How much do you really love me?

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Dominatrix in training.

"Guess what! I bought a helmet." I pause a second and consider. "Now I can fall off my bike!"

Among my friends and family my clumsiness is legendary; I can walk into innocuous objects that have occupied the same place for years, fall over my own ballet-flat-shod feet. Only when glamazoning do I suddenly become all poise and swaybacked grace.

On the other end of the phone I can hear him dimple and roll his eyes. "Ride it, you mean." A text message codas our conversation and makes me smile: Ride it hard.

I'd like to be the kind of woman who can dress up in thigh-high fetish boots and stride about the house cracking a whip, all "Lick my boots!" and grinding long spiky nails into tender parts of flesh. Ot wear chaps with authority and smirk every time the cowboy boots made a public appearance. I just don't have it in me.

I'm more of a bat-my-eyelashes and won't you make me another cup of tea, the kind to crack up over the inherent silliness of Asian-made vibrators and men in supermarkets nervously eyeing zucchinis as though they might replace the male half of the human race.

Verbiage may be my biggest turnon; sparring, wordplay, a simple debate that gets swallowed up in kisses and teasing. Why am I writing this? Because sex is funny and fun. It's been so overwritten that it's overwrought and submerged in cliche. Have some foreplay instead. Go start a conversation.

Monday, November 15, 2010


He flips me over and hauls my hips back toward him, rubbing the head of his cock over my clitoris, still throbbing. I feel the wet drooling down my legs and know he is just as ready as I am. 

He starts to push, insisting the head of his penis past my resistance and teasing. It’s too much and not enough all at once, but he manipulates my hips away and refuses any more. I’m burning, throbbing, starting to lash my hips and arch my back, craving some kind of stimulation. 

One finger traces a line down inside the edge of my labia, but he snatches it away quickly and rewards me with a long exhalation of cool air. “Please!” I beg. It’s barely a word. Nothing. He just breathes down my spine, thumbs me apart so I’m gaping and waiting. “Please!” I’m growling, I want this so badly. His hands come back to my hips and I anticipate the thrust, but he barely touches me. 

Then it comes. One long thrust that fills me and rocks us both forward on the bed. He curls his body around mine and I am entered, enclosed, held and rocked. There’s nothing in my mind but the sensation of our two bodies grinding together. 
It feels like forever and no time that we hang in space like this, but then he lifts his weight up and above me and leaves me bereft and empty. Then full. 
We fuck, lazily, feeling the burn rise, secure in the pleasure that’s coming. 

I feel him even harder, the rise of his erection and his balls gathering, and I pull myself together to squeeze him tight. He doesn’t catch my slow roll and crush of a pelvic floor toned by plies until it tips him over the brink, and then the long heat of his ejaculation pulls me down as well. 

We lie tangled and collapsed, stickiness down our legs and sweat in the crevices of our bodies. “Let’s go again.”