“I want to really kiss you right now.
And yes, I knew what type of kiss he was talking about.
One of those deep, passionate kisses that makes me weak at the knees. The kind of kiss that sends electricity straight through me. The kind of kiss that makes my nipples stand erect. The kind of kiss that makes me hunger for him. My breathing goes ragged and my fingers take hold of his face. My tongue searches out his in such a panic. I’m afraid to lose him. To let go. I don’t want to fall away from the moment. He is my lifeline at this very moment as we hungrily stay connected.
There is no chance to break away and undress. Not yet. For now it’s the kiss.
The rest will come soon enough….
Friday, June 17, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
In the quiet part of the night......
I sit and think, listening to the thoughts that I allow out when I think I can cope with them. In the quiet part of the night,I wonder about the 'what if's', 'the maybes', the 'if onlys'. In this time I ponder about the rights & wrongs, justice, injustice and how if you wait long enough eventually you will see people get their just desserts, both good and bad. I also wonder about friends, loved ones past and present, a fleeting thought for some wondering if they ever give a passing thought, then I chide myself for being sentimental,, because, out of sight is out of mind is it not?
In the quiet part of the night, I think of the future, what it has in store for all of us, not just me. I think of the happiness I have found in the last few months, and it makes me smile. I realise many of us, have dreams and hopes, some as with my own are not so grounded in reality as one would hope. While it's a good thing to have an unobtainable goal or high hope..But I wonder how many get so down hearted when it's realised that it was just pie in the sky to start with. *Shrugs* I speak of none of my friends, but just in general terms.
In this quiet time, I reflect, but don't worry about things that have happened, tis past now and that's where it will stay. I try not to worry about the smaller things. I also don't take people's attitudes as an affront to me, after all it may not be me they are annoyed with. Just shrug it off and leave it be.
I also reflect on decisions that I need to make and they will come soon, but only when I am good n ready and not before. I have to deem when I think the time is right to do them, no one else can decide that for me..
But mostly it's just time, time for me.....
In the quiet part of the night, I think of the future, what it has in store for all of us, not just me. I think of the happiness I have found in the last few months, and it makes me smile. I realise many of us, have dreams and hopes, some as with my own are not so grounded in reality as one would hope. While it's a good thing to have an unobtainable goal or high hope..But I wonder how many get so down hearted when it's realised that it was just pie in the sky to start with. *Shrugs* I speak of none of my friends, but just in general terms.
In this quiet time, I reflect, but don't worry about things that have happened, tis past now and that's where it will stay. I try not to worry about the smaller things. I also don't take people's attitudes as an affront to me, after all it may not be me they are annoyed with. Just shrug it off and leave it be.
I also reflect on decisions that I need to make and they will come soon, but only when I am good n ready and not before. I have to deem when I think the time is right to do them, no one else can decide that for me..
But mostly it's just time, time for me.....
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Collar....
It's fastened about my neck. Black leather. Wide and soft yet unyielding. When I tip my head back I can feel the buckle there and it gives me a shiver of delight. The wide strap attached sits against my spine and my wrists are bound. If I relax them, it pulls on the collar so I must hold myself erect. This is different because I must now force myself to keep my muscles tight. This raises my normal level of docility when I have a collar on. This is a new state of being.
I am aware of being there, aware of the disconnect. I can see myself in your eyes now. Hair loose about my shoulders and arms, I can feel it against my back. I am flushed and wanton. There is no disguising what I am, what I want.
I am there displayed for your gaze. Bound for your pleasure. Kneeling in submission and obeisance. The things I am when I'm not your toy fall away. All I want, all I need is to please you, to be used and owned. Later I'll think this over and it will make me uncomfortable, but not enough to change, not enough to stop the craving to feel it again.
Then your weight is on me, pressing against me. My nipples are abraded against the rug beneath me. My thighs are tightly together and you grunt each time you thrust into me. I can't move back against you. I can only writhe and moan. It won't be long before I begin to beg you.
