reunion fuck

[TMI warning: menstrual blood.]

As my trip to the UK approached and I was thinking about packing and logistics, I had the novel experience of sex being a significant part of my travel plans. Stock up on preferred brand of condoms. Should I bring any toys? Yes, but which ones, and how shall I pack them? I know I’ll need a nap when we get back to the room, so how many hours will intervene between arrival and first fuck? But as the day got nearer, it became apparent that I’d be travelling during my period. So then we planned not to have sex the day I arrived.

At the end of that very long day — flight, reunion, coach trip, settling in, and lengthy nap — I had a lazy, steamy bath. Once I’d had a thorough soak, he came in to visit, sitting on the edge of the tub. While I reclined sleepily in the hot water, he lifted my left arm up and gently bathed me; he repeated this with all my limbs, and my front. Then I rolled over luxuriantly so he could wash my back. When I was right way up again, he slowly rubbed and explored my folds. He then left me to my bath, and I finished up soon after.

As he was pouring his bath, he told me to be ready — naked and in bed — when he was done. So I was.

He came in, I was slick and ready, and he was soon reaming me vigorously from behind. At some point, the slickness became a slippery wetness and it eventually occurred to me that the menstrual flow, which had stopped for a while, had probably started again. Not a big deal — we had a towel down.

When we finished, he said somewhat hesitantly, “It looks like I’ve done you a great violence.” It was dark. He didn’t really want me to see him and he was even a little concerned about me looking at myself. So I looked down. Of course I looked. There was blood all over my vulva and the tops of my inner thighs, with a drip on each leg running down toward my knees. There were bloody finger prints around both hips and on my lower back. (The only thing missing was a big, red, possessive handprint on my flank.) He was no tidier; he later reported that his cock and the front of his pelvis were uniformly red. He went to wash up and I stayed put, on hands and knees, because I didn’t want to sit and drip on anything.

I started out feeling entirely ambivalent. My main concern with period sex is mess and discomfort from cramps. I’m not squeamish about it, nor is it a fetish. I wasn’t feeling upset or particularly self-conscious. Surprisingly, there was no mess anywhere but on us. I was processing.

That delicate emotional balance was tipped by the first vaginal fart.

When he fucks me from behind, it tends to fill me full of air, and I must have been inflated like a goddamned balloon. I giggled, which immediately created a feedback loop: fart, giggle, fart, etc. Within moments I was howling — until I couldn’t breathe any more. I was still giggling (and farting) when he came back from washing up.

My turn: I filled the bath and left the water rusty, and I still giggled now and then. In the meantime, he checked the walls for blood spatter.

Tenderness, lust, comedy, gore. It’s got everything.


My partner and I are finally in the same time zone again.

I arrived at a reasonable time in the morning, local time, but travelling east folded the day back onto itself and those precious hours that represent sleep disappeared into the ether at 33,000 feet.

As I pushed my trolley out of the luggage area at Heathrow, I started scanning the faces of the people on the other side of the barrier. We’d joked about him holding up a sign with my name on it; there was a thin layer of people on the other side of the barrier nearest the door, most of whom were holding such signs and looking bored. He wasn’t among them, so I rounded the corner to the right and kept going. That’s when I saw him at the end of the passage. I pushed the trolley up to him, stopped, and then we grabbed at each other, hugs and kisses. We’re both introverted and often self-conscious, but in that moment, neither of us gave a flying fuck about who might have been watching and what they might have been thinking.

I was travel weary, overheated, and my face needed a wash, but just about the first words out of his mouth (when we resumed speech) were a compliment on my appearance. For international travel, comfort is my priority, but I also wanted to look good, in part because lately I feel like I look good. My strategy involves yoga pants, and he liked my clingy T-shirt.

As soon as we were together, he took over. It made sense that, as the visitor just off a long flight, I let him lead. But we’ve also been playing at a bit of a D/s vibe, so there was also a slight undercurrent to it all, enhanced by his fervor and intensity.

He commandeered my trolley and led me through the bowels of Heathrow to the coach station, where I was happy to stand back and let him sort out the tickets and then lead me to the platform. We unselfconsciously hugged and just held each other while we waited to be let onto the coach, ignoring the few people around us. When we took our seats (with me tucked beside the window), he got me to take off my watch so he could grip either of my wrists as the mood struck. We stayed in constant contact for the whole trip – over an hour.

Then it was a 10-minute walk back to his room, which will be our room for the next two months. So far, I haven’t seen much else.

Sinful Sunday: breast

Sinful Sunday

This is my first Sinful Sunday post from the UK, where I’ve been reunited with my partner, and my Sunday has been sinful indeed.

This afternoon, I went out for a walk and came back in a mood. Within moments he had thrown me on the bed, so quickly he didn’t notice that I hadn’t even gotten my boots off yet, and until the boots were off, almost nothing else could come off either. Simple logistics.

I could have taken a photo of the clothes strewn about the small room, but we’re wearing most of them again now. There’s also the condom wrappers, lube and/or vibe. Or the sweaty and disordered sheets.

But I didn’t feel like taking a photo of any of those things. So instead, please accept this photo of my breast.


(Sinful Sunday is a weekly meme featuring sensual and erotic photography. Click the icon at the top of this post to go to the homepage and check out the other links.)

the benefits of fringe 6

The best light in the house is in front of a window that faces the street. The second set of fringe photos, of which these are but a few, was taken on a beautiful Sunday in the late morning. That probably explains all the traffic: vehicles, people walking dogs, people with babies in strollers, people with babies in strollers and walking dogs, cyclists, joggers, and a police car at one point. It was practically a parade.

fringe 15fringe 16fringe 18fringe 17

the benefits of fringe 3

A couple of days ago, it was my firm intention to follow the Sinful Sunday monthly prompt (“no humans”). But my fringe photos have worked out so well that I found myself in the middle of a bit of a story with them and I ultimately decided not to interrupt myself. So here we are.

fringe 7

fringe 8

That thigh is smooth, cool and firm.

Sinful Sunday

(Sinful Sunday is a weekly meme featuring sensual and erotic photography. Click the icon to go to the homepage and check out the other links.)