shop. After chatting for a bit, we went back to his place. Slept with a guy the day we met — another first.

I came over the next day and tried to help him with his French homework. This whole thing already seemed like a bad idea but as far as I was concerned we now had “a relationship”, and it seems I’m nothing if not loyal. It was awkward. We saw each other again later and slept together again. As much as it pains me to admit, the event stands out as actually feeling kinda good — I think because I was very tight and he was very small. (I don’t imagine he would have taken that as a compliment.)

The last time we got together, he got warmed up but I wasn’t interested in follow through. He was the first (and last) guy to complain to me about blue balls (a term had never even heard before), in what appeared to be a bid for a blowjob. I figured that was his problem and not mine. In all, this was a one-night stand that took an agonizing three days to die.

A couple of days later, I slept with Bad Boy one last time. Why? I have no fucking clue.

Strike 2

Surfer, a part owner of the club, was good looking, tall, fit and had long dirty blond hair. On the weekend following Tiny Tim, I found myself back at Surfer’s place at the end of the night. I must have seen some potential for a relationship (I never did get the point of actually deciding to have a one-night stand), and sleeping with him seemed like a reasonable idea. And then we got naked and I found he was… whiffy. Sleeping with him now seemed like a not very good idea, and yet I still went through with it. It seemed too late to call a halt, and on top of that I didn’t know what I wanted anyway. If there’s no real line, you can’t tell when you’ve crossed it.

In the space of one week, I had slept with three different guys. It would have been one thing if that’s what I was trying to do, but I was trying to have a relationship and failing miserably.

Strike 3

I tried to take a break from the menfolk, with little success. I met Drummer at the club, and he offered me a cup of tea (at his apartment down the block) and a shoulder to cry on. He was really sweet. Until I slept with him a week or so in, and then things weren’t so good.

One fine day I did acid, and at some point during the trip I dropped by Drummer’s place. He had this hat that he didn’t want anymore and asked if I wanted it. It was an ethnic, woollen thing. Too big, but kinda cool, so I accepted it. In the evening when I was coming down, I went by the club and ran into Tiny. My inhibitions were fairly low so I proceeded to give him shit and told him that if I’d known all he wanted was a one-night stand, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with him. I have no idea what impression it might have made on him (or anyone else nearby), but I felt somewhat empowered for a change.

The thing with Drummer lasted about three weeks before he dumped me. Turns out he wasn’t actually nice, he was just skilled at appearing nice until he got what he wanted. Although this wasn’t the first time I had been manipulated, I didn’t see it coming because Drummer played it so much more elegantly and deliberately than Bad Boy had.

The fallout: small world moments

Tiny Tim was working with my friend (and ex) Lucas, decided to dish about me, and named names. I don’t think Tiny knew that I knew Lucas, and I don’t think Lucas believed it at first. I was mortified to be outed.

And that hat from Drummer? Stolen, possibly the very day that he gave it to me, from a store a block away from my house and that I went to regularly. Which I discovered when I went into the store wearing the hat and caught grief about it from the staff person.


Dark Ages 8: I start to lose control

Towards the end of January and after a little over a year together, Bad Boy and I “took a break”, but I didn’t yet know that this break would be permanent. In fact, I was convinced that we would be getting back together within a couple of months. He had even proposed to me at one point and I had accepted, sort of. I don’t know why we took a break rather than just breaking up.

When I started dating, I brought low self-esteem, sexual shame, overdeveloped and misplaced loyalty, and a fairly foggy sense of self to what turned out to be a search for validation from guys. I’m sure I learned something from every guy I went out with — some lessons were easy and some were painful.

But the corrosive damage that Bad Boy brought to my life and my self-esteem is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced, either before or after. In the months following our split, I lost myself, and I’ve recently realized that I still haven’t completely healed.

A few weeks earlier, when Bad Boy and I were looking for someone to sell us some acid, I had met Badger. Within a day or two of splitting with Bad Boy, Badger and I got together. I remember very little about him beyond the fact that he was cute. We were together for three weeks, during which time we made out but never slept together.

I had some painful foot-in-mouth moments with him, including saying something like “When Bad Boy and I get back together…” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I knew I’d said something stupid (I still thought it was true, but I appreciated that it was probably hurtful). I broke up with him right before his birthday which was right around Valentine’s Day.

A week or two later, I went on a trip to a big city with my family, but ended up mostly doing my own thing. Apparently, my thing was looking for live music and acid. I’d asked an acquaintance at home if he knew where to score; he told me the name of a place, but no one there had heard of it and I wondered if he made up the name to fuck with me.

I went to a gig and met a German guy who was visiting. I joined him at his table and we hung out. He had found another club that was interesting and I agreed to go with him, and the thought occurred to me that going somewhere I’d never heard of with someone I’d just met was maybe not the best idea ever. But we got to the club and everything was fine — except that I felt out place because I wasn’t wearing head-to-toe black and was insufficiently bad-ass.

Later, I found a disreputable looking guy there (I assume I chose him because he was the scuzziest looking) and asked him if he knew where I could get some acid, and he said he’d hook me up and we made plans to meet. I turned up but he didn’t, which really was the best possible outcome.

German turned out to be completely OK, and we actually kept in touch for a couple of years though we never met up again.

I’m not allowed to have sex today

I decided this yesterday and informed my partner. It’s a practical decision: I have a dance performance this evening, I can’t afford to burn up any significant amount of energy before I perform, and it’ll be too late and I’ll be too wiped out after.

Yet lying in bed this morning, when my partner reminded me that I wasn’t allowed to have sex, I felt a little hard done by. We cuddled, and he caressed my breasts, and I stroked his cock, and I was a bit disappointed that this was all I would get for the moment.

Now, zoom out. If you had told me a year ago that I’d get my knickers in a twist that I wouldn’t be allowed to have sex for one day and I’d be pissed off about it, I would have scoffed.

And then maybe the idea would have taken hold, and I would have imagined what it would feel like to desire so much that giving up one day would feel like a hardship, and I would have been a little sad, grieving for the libido that didn’t exist.

And now I laugh a little because I finally solved my mystery and it’s no longer like this. My libido does exist and has come out of hiding. My already excellent relationship is that much richer.

And he’s promised to fuck the shit out of me all morning tomorrow.