Physical.

I scratched him. I violated one of the first limits he ever gave me, and I only have a vague recollection of it. I also bit him so hard that he’s still bruised three days later. And I beat his cock too viciously.

I feel like an asshole. Granted, I only have the vaguest, orgasm-hazed memory of digging my fingers into his back while he pounded me into sweet oblivion with a dildo. But I know better than to break his skin. And I knew how much the other stuff would hurt and that he wouldn’t like it.  But the scratching - that makes me a bad dom.  That makes me less trustworthy.  And that breaks my heart, because violating his trust and hurting him that way is the last thing I ever wanted to do.  And everything else is pointless if he doesn’t feel completely safe giving himself to me. 

…But I have a confession to make:  in my heart of hearts, I like that I scratched him. I don’t like that I did something I had promised I wouldn’t. That part, I hate. But there’s a possessive, primal something in me that loves the idea of clawing, ripping, making a boy bleed. It’s a form of penetration, I think. And the evil, rape-fantasy-having part of me liked the nonconsensuality, the power, his helplessness, the violation inherent in doing something he specifically said not to…

And the biting. And seeing the toothmarks on him. That - that was hot. That was exciting. Satisfying and frustrating at the same time, sensual and sexual and animalistic and physical. The whole encounter was more physical for me than anything I’ve done in a very long time. Physical in the sense of really being engaged, physically present, touching him with more than just my hands, getting closer than I’ve allowed myself to before. And it felt good. It felt so good, and fulfilling. Not to mention the fucking. Which is what I was talking about in the other post, being just what I wanted. But I’ll have to leave the details for later, if at all, as it’s far past time to turn off the computer for the night..

 

lesbian sex

It seems that MJ and I have had more sex in the past couple of months than in the whole rest of the year previous. Starting just after I wrote that post about how we’re not sexually compatible, heh.

It’s kind of funny how the tables have turned - used to be I was the one frustrated because she never wanted to get it on, now she’s the one who pouts about it if we don’t have sex regularly. At least we’re more on the same page than before. It’s still a bit imbalanced but not nearly as much as it used to be. We do have a bit of the lesbian sheep problem though - both of us want to be the one getting it and neither of us really wants to do the work.

2 lazy dykes = 1 rather routine sex life

It would help if she didn’t always want to fuck when I’m really tired. We need to have more days off together and have some hot mid-afternoon sex. Preferably involving MJ in a tiny skirt and thigh-highs, and me with the strap-on. Perhaps this week while I’m on vacation..

[and I just have to say.. I love how sensitive her nipples are now she's been on hormones.. The last time we had sex I made her come by fondling her breasts while she was on top of me (oh, how I love finding new buttons to push!). The expression on her face when I made her come like that was one of the hottest and most beautifully erotic things I've laid eyes on in a long time. ^_^]

 

a dirty little letter that I’ll never send.

I think about you rather a lot. I think about the sweet, nice things of course. But to be completely honest, I more often find myself daydreaming about the so-called “dirty” things.

I think about when you were fucking me with your fingers, and the expression on your face was so raw and just completely stripped of civilized veneer, almost harsh.

I think about your beautiful big cock, and I get all breathless and fantasize about having it in my mouth again.

I think about the things we did, and about the things I want to do, the ways I want to fuck you. I think about penetrating you, and I want that to happen often.

I think about when you came up behind me and we were kissing over my shoulder, and how quickly it aroused you. I want you to fuck me like that, I want to be bent over a table or leaning on a chair while you pound me from behind. There was something so deliciously erotic about that particular exchange… I imagine wearing big black boots to make me tall enough, and a little skirt that you’ll push up because we won’t want to take the time to undress. Quick and hot and hard, fucking me from behind. Moaning in my ear and biting the crook of my neck.

I think about using the pinwheel on you. The sweet, pathetic little noises you made when I hurt you. (”Aww, poor baby..”) Your cock was so hard when I tortured your nipples. And you cried. There is something so indescribably exquisite about that. Next time I want you to be facing me, I want to see the tears mat your eyelashes, I want to see the pain/pleasure in your lovely eyes. I want to hurt you while I’m riding you and see how you react. I want you to like that, because I’m pretty sure I will.

I want you to use your tongue on my clit again, I want you to make me come that way and then kiss me so I can taste it. I want you to fuck me in the ass, only I’ll be more patient this time so it won’t hurt. I know it’s going to be incredible to be so full of you.

I want to tease you in public and feel your erection pressing against me through your trousers. Would that make you blush? I want to feel your amazing hands on my body, I want you to bite me and kiss me and tell me again how much you love making me come.

I think about how sex with you was so easy and right and natural and ever so deliciously arousing. I want you again. And again.

