Travel days, especially between countries, lean toward being epic. I’d had a poor sleep, an early morning, a bus ride to the airport almost as long as the flight that followed, a couple more (short) bus rides, capped off with another flight for me — but not my luggage.
By the time I got home I had been awake for almost 24 hours, broken up by a little bit of fitful dozing on the first bus ride and the last flight. Yet surprisingly, when I got home I had a bit of a second wind.
That was it; I was having a bath. A soak and scrub couldn’t wait until morning. Once the water ceased to be scalding, Wolf came into the bathroom and settled himself on the floor beside the tub. He lifted my arm, slid the slick bar of soap along it, rubbing bubbles into my skin. He slowly, gently washed and stroked my limbs and front. No words were necessary. I turned over, my belly pressed against the bottom of the tub, so he could wash my back. He stroked my ass and cunt then had me stand facing and leaning against the wall while he explored and touched and licked a little. When he was done, he left me to finish my bath and I could feel the wetness that wasn’t water. I thoroughly shaved and scrubbed and got sparkling clean. My trip felt completely behind me.
Wolf was reading in bed, waiting for me. After I towelled off, I cuddled with him, straddling his legs with my head near his hip and my legs folded under me, like a frog. After a few minutes, he got me to turn around so I was still straddling, but with my forehead resting on the bed near his ankles. He admired my ass, then began to stroke me and put his finger inside me. He used some lube because I wasn’t particularly wet, but my vagina was still irritated from (I assume) the tropical heat and it immediately started to sting. I had to jump up to wash it off. I wasn’t aroused and I felt rushed. It threw off my mood.
When I returned, we cuddled again, spooning. Wolf began to pinch my nipples, which he knows can get a good reaction but the pattern was predictable and it was starting to irritate me. The novel sensations I had recently experienced with Gawan were fresh in my mind, and that gave me some knowledge that I could share. Oh, but how awkward would that be? My only other options were to make him stop or to endure it and sacrifice my mood. To what end? I chose pleasure.
I asked Wolf if he would experiment some, try different levels of intensity, try rolling my nipples slowly between his fingers, pulling, twisting, try sucking on them and not gently. He said he would try. I was still a little irritable and yet within moments he had me groaning and writhing and wet. Oh yes. That was good.
I suppose he was concentrating on his task, and although he gave me a couple of kisses, it didn’t satisfy my desire to make out.
“Kiss me,” I breathed.
In a low voice, he responded, “Don’t tell me what to do…”
He asked me what I would like to do next, and he would consider my request. “I think I’d like you to finger-fuck me while I use the vibe.” And so it went. The Hitachi was still in my luggage, which hadn’t made it onto the flight back and so was in airport limbo somewhere; the only option was try the rechargeable vibe (which had been neither used nor charged for a couple of weeks) and hope that it had a bit of charge left in it.
He slid his fingers into me and began to work my g-spot in just the right way. I let him drive me into an intense state of need before switching on the vibe. It worked, hurrah! After just a few moments, my hips were already moving involuntarily. I moaned, I gasped, I cried out and keened as the orgasm took me and shook me. My keening turned into tearful and howling sobs as I crested. I was utterly spent, with tears pooling in my ears.
Go here to find the rest of today’s Boobday participants, plus Hy’s explanation of why, when she shares photos of her body online, it’s an act of confidence and empowerment.
Where is the riskiest/most adventurous place that you have had sex? Did you get caught?
The student paper at my alma mater once ran a lengthy quiz to determine how “corrupt” you were. I don’t think I was alone in using it for inspiration for future hijinks.
One item on the list was having had sex in a church. Now, I’ve never been a churchgoer, so when would I even be in a church?
But an opportunity of sorts arose when I went to a social event that was being held in a church basement. It was mostly just a big open space, but at one end was a fair-sized storage closet. Toward the end of the evening when folks were busy packing up and doing some last-minute visiting, we nipped in, fucked, and nipped out again. There was no way that I was going to get off under those circumstances, though “quick, furtive, and almost public” has its charms.
I expected to encounter some raised eyebrows on our exit, but with all the to-ing and fro-ing and chattering in the hall, I don’t think anyone had noticed anything unusual. Even if they had noticed, they would have no doubt concluded that nothing unusual could have happened because I was involved. I was the good girl, you see.
And even though we were in the basement and not the church proper, I still gave myself a point on the quiz.
Two weeks ago, I wrote about anasyrma, a kind of ritual lifting of the skirt. This week I lift the skirt but drop the ritual in favor of the graphic possibilities of draped fabric.
This time, you get both white and dark meat.
(FYI, all images featuring these skirts are tagged “gypsy skirt“. There’s more to come.)
You’ll find this week’s Boobday participants here.
Outside the hotel, I climbed into the empty shuttle bus, got my bags stowed and settled myself in. I took a deep breath: this was one complication resolved and as I steadily approached my destination, things would continue to get simpler. Well, logistically, at least. The driver recognized me from the trip in earlier and was puzzled that I was leaving so soon. Was there something wrong with the hotel? No it was fine, but this wasn’t my final stop and I still had some travelling to do. Then he noticed that I was alone this time; it amused me to wonder what conclusion he reached about how I’d spent those hours.