"pleasepleasepleaseplease..." it's like a whispered mantra, a spell and it hangs in the air around us, mingling with the scent of sex.
I am aware of being there, aware of the disconnect. I can see myself in your eyes now. Hair loose about my shoulders and arms, I can feel it against my back. I am flushed and wanton. There is no disguising what I am, what I want.
I am there displayed for your gaze. Bound for your pleasure. Kneeling in submission and obeisance. The things I am when I'm not your toy fall away. All I want, all I need is to please you, to be used and owned. Later I'll think this over and it will make me uncomfortable, but not enough to change, not enough to stop the craving to feel it again.
Then your weight is on me, pressing against me. My nipples are abraded against the rug beneath me. My thighs are tightly together and you grunt each time you thrust into me. I can't move back against you. I can only writhe and moan. It won't be long before I begin to beg you.
"pleasepleasepleaseplease..." it's like a whispered mantra, a spell and it hangs in the air around us, mingling with the scent of sex.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
This is not.....
I never saw myself in my own fantasies; I couldn't bear it. I didn't see myself as someone who ought to be in those situations. When I made myself come, it was always to faceless men and women in whatever roles I wanted them to be in, saying and doing the things I wanted to say and do but never felt like I could pull off with confidence. Maybe I didn't really want to; I had no one in my life whom I craved to be naked with behind my eyelids at night.
Then you, the dark horse in the running, rode up, and everything finally became possible. Yet, while I love you, this is not a love letter.
This is an I-want-to-fuck-you letter.
Past experiences have taught me patience, how to sweetly torture myself while waiting for the right moment. I want you. This is why, when we spend time together, my fingers are knotted on the tabletop and my ankles are locked.
This is not a love letter. This is a confession.
You turn me on effortlessly. My mind swims with thoughts of your head between my legs and me coming against your tongue while your fingers are buried inside me, locking me to you. My mouth is dry, my panties wet. I can't concentrate on anything but how badly I want you.
This is how I get through the days until I see you again. I picture all the scenarios that will unfold once you know how I feel and feel the same way. We'll do anything, I'll do anything you want. I can see us going further than we ever planned or thought possible, and being so fucking glad we finally did.
You're with me everywhere I go. I fantasize about how your skin will feel against mine. I can hear my own screams in my head. I walk around with my body buzzing and my head foggy. The anticipation—the need—is both killing me and changing my life.
This isn't a love letter. This is a success story.
I respect you. You are a person who deserves what I have to give, and I will give it to you. This isn't a love letter. This is a promise.
I want to enthrall you. I crave you. I want your soft, choked moans in my ear, your hot breath against my neck. I want to hear your unintelligible mumbles of ecstasy. I picture us afterward, our flushed faces resting against the pillows, smiling wordlessly at each other like we both know some amazing secret, and it makes me ache. This is not a love letter. When you kiss me, you'll find out just what this is.
Then you, the dark horse in the running, rode up, and everything finally became possible. Yet, while I love you, this is not a love letter.
This is an I-want-to-fuck-you letter.
Past experiences have taught me patience, how to sweetly torture myself while waiting for the right moment. I want you. This is why, when we spend time together, my fingers are knotted on the tabletop and my ankles are locked.
This is not a love letter. This is a confession.
You turn me on effortlessly. My mind swims with thoughts of your head between my legs and me coming against your tongue while your fingers are buried inside me, locking me to you. My mouth is dry, my panties wet. I can't concentrate on anything but how badly I want you.
This is how I get through the days until I see you again. I picture all the scenarios that will unfold once you know how I feel and feel the same way. We'll do anything, I'll do anything you want. I can see us going further than we ever planned or thought possible, and being so fucking glad we finally did.
You're with me everywhere I go. I fantasize about how your skin will feel against mine. I can hear my own screams in my head. I walk around with my body buzzing and my head foggy. The anticipation—the need—is both killing me and changing my life.
This isn't a love letter. This is a success story.
I respect you. You are a person who deserves what I have to give, and I will give it to you. This isn't a love letter. This is a promise.
