wait and see

Morning. He’s already up, and I’m lying in bed trying to warm up by thinking pleasant thoughts, but I’m distracted and I can’t maintain sufficient concentration to get a fantasy off the ground. Although I’m nicely wet, my mind remains largely disengaged.

He comes in and asks how warm I am. “Somewhat,” I answer vaguely. But I am, at least, in the mood for him to be quite bossy, relatively speaking. The night before, we discussed what ‘bossiness’ will look like: for minor adjustments to my position, he’ll simply push me where he wants me; for anything else, he’ll give me terse instructions.

“Sit up. Move out of the way.” He moves my pillow down to hip-level. “Lie down, face down.” It’s cold, so he covers my back with a blanket.

And then he starts on my bottom. Pats and squeezes and caresses. Spanks and squeezes and caresses. After a little while, he asks if I need any more. “Maybe a few,” I respond. More spanks. And still more. Stinging spanks. It goes on about three times longer than I’d expected, with the last few feeling sharp indeed. My bottom is well warmed and I’m so wet that the moisture is practically dripping off my clit. He checks, hmms appreciatively, and licks the juices off his finger.

He deems me ready (and how!) and arranges me with my ass in the air. But the concentration required for running the show so far as left him less than hard. He lies down beside me, we spoon for a bit, and I start to worry that he’s going to give up in frustration. So I ask, “Would you play with my nipples?” And he says, quietly, “I’m still in charge here…” Oho, the game is afoot!

A moment passes, and then he gets up. “On your hands and knees.” He has opened the dresser drawer, I hear the crinkling of a packet. A pause. And then he’s sliding in and he’s fucking me from behind and he’s putting his finger in my ass. I won’t come this way, but mmm.

He comes and then it’s my turn, with vibe and his fingers on my G-spot. The lead-up is promising but the orgasm is anticlimactic. No matter. We’ll take care of that later, maybe later today. Maybe with fingers or cock or a toy. Maybe just once, or maybe more than once. I’ll just have to wait and see.

e[lust] #66

E[lust] is a monthly digest of sex bloggers, and I’ve got a submission in this month! Links are organized by category – go check them out.

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CurveD
Photo courtesy of CurvaceousDee

Welcome to Elust #66

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 Elust. Want to be included in Elust #67? Start with the rules, come back February 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Small Breasts

Watching Her Cum

An Ode to Blow Jobs

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Of Skeletons and Secrets
Would you be bored?

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Lust Fish

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Dark Ages 7: Bad Boy (still) and Dude

As payback for the oral he’d done for me before, Bad Boy manipulated me into giving my first blowjob. He pushed and pushed, and I eventually gave in. It was in his car, on a muddy dirt road outside of town. Afterwards, we had to turn the car around and we ended up getting stuck in the mud, so I got home quite late, and my dad was pissed off and waiting to have an argument with me when I got back. Fun times.

Things got weird(er) with Bad Boy and I started to not recognize myself. During the summer, we had a major fight and ended up half-dressed and shouting at each other in the street. I had always been bookish and reserved (still am). What the fuck? He made me crazy.

Sometimes when I was with him I got upset and frustrated. I don’t remember what would set me off, but I’d feel like I wanted to say something or do something but I was frozen, like all the words piled into each other at the back of my throat and none could get out, or maybe there just were no words. I was thrumming with trapped energy and frustration, feeling overwhelmed. To bring myself back to my body and sensations that I could manage, I’d usually punch a wall. One time when I was already worked up, he said my behavior embarrassed him. That only increased my frustration and explosive emotions. (We were out and there was no wall. Things might have taken a different trajectory if I’d punched him.) I’ve never had this kind of interaction with any other boyfriend before or since.

For a long time, I felt like I needed to be with someone, but at some point I started feeling like it had to be him. That was new. And weird, because I wasn’t actually that happy being with him. It was almost like an addiction.

Around Christmas, I ran into Dude (remember him from that New Year’s Eve party?) and we hung out a bit. He came over and we sat on the couch and talked. He started to put the moves on rather aggressively, so I backed away and told him I had a boyfriend, but he wasn’t deterred. (He should have listened to and respected my words, but now I wonder if my doubts about my relationship with Bad Boy made me sound unconvincing.) Dude insisted on kissing me, at which point I pushed him away. It wasn’t pleasant but at least he got the message, backed off and left.