I got to the airport easily and promptly, checked in, dropped off my bag, cleared the security scrum: a little cluster of milestones achieved. In my travel uniform – a long-sleeve T-shirt, clingy cashmere sweater and black pinstripe yoga pants – I felt like I looked like I had it together, at least. It was mid-evening, the rush-hour frenzy long over. Quiet, but not so late as to be funereal. I set off at a stride, stretching my legs, for a gate that turned out to be at the absolute far end of a long and rambling terminal, an extension on an extension. I probably clocked a couple of miles.
I only waited for five or ten minutes before boarding began. There were no passengers needing extra time, so rows 1 to 4 were called to board first. I was in row 4. Boarding first? Doesn’t that mean business class? I checked my boarding pass. Definitely row 4. So on I went, with the self-important middle-aged men in their suits, and made myself comfortable. In row 4. Yep, definitely business class. There was a bottle of water waiting for me – bliss! (It’s the little things.) The rest of the passengers filed past in the dimness, filling the plane.
Once aloft, our flight attendant kept asking solicitously if we needed anything — this bunch wasn’t very demanding and she was pleasantly bored. There was a choice of food (food! choice!), and snacks. My rushed supper was hours ago already and it was time to top up. I had a nice sandwich, followed by the best Kit Kat I’ve ever had. Oh god, chocolate! I so needed chocolate. I passed the hours contentedly.
Even though I was one of the first people off the plane (business class!), Wolf was already there waiting for me. There was no need to speak, and no words were big enough to capture the feeling anyway. Wolf had missed me fiercely. I had missed him too, of course, but he had been alone with his thoughts and worries, and our plan to stay in touch daily had fallen through because of connectivity difficulties at my end. We waited for my luggage in companionable silence until the last passengers left and the carousel stopped.
They lost my bag.
I’ve never had a bag go missing before. We went to the nearby desk to report it, and the woman asked me to describe some of the more unusual contents of the bag, just in case they had to open it up in order to identify it. It’s a burgundy duffel bag. Um, strappy black stilettos. Right on top is a black nylon tote bag containing a set of folding travel wheels. Two bottles of rum. Vibrator as long as my arm that looks like a cartoon karaoke microphone.
No, I didn’t say that last one, but I thought it.
Within a few minutes she determined that the bag wasn’t really lost. It showed up in the system, biding its time in the city I’d just left. It just hadn’t gotten on the plane. (Was I that late checking in, I wonder?) They’d send it along first thing the next day. They could delivered it, or if I picked it up myself, they’d give me a $100 voucher. It was easy enough for me to get to the airport, so I chose the latter option. The next morning, the bag arrived before I’d really got going for the day.
And that was my first date with Gawan.
If I were a superstitious sort, I’d find meaning in the fact that things started to go wrong before they even began. His first flight got fucked up when the inbound plane had a bird strike, which resulted in his outbound flight being cancelled, and he was left scrambling to get to me. At our destination we had challenges with money and exchange, and varying degrees of illness for both of us. And then there was the Murphy’s Law Hotel. My getting bumped to business class for the flight immediately after I left him behind could have been read as the universe trying to send me a message. But that’s not how I read it.
It was trial by fire. We handled a ridiculous number of difficulties as well as could be hoped, and we still liked each other at the end of it all. The most important thing was to get to know each other in person; I’m not sure we have a great sense of what an ordinary day with the other would look like, but we do know what a rough day is like, and we managed well. Not to tempt fate, but I’m optimistic that our next visit will be much easier.
The room we checked out of that morning was clean but spartan and worn: brightly painted walls, easy-clean white tile floor, one window that didn’t open and one that didn’t close, a tired air conditioner, and a few sticks of inexpensive furniture including two single beds. The hotel was on a major street, so there was always the hum (or honking) of traffic.
This new hotel room the opposite in many ways: pale walls and sheets, dark carpet, dark fixtures and furnishings, a kitchenette and fridge, a couch, everything clean and new. And quiet. Hell, I was impressed with the mere existence of the bathtub, and a toilet where the lever didn’t disconnect itself from the flapper every other time you flushed. It just felt so civilized, but my enjoyment was tinged with mild regret that I’d be spending so little time there.
Well, almost everything was in good repair. When Gawan decided to run a bath for me, we found that the plug, which should have been screwed into threading in the drain, was loose in the bottom of the tub because the pressure switch was broken. Fortunately it was stuck closed rather than open, so simply screwing it into place plugged the tub.
With the water now running, Gawan took charge of ordering some food since he was hungry and I was starving. He dialled room service but the person he reached wasn’t able to take the order and told him that someone would call back to the room shortly. No call came. So Gawan went down to the restaurant to place the order in person, and came back up to the room with a promise that the food would follow.