I want to enthrall you. I crave you. I want your soft, choked moans in my ear, your hot breath against my neck. I want to hear your unintelligible mumbles of ecstasy. I picture us afterward, our flushed faces resting against the pillows, smiling wordlessly at each other like we both know some amazing secret, and it makes me ache. This is not a love letter. When you kiss me, you'll find out just what this is.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Dom/sub or what? :)
I’m in flux, but I know that I’m a switch. I enjoy the idea of being submissive. I’m a pain slut, which I feel overrides the submissive bit because I bite/hit/scratch, etc back.
I know that for some people BDSM can be non-sexual, but for the most part it is very sexual for me. I do, however, enjoy power. I love having power over people. It’s a rush. It’s liberating and it makes me feel like I can do anything.
When I do submit, they have to have ticked or pressed the right buttons, I don’t just hand over power to anyone and I feel that power exchange should be done with extreme caution. I don’t like using the word submissive to describe me because people think that means I’ll let someone do whatever they want to.
On the contrary, I have very selective standards about who I would play with. I do not have the patience of the saint. Violation of trust and agreement are big no-noes. I honestly think that any “submissive” bit about me would still include me topping from the bottom, well at least in most cases. I’ve only met one man that I would gladly submit to.
I’m also bi. I often refer to my orientation as being“sexual” because I’m interested in whatever makes me happy sexually and I feel that I’m very adventurous and open to trying new things.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Marks....
It is late, and finally I am in that brief peaceful time before I go to bed. I head to the bathroom, I remove my shirt and stare at myself in the mirror, and the reminders of you left on my body.
My shoulders are covered with fiery red marks. Not your standard high school hickeys but actual hard bite marks purple in a few places but mostly that screaming, crying red. Bites (the kind that lets you know it really hurt )when they happen are almost too much. I am on the edge of too much and not enough and you take more from me with the bite than the creamy whiteness of my skin.
It is surprising to me that I am so fascinated by these marks. So entranced by them. I am cataloging them and memorizing them, knowing that I carried away the more concrete reminder of our time together. You get only the memory; I get the marks, which I can look at any time. That is my special possession, but you know I am not possessive; you have only to ask to see them.
I am tired of the word "mark" so I pause here and look for an alternative; my Thesaurus says thus " a device pointing distinctly to origin of ownership" and think that perhaps the word "mark" is a good one after all. I think I will use the word over and over again after all, but you know why don't you?
We love the bite; it is the most direct expression of who we are, within that I feel the ecstasy of need and fulfillment and I know finally I am almost home.
My shoulders are covered with fiery red marks. Not your standard high school hickeys but actual hard bite marks purple in a few places but mostly that screaming, crying red. Bites (the kind that lets you know it really hurt )when they happen are almost too much. I am on the edge of too much and not enough and you take more from me with the bite than the creamy whiteness of my skin.
It is surprising to me that I am so fascinated by these marks. So entranced by them. I am cataloging them and memorizing them, knowing that I carried away the more concrete reminder of our time together. You get only the memory; I get the marks, which I can look at any time. That is my special possession, but you know I am not possessive; you have only to ask to see them.
I am tired of the word "mark" so I pause here and look for an alternative; my Thesaurus says thus " a device pointing distinctly to origin of ownership" and think that perhaps the word "mark" is a good one after all. I think I will use the word over and over again after all, but you know why don't you?
We love the bite; it is the most direct expression of who we are, within that I feel the ecstasy of need and fulfillment and I know finally I am almost home.
Monday, May 16, 2011
endless possibilities.
I find myself at a loss of what to write to you. How can I put into words, the feelings you conjure, and the tantalizing visuals you produce in my head? How can I write a fantasy, knowing it will never be exactly what I want, because I orchestrate it, rather than we? When my lips brush yours, would you lightly stroke the nape of my neck with your fingers? Or would you suck my lower lip, asking without words to gain entrance so that your tongue could find my own? Perhaps you'd demand, rather than ask, pulling me tightly against you until my body is crushed against yours, your mouth devouring my own with no apology.
Each action can in turn set off its own chain of possible reactions, which would in turn set off different responses from me... the possibilities are quite frankly endless my darling. Endless. Let's return to that simple, innocent kiss.
My lips brush yours, lightly, teasingly. Your fingers curl to the nape of my neck, stroking the fine hairs until I feel small shocks of electricity. Gasping, my lips part and you seize the moment, your tongue stroking my lip, coaxing my mouth to open more. Your hands slip down my back, softly tracing the curve of my sides, the tiny indentation of my spine. I exhale slowly, my breath warm on you as my tongue dances tentatively with yours, a game of cat and mouse -- meeting, retreating, but always returning. My hands cup your jaw, thumbs lightly caressing your cheeks as we both close our eyes, lost in a moment that has become an eternity of tenderness.
My lips brush yours, lightly, teasingly. Your teeth catch my lower lip, sucking it playfully. Rather than pull away, I press my lips more firmly against yours, coaxing your teeth apart with my tongue. My hands glide restlessly along your chest, unfastening the buttons in their wake until my fingers soothingly slide against your unrestricted skin. As my tongue swirls against yours my fingers bite lightly into your hips, pulling the evidence of your arousal against my abdomen, where each shift in my movement brushes against you intimately. Our mouths part and my lips move of their own volition along your neck, seeking the hollow of your throat. I hear the soft groan of approval just as I feel the shiver of your voice directly against my lips. My tongue strokes the spot lazily before moving to the side of your neck. My teeth scrape your skin as I suck lightly, tasting you and then bathing the spot in soft tender kisses.
My lips brush yours, lightly, teasingly. Your growl in response causes my heart to leap, and before I can think, your mouth is hot against mine, demanding entrance with such a force I have no option but to concede. Your hands snake around me, grasping my backside and pulling me roughly against you. There is no thought but your taste, your scent, the feeling of your thickening manhood pressing through your pants as if it is mocking the flimsy material of my skirt. Your hands ride higher, sliding underneath my blouse and along my back. My hands grip your shoulders helplessly, and I feel needful, wanton. Your hands stop momentarily at my sides, your thumbs tracing the underside of my breasts and a faint grunt of approval as you find I am only clothed by the shirt. I feel your muscles clench beneath my hands and somewhere mixed in with the sound of my blood thundering in my ears come the rip of cloth, the pop of buttons.
Drowning against you, in you, I wrench my head free with a gasp for air, trying to clear my overloaded senses. Before the breath fills my lungs, it escapes in a moan as you lower your head to my exposed breasts, your mouth fastened to my nipple. Your tongue flicks harshly against the sensitive nub, a tortuous pleasure conceived to once again banish any logical thought from my mind, replacing it with a pure, almost primal, feeling. A desolate sigh leaves my dry lips as you relinquish your possession of my breast. Within moments your shirt is off and my hands aimlessly roam your back, stroking every muscle, every shift and plane in your flesh. You pick me up and deposit me without fanfare on the counter, lowering your head once more to my other breast before I can utter a word. Your lips and tongue circle the rigid peak of my nipple, driving me to distraction as I shift restlessly, trying to coax you into sucking my nipple. Cool stone chills my flushed skin. I tilt my head down, watching you, and realize you've pulled my skirt up to my waist without ceremony. Your eyes catch mine and hold them, a silent challenge reflected there. You continue to watch me as your mouth finally hovers over the painfully hard nipple, lightly brushing your lips against it. My eyes flutter shut and the sensations instantly stop, and as my eyes open once more I watch you, watching me.
Your tongue flicks once and a strangled moan escapes my throat, but my eyes remain riveted to yours. Your teeth scrape lightly and I shudder, watching you intently with what I know is a pleading stare. You finally concede and I am swept away again as molten heat spreads through me with each suck and scrape of your mouth. My nails rake down your back, . I squirm uncontrollably, desperately, until you grab my hips and pull me forward.............
... I really must apologise... I had a point... but I forgot it. Right now my only desire is to have you close to me, to explore these endless possibilities.
Each action can in turn set off its own chain of possible reactions, which would in turn set off different responses from me... the possibilities are quite frankly endless my darling. Endless. Let's return to that simple, innocent kiss.
My lips brush yours, lightly, teasingly. Your fingers curl to the nape of my neck, stroking the fine hairs until I feel small shocks of electricity. Gasping, my lips part and you seize the moment, your tongue stroking my lip, coaxing my mouth to open more. Your hands slip down my back, softly tracing the curve of my sides, the tiny indentation of my spine. I exhale slowly, my breath warm on you as my tongue dances tentatively with yours, a game of cat and mouse -- meeting, retreating, but always returning. My hands cup your jaw, thumbs lightly caressing your cheeks as we both close our eyes, lost in a moment that has become an eternity of tenderness.
My lips brush yours, lightly, teasingly. Your teeth catch my lower lip, sucking it playfully. Rather than pull away, I press my lips more firmly against yours, coaxing your teeth apart with my tongue. My hands glide restlessly along your chest, unfastening the buttons in their wake until my fingers soothingly slide against your unrestricted skin. As my tongue swirls against yours my fingers bite lightly into your hips, pulling the evidence of your arousal against my abdomen, where each shift in my movement brushes against you intimately. Our mouths part and my lips move of their own volition along your neck, seeking the hollow of your throat. I hear the soft groan of approval just as I feel the shiver of your voice directly against my lips. My tongue strokes the spot lazily before moving to the side of your neck. My teeth scrape your skin as I suck lightly, tasting you and then bathing the spot in soft tender kisses.
My lips brush yours, lightly, teasingly. Your growl in response causes my heart to leap, and before I can think, your mouth is hot against mine, demanding entrance with such a force I have no option but to concede. Your hands snake around me, grasping my backside and pulling me roughly against you. There is no thought but your taste, your scent, the feeling of your thickening manhood pressing through your pants as if it is mocking the flimsy material of my skirt. Your hands ride higher, sliding underneath my blouse and along my back. My hands grip your shoulders helplessly, and I feel needful, wanton. Your hands stop momentarily at my sides, your thumbs tracing the underside of my breasts and a faint grunt of approval as you find I am only clothed by the shirt. I feel your muscles clench beneath my hands and somewhere mixed in with the sound of my blood thundering in my ears come the rip of cloth, the pop of buttons.
Drowning against you, in you, I wrench my head free with a gasp for air, trying to clear my overloaded senses. Before the breath fills my lungs, it escapes in a moan as you lower your head to my exposed breasts, your mouth fastened to my nipple. Your tongue flicks harshly against the sensitive nub, a tortuous pleasure conceived to once again banish any logical thought from my mind, replacing it with a pure, almost primal, feeling. A desolate sigh leaves my dry lips as you relinquish your possession of my breast. Within moments your shirt is off and my hands aimlessly roam your back, stroking every muscle, every shift and plane in your flesh. You pick me up and deposit me without fanfare on the counter, lowering your head once more to my other breast before I can utter a word. Your lips and tongue circle the rigid peak of my nipple, driving me to distraction as I shift restlessly, trying to coax you into sucking my nipple. Cool stone chills my flushed skin. I tilt my head down, watching you, and realize you've pulled my skirt up to my waist without ceremony. Your eyes catch mine and hold them, a silent challenge reflected there. You continue to watch me as your mouth finally hovers over the painfully hard nipple, lightly brushing your lips against it. My eyes flutter shut and the sensations instantly stop, and as my eyes open once more I watch you, watching me.
Your tongue flicks once and a strangled moan escapes my throat, but my eyes remain riveted to yours. Your teeth scrape lightly and I shudder, watching you intently with what I know is a pleading stare. You finally concede and I am swept away again as molten heat spreads through me with each suck and scrape of your mouth. My nails rake down your back, . I squirm uncontrollably, desperately, until you grab my hips and pull me forward.............
... I really must apologise... I had a point... but I forgot it. Right now my only desire is to have you close to me, to explore these endless possibilities.
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