I’d had a birthday recently and was now legal drinking age. My interest in drinking immediately waned; I suppose most of the appeal was the rule-breaking. Then I found out that an acquaintance was doing acid and suddenly that seemed like a great idea. Bad Boy helped me source it and was there when I dropped for the first time. Once (the first time?), he wanted to have sex but I didn’t and told him no. He said I wouldn’t remember it, and I gave in. Well, I remembered everything, including the fact that I didn’t want to and I didn’t enjoy it.

(Years later, I learned that it was sexual assault because intoxicated consent isn’t valid consent. I felt shitty about it all over again: I’m now a victim, a statistic. I agonized about whether to report it but never bothered, and now I know it would never have gone to trial anyway. I’ve come to terms with it all, at least.)

I dropped acid 4 times in the space of 5 weeks because suddenly I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted to do on a weekend, which freaked me out a little. I felt trapped — not really by the relationship (although that must have been a big part of it), but by life generally.

I also got sick: I developed a bunch of canker sores all over my tongue and the inside of mouth. I could barely eat because everything was either too sharp or too acidic, and I could barely talk because the feeling of my tongue against the inside of my mouth was too painful. The doctor never did figure out what it was. I wonder if it was from stress.

Eventually, Bad Boy and I decided to take another “break” though we continued to hang out sometimes. For a while, I fully expected that we would get back together, but we never did. That was a bullet dodged, but I wasn’t out of the woods yet.

what I did over the holidays

My dance class resumed today after breaking for Christmas six or seven weeks ago. The instructor went around the room asking what interesting things people had been doing during the break.

The only interesting thing that’s going on for me is I’m getting fucked a lot, but that’s not something I’m going to share there.

One, divorced with adult children, had been very vocal about being single and not getting any, but everyone knows she has a new boyfriend and folks were cracking jokes about how much she was getting laid.

Of the rest, four are getting little or no action: two singles; two long-term marrieds. The one who has a young child had nothing much to say on the topic.

One (who often makes sexual jokes and comments) was single for some time, but she got a boyfriend about two years ago and it sounds like they got rather busy. I think things have settled down for her now.

And then there’s me with my mouth shut, trying not to smirk too much.

I tend to be the quiet one — although that’s less true in this group, where I feel very comfortable. I’ll make subtle sexual jokes but I never reveal anything personal. There wasn’t much to say before anyway.

I’m certain that I got fucked more than any one of them. But I think it’s also very likely that I’ve actually gotten fucked more than all of them put together. Huh.

Dark Ages 6: HFH (again) and Bad Boy (again)

With impeccable timing, Home for the Holidays turned up again, 2½ years after we’d first met, while I was conveniently single.

Summer night, his parents’ place. We sneak in the back door, quietly down into the basement — his domain. He puts on a movie, we start watching. After 20 minutes, wide awake, movie thoroughly forgotten, he’s leading me to his bedroom. He asks, fervently, may he lick me between my thighs? Mmm, yes please.

I liked receiving oral; Bad Boy did it only occasionally and with bad grace. What a revelation that a guy might enjoy it enough to ask me if I would allow it.

A few days later HFH asked if he could make love to me and I said yes, but logistics was an issue and his parents’ place was out. (It could be that they were still up and they’d hear us, which would be awkward. It could be that they’d wonder who he was having sex with, given the fact — I later discovered — that he had a girlfriend in another city.)

We (he) decided to go to a central but rather seedy hotel and he gallantly offered to pay. He didn’t actually have the cash on him but would pay me back.

We slept together that night; I didn’t feel pressured and it was nice. And though I don’t really remember anything else about it, it must have been at least OK for me because we had sex again in the morning.

Later, he dropped by my place (I wasn’t the only one home) and handed me the cash. It was … awkward. I had already been thinking that this maybe wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had.

Not long afterwards, Bad Boy and I got together again. I must have confessed that my groin had been itchy and he offered to take a look. Oh god! I had crabs! I sat on the counter in the basement bathroom while he painstakingly removed the crabs with tweezers. There was an uncomfortable discussion about where they’d come from, and he got pissed off at me about HFH, even though I’d been single at the time. He blamed HFH for it, and I ended up writing a snarky letter to HFH, which I delivered to his parents’ house in a sealed envelope the day before he left town. It didn’t occur to me until much later that the source might actually have been the bedding in the dodgy motel. Oops.

my hair is too short

I’ve got a pixie cut, short back and sides. Short. Clippers short.

I want him to grab my hair at the nape of my neck, twine it around his fist, pull my head back sharply.

I want him to breathe on my neck and lick me.

I want him to kiss me deeply, control me.

But my hair is too short.

Dark Ages 5: Bad Boy and Racquet

I went back to Bad Boy’s place after the New Year’s Eve party and we enjoyed spending what was left of the night together.

Empty house. Wake up in his parents’ bed to glorious sunshine through white curtains. I’m still a little giddy from the night before. No one knows where I am or how to find me, and the feeling of dropping off the face of the earth is a freedom so foreign as to be thrilling.

I had to share it with someone so I called my friend, Buddy. Buddy was… unimpressed. It seems that Buddy had been patiently waiting for me to go out with him and, when I’d told him that Small Town and I had split, he figured it was his turn. I don’t know whether he was more pissed off at Bad Boy for jumping the queue or at me for letting him.

Bad Boy was about a year younger than me and still in high school. He was an artist (with some talent I think) and interested in music though not musical. We liked a lot of the same bands, but always different songs.

I think it was about a month and a half before we slept together. I don’t remember when he started pressuring me for sex, or what he said; I didn’t like it but it became ‘normal’. I went on the pill for him.

He didn’t give compliments. Feeling insecure and seeking reassurance, I once asked him if he thought I was pretty. He responded by asking if I thought he was good looking, and I said yes, not knowing where this was leading. He said that good looking people tend to be attracted to each other, and therefore if I thought he was good looking, I must be too. This convoluted logic didn’t make me feel any better about myself.

He had an aversion to body hair and I didn’t shave my legs so he nagged me about it. I finally told him that I’d shave my legs if he shaved his first. And then he did. I felt honor-bound to follow through on my end of the bargain.

In early July, we went out of town to go to a bush party he’d heard about. I ran into Racquet, whom I had known (and had a crush on) in high school. Bad Boy had, somehow, pissed off some people he didn’t even know. (He had a knack for this. On another occasion, he managed to piss off some strangers at a donut shop.) Ordinarily I would have kept my yap shut but I had a bit of a buzz going, so I came to his (verbal) defence and got a beer poured over my head for my trouble. We high-tailed it back to the vehicle with a bunch of people following us; he got his door closed but someone was holding mine open and I got booted in the head. Somehow we got my door closed and fucked off out of there.

Soon after this party gone wrong, Bad Boy had the clever idea that I should get in touch with Racquet to see if I could find out who it was that had hassled him and kicked me. Bad Boy and I ‘took a break’, in part because he wanted me to do this silly detective work with some distance between us: he thought that Racquet might be friends with the people we were trying to identify and would be more forthcoming if Bad Boy and I weren’t dating.

So, I started hanging out with Racquet. There was probably some flirting. The thrill of the chase was tempered with some residual loyalty to Bad Boy.

A sunny summer day and a pleasantly cool basement room, surprisingly well-lit. I’m wearing a little summer dress. He wants to give me a massage, I lay face-down on his bed. I used to want him, but I don’t need him now. I’m in a powerful place. We kiss.

And that was about it, really. It never went anywhere.

(Racquet tracked me down many years later, which involved a long-distance call to my grandmother, and eventually confessed that he thought of me as “the one that got away”.)

fuck toy

We wake up at about the same time in the morning but, as usual, he’s out of bed first. I don’t rush into consciousness ­— I drift. And during my drift, I think: about our conversation last night about playing, and about how we might play today. With all these juicy thoughts, I wind myself up surprisingly well.

“Honey?”

He comes to the bedroom to check on me.

“I thought I should tell you that I’m really very wet right now.” I’m the wettest I’ve ever been, in fact. Literally dripping.

“Is that right? And what would you like to do about it?”

I respond quietly, “I think I’d like to be a fuck toy.” Thinking about it has made me wet, and saying it out loud gives me butterflies and that delicious clench in my gut.

As a courtesy, he asks if I have any preferences for position, but I know he may well ignore a request. The game is that he’s to use me as he sees fit, and so when he asks this question, it ironically serves to draw my attention to the fact that my preference is irrelevant. But I duly report my ideas to him.

I nip off to the bathroom briefly: whether you need to go or not, it’s wise to have a pee before embarking on either a trip or a pounding. When I come back, he bends me over the low dresser — a first — with my bare ass exposed. I’m so wet and ready that he slides in easily. He takes me from behind like this for a few moments, then pulls out.

“Get on the bed.” Slightly awkward in my excitement, I quickly arrange the bedding for the fuck I’m about to get.

“On your back.” He puts my legs where he wants them. He bends me like a jackknife with my ankles on his shoulders near my face, or he rears up and puts my ankles together on one shoulder or the other, all the while giving me his entire length. I’m so aroused that I can take it all.

“Turn over.” Now I’m on my hands and knees, ass in the air. Again, he slides in and fucks me rhythmically. Then, without words, he pushes my chest down against the bed and grabs my hips. No longer pacing himself for the distance, he sprints for the finish line and comes hard inside me.

