You Could Run a Red Light

My lips are buzzing with the friction of pressing against hers. I wish I hadn't stayed so late. I feel the pull, the need to write. But it's freezing. I hate the cold. I hate the idea of going home without her. I hate the idea of waking up without her.

The lights on front porches wiz by as I drive down Carrollton toward my drafty house. 

************

I feel her hand slide around my waist, and I catch myself as I trip on the brick sidewalk. The cymbals crash only a foot or two away. We slide quietly behind the crowds lining the street for the parade. In the dark glow sticks light the street in random places, interspersed with porch lights. She leans toward me as we stumble awkwardly as one. "I'm not used to asking for what I want."

"What do you mean?" Something about the inflection in her voice tells me that this conversation isn't an easy one. She's been toying with this thought, trying to decide how to say this out loud.

"Like, sexually. I'm not used to voicing the things I... that I want. What I think about." 

I want to coax this conversation in the right direction, but I'm not really sure how. "I get that. Did you have something specific in mind?"

"Yes." I have no idea what thoughts this nerd-themed Mardi Gras parade could have possibly brought up. Ha. We have just seen every Star Wars character, along with characters from Dr. Who, Star Trek, a pile of horror films, some fantasy films, eh... Alien, Men in Black, you name it. So whatever she has in mind, it's probably interesting. 

But as I often tell her, I have no doubt that anyone who reads as voraciously as she does has an (over)active imagination. I just have to find the key to verbally unlock her fantasies. 

*************

"I left that relationship, and I had an identity crisis. Everything I loved, everything I poured my heart into, had gotten wrapped up in the toxicity of us. I heard over and over again that the things I most cared about were the things about me that repulsed her. And we did so much damage to each other. There's a million things I never should have said, never should have done, and so much trauma that she inflicted, too. Our sex life became a fucking mess. At the time it didn't feel so bad, but looking back, it definitely was. I still feel like a lot of things about me are broken, and I hate that. It's not your job to fix it, but I can't help that you will run right into it sometimes."

She stands up, shifting off the couch to open the door and light another cigarette. "I know, baby. We all have our baggage. And when my ex and I split, I was the least sexually confident I had ever been in my whole life." 

"I just... I don't want to make the same mistakes again. I think I have hesitated with you in so many ways. I liked you too much." I look up from my dead focal point on the wall, right into her eyes. "I still like you too much. And I've come to fear my own sex drive, the damage I can inflict. I've come to fear how strong and brazen I crave to be. I never wanted to overwhelm you." 

She blows the last of the smoke away into the cloudless sky. I pull the blanket tighter around me, hiding from the cold, hiding from myself. She pushes the door shut and sits next to me, and I cradle my head into her lap. 

"Talking is hard." I'm trying so hard not to cry.

She laughs, and I look up to find her smile. "I know." She takes a piece of my hair and twirls it through her fingers, making a single curl. Her voice is gentle. "And I've definitely found some of your triggers."

I'm genuinely curious. "Like what?"

"Well, sometimes you apologize profusely for coming everywhere." I flash back to the first time I did this with her, and the pain is fresh again. I hate myself for criticizing my ex for doing the same, and I get that my response furthered her trauma instead of healing it. The mistakes I made at eighteen are painfully the ones I am destined to repeat at twenty-five, except this time, I'm on the other side of the fence. Christ. I have a feeling I know how the conversation would go if I called her up out of the blue and told her this. But I have enough self-loathing for the both of us. As my girlfriend is quick to remind me, most of the pain we inflict on others is not intentional, but it is pain nonetheless. It is too late to change my mistakes. I can only heal myself, and that starts with learning to communicate.

"That wasn't her fault. That's mine." I don't know why I'm defending someone who isn't even there to hear it. 

She twirls the hair the other direction. "I figured it was just a part of being self-conscious."

"It is. There are certain positions that will always trigger me. I don't do them well because I will always be too self-conscious." 

"Like what?"

"Like sitting on someone's face. For some reason, I find that intensely vulnerable  and I hate it. I may want it, but I lose the desire quickly because my self-consciousness will win out over my desire."

I can see her filing away this information, silently but carefully.

"You know, I didn't realize how much I was holding back until Max came into town. We were talking about relationships and sex and dating, and