 

"The First Good One" - from the Blowfish blog

http://blog.blowfish.com/culture/the-first-good-one/

The First Good One

We talk a lot about The First Time. As a society we’re a little bit fixated on it. Losing your virginity, and the person you lost it with — it’s a rite of passage that we’ve made important to the point of making it a fetish.

But as rites of passage go, the loss of virginity can be dicey. It was for me, anyway. Sure it was important; but it was also awkward, depressing, and anticlimactic. Emphasis on the “anticlimactic.”

And I think that experience is not uncommon.

So I want to talk about something else. I don’t want to talk about the first person I had sex with
I want to talk about the first person I had good sex with.

And on the wild off-chance that he’s reading this, I want to say Thank you.

His name was Adrian. I honestly don’t remember his last name, although I do remember that he was Number Four (at least according to how I was defining “sex” at the time). He wasn’t a boyfriend, or even a friend; he was just someone I smiled at on the street who stopped to talk, someone I had ice cream with that afternoon and went home with that evening.

It could have been disastrous. I look back on it sometimes and think, “What the hell was I thinking, having sex with a guy I picked up off the street?” He could have been an axe murderer.

But he wasn’t. He was amazing.

He was the first person I had sex with who liked to experiment and try lots of different things, just for the fun of trying them.

He was the first person I had sex with who was playful about it; who didn’t think being passionate meant being deadly serious at all times, and who was willing and even eager to find humor and laughter in what we were doing.

He was the first person I had sex with who was sexually knowledgeable without being arrogant, pushy, or assuming that his greater knowledge meant that we should do things his way. He knew a lot about sex and sexual variations, but if I didn’t want to try something or if something wasn’t working, he accepted it with good grace and moved on. And he was the first person I had sex with who was just as happy about trying the things I wanted to try as he was about the things he wanted to try.

He was the first person I had sex with who made sure that I was having a good time. Not just that I was coming — I’d had at least one sex partner before who tried to make sure that I came — but that I was feeling happy and relaxed, excited and curious, safe and taken care of.
He was the first person I had sex with who didn’t make me feel like the fact that I was having sex with him meant either (a) that I was a skank, or (b) that we were in love. He was the first casual sex partner I had who made me feel respected, and who acted like my horniness and eagerness were appreciated.

He was the first person I had sex with who wanted to keep having sex — and having it and having it and having it — even after he’d come.

And when I look back on it now, I think he had a much greater impact on my sexuality than the guy I lost my virginity to.

Because after Adrian, I knew. I knew what was possible. I had my sexual ups and downs after this, of course; but after Adrian, I knew what the ups could be like . . . and I knew that the downs didn’t have to be that way. I’m sure that door would have opened for me eventually — I’m a very sexually motivated person, I wasn’t going to put up with bad sex for long — but it opened early for me, and that made a difference.

And I’ve always wanted to say “thank you.”

Adrian, if you’re reading this: You were a grad student at the University of Chicago, and in the summer of 1979 you met a girl on the street, a girl who had just graduated high school and was about to start college. She smiled at you and you stopped to chat; you bought her ice cream and invited her home; and you fucked her brains out in sixteen different ways over the course of about three days.

You asked if I’d pose like a Penthouse photo that you liked, next to the photo so you could see us both, and I said yes. You asked if I wanted to try being spanked, and I said no (a decision I’ve always regretted, by the way). We played out a rape fantasy that I’d asked to try, and I got freaked out, and you immediately picked up on that and backed off. And we just did it, with me on top and you on top and from behind, in the bed and on your desk and in the bathroom, with our mouths and our hands and your cock and my cunt, until the skin of your dick was rubbed raw and I could barely walk.

You were great. It was almost thirty years ago, and I still remember you, better than I remember most of the people I’ve had sex with.

Thanks.

Greta Christina, copyright © 2007

 

in the city that never sleeps..

Got back from NY today. MJ was happy to see me. ^_^

It was a fantastic weekend. As usual, I don’t know exactly what to say about it all, there’s so much.

I got a bit of a tan. We went camping. This morning while we were naked in bed together he said to me, “You look so hot when you come.” That probably won’t read the way it sounded in person; it was such a beautiful thing to hear, to see on his face.

We kissed all over the city, or so it seems to me. In the subway station, in the Slipper Room, on street corners, in my car at stop lights. Hot kisses, tongue kisses, kisses that made my body tingle.

He carried my purse for me when he noticed I was uncomfortable. He tried so hard to stay awake last night after he came - he didn’t want to be the typical guy who rolls right over after sex. It was very sweet.

It kind of blows my mind that he seems so attracted to me. Not because I have such a low opinion of myself, but that the attraction is so mutual and we seem such a good fit sexually, and everything came together so easily, and all of that has been so rare in my experience.

And.. there is oh so much more to record, but it’s rather late and I have to work. Shame, that.