He collapses beside me and, after a few moments, starts working my G-spot with his fingers while I take care of my clit with my vibe. The pounding has changed my sensations — some places have become more sensitive and others less so. It takes some time, but I’m rewarded with an intense G-spot orgasm. Once I come down, I feel sated and thoroughly fucked.

Dark Ages 4: Small Town and a busy New Year’s Eve

I must have met Small Town in the fall of my first year of university; I don’t remember, nor do I remember much else about him either. I was interested in him because I was alone and he was interested in me. Even then, that seemed like a poor reason.

Small Town was about three years older than me, with a young and very unplanned child in his ex’s custody. He liked to go to the bar. (My first underage drink had been with Tall a few months earlier at a restaurant, and a little while later we got into a bar. Tall facilitated my meagre underage drinking but never had a drink himself; I got a mild buzz and felt like an idiot.) With Small Town, I got into the bar despite still being underage, drank and even enjoyed it a bit.

I slept with him a few times during our two months together. I wasn’t a virgin, and in a relationship you have sex, right? ‘Sex’ and ‘should’ again.

By the end of December, I was over it. Truthfully, I had never been into it in the first place. I stopped by his place early in the evening on New Year’s Eve, we had our talk, and I was a free agent in time for the parties that evening.

Party number 1 was at Buddy’s place. I had met Buddy a year or two earlier and we been friends for a few months. Eventually I figured out that he was interested in me, but for once I didn’t reciprocate at all. Still, he kept hanging around expectantly. At Buddy’s party, I met Dude. I enjoyed chatting with him, but it didn’t go anywhere.

At party number 2, I met Bad Boy. He was good looking, confident and flirty. I was hooked.

In the space of less than six hours, I had broken up with Small Town, missed or ignored two opportunities in the form of Buddy and Dude, and thought I’d made out well when I ran into Bad Boy. Little did I know the direction things would take from there…

a cunt by any other name…

There is a gap in my personal vocabulary: I’ve noticed that I tend to avoid using words for ‘girl bits’ [to wit: ‘down there’]. I don’t really care for any of them, and, frankly, until fairly recently I wasn’t talking about them often enough to need a word (context was certainly sufficient). But this seems a bit overly delicate for a sex blog, no? So, I shall consider a few of my options.

The words all seem either formal or vulgar. I suppose that’s likely because the subject matter is still somewhat taboo, so theoretically there is no need for a day-to-day word.

Formal terms

‘Vagina’, despite its commonness, still seems rather clinical. It’s the word you teach children and then generally only use with your doctor. It seems artificial to me because it was only invented in the late 17th century. Also, it means the internal passage but is popularly (and incorrectly) used also to mean the opening and the outside parts. My inner pedant is appalled — minus two points. (My inner linguist shrugs and says “huh, semantic shift in action”, but the pedant wins this round.)

‘Vulva’ refers to the collection of related parts on the outside and is probably the most accurate and yet it gets very little action, so to speak. (Googling ‘vagina’ gets 10 times more hits than ‘vulva’.) It ultimately derives from Latin volvere ‘to turn, twist, roll, revolve’ and thus is related to the name Volvo. One point for whimsy.

‘Pudenda’ also means external genitalia but, like ‘vagina’, it’s a made-up Latin word from the 17th century, and it literally means ‘shameful [parts]’. This isn’t helping. Minus 5 points.

‘Genitals’ is also rather clinical to my ear (leave your Virgin Mary jokes in the comments below), in addition to being gender non-specific. But this one is older — 14th century (from Latin by way of Old French rather than as a deliberate coining) — which, to me, gives it a bit of unexpected charm. One point.

Slang terms

‘Pussy.’ I think in my formative years, I mostly heard this word used by people who seemed like jerks. Also, it only goes back to the late 1800s, and so I dismiss it as rather modern. The parts have existed since the dawn of time, so I’d prefer a word that respects the heritage in some way.

‘Cunt’ is definitely vulgar. I used to cringe when I heard it, probably because it was almost always deliberately used to be maximally offensive, but I’m warming up to it now. I like the honest Germanicness of it. First attested in the street name ‘Gropecunt Lane’, c. 1230 in Oxford (and later in many other medieval English towns), it earns two points for being the oldest word in my list, and one more because I’ve actually been there (though it’s now called Magpie Lane). (How awesome that Dictionary.com provides etymological info for ‘cunt’!)

There are many other words, but they appeal even less. So ‘cunt’ it is! … Maybe.