While all this was going on, I was having a relaxing soak. It was an ordinary soaker tub: deep but built for one. But the idea was to share a bath, so upon his return, Gawan shoehorned himself in at the uncomfortable faucet end without complaint. After a while he got out again in anticipation of dealing with the arrival of the food. But no food arrived. He went back down to the restaurant to scare it up.
I got out of the bath shortly after he left. Dried and dressed, I just wanted to relax but I thought it would be wise to call down and make arrangements for the shuttle before the torpor kicked in. The front desk advised that the shuttles went every 30 minutes, so which one did I want? There were two times that seemed reasonable — 7:30 was definitely early, and 8:00 would get me there on time. I wasn’t feeling too lucky. I chose the 7:30.
Gawan was gone for quite a while and I was beginning to feel lonely — we were spending our time together apart, and I was busying myself with email and catching up on blogs. Finally he burst into the room, triumphant with white plastic takeout bag in hand, the successful hunter and provider. But the hour was late, so I had to inhale as much of the gourmet burger and fries as I could in what little time was left.
And then, the inevitable: it was time for me to go.
Gawan helped me with my bags down to the lobby. There was no sign of the shuttle. After a few minutes I asked the concierge, “Will 7:30 shuttle be here soon?”
“Oh, the shuttles don’t run on a schedule. You have to book it in advance for whenever you want it.”
“Aha. I did book it. For 7:30.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no record of that… Oh wait. Here it is. I’m sorry, it looks like this wasn’t passed along to the driver. Let me call him now and see where he is.” He called. “He’ll be here very soon, just a few minutes.”
Mhmm. “A few minutes.” Because it was the hotel’s error, the concierge was prepared to pay for a cab. And there was a cabbie right there, regarding me expectantly… But it was only about 7:40, so I decided to chance it and wait for the shuttle. The cabbie left. And the shuttle arrived — it really was “a few” minutes after all.
At the door of the hotel, Gawan gave me a hug and a kiss and sent me on my way.
I was anxious to get on the damned shuttle and get back to the damned airport. I’d relax when I reached the gate.
I was feeling so frazzled from the difficult day of travel that it took a while for me to see the forest for the trees: Two weeks makes for an epic first date, but we still liked each other enough at the end of it that we chose to spend those last few hours together, rather than plotting our immediate escape from each other. Gawan felt, and rightly so, that it would be more comfortable (and of course more private) to spend the time at his hotel. In the face of a swarm of irritations beyond our control, and neither of us being at the peak of health, he got me to the hotel, got me relaxed and bathed, got me fed, and generally did his best to take care of me. That’s what was important.
Is there something (or things) that you would absolutely say no to in a sexual context?
What are your limits? Are they hard? Soft?
Have your limits changed over time?
My sexual limits have definitely changed since my epiphany, which has made the last year and a half quite exciting.
Before, I placed a lot of restrictions on sexual play (and on my partner) in order to feel safe. Receiving cunnilingus was OK, and being penetrated with a finger or two was OK in that context but not otherwise. Touching his cock and having intercourse were essentially soft limits. Fellatio felt threatening and degrading: hard limit, no question. Anal play: hard limit. No toys. Non-monogamy was an absolutely rigid limit that I wouldn’t have even thought about questioning.
What a difference it made when I no longer had sexual shame putting on the brakes: I get turned on, I get wet and relaxed! Intercourse is no longer uncomfortable and I actually enjoy it, physically and emotionally, even though I can’t climax that way. Touching my partner’s cock is no longer a limit. I have a few toys now – my little vibrator gets the most use.
Fellatio first became a soft limit, and now it’s not a limit anymore. I tend to feel shy about it, but I’m able to offer without taking ages to work up the nerve, and once I get started I’m fine.
I’ve found that I enjoy anal play with fingers or toys. I’m curious about anal sex, but it’s not going to happen for a while: I find my partner’s girth rather, um, intimidating at the moment.
I now enjoy some spicy stuff that verges on BDSM (spanking, dirty talk, mild bondage, being blindfolded), or is definitely BDSM (flogging, submission, enforced availability). The stuff I tend to fantasize about is generally BDSM. I’d say non-monogamy is a soft limit: I’ve had some mild sexual play with one person who is not my partner but I have no interest in being sexual with anyone else.
My current sexual (non-BDSM) limits: monogamy with one notable exception. I’d probably try most “ordinary” things. If I were single, one-night stands would be a hard limit, and “friends with benefits” seems highly unlikely to appeal. No swinging, cuckolding, threesomes or group sex. I’m not interested in playing with other women.
My BDSM limits are much, much broader since I’m such a novice – there’s a lot that I might try at some point but I’m not ready for now. Hard limits: scat; needles, cutting, drawing blood, permanent marks; humiliation; breath play.
Photo courtesy of Maria Opens Up
Welcome to Elust #79 –
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 #80? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~
~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~
~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
For You, It’s Always Yes
Gawan: Intro to Flogging
The Talker: An Introduction
My wildest fantasy: Ship slut
Time for something quick…
Spread Legs and Open Mouth
My Girl in Havana
Let’s Watch some Porn
Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor
Writing about Writing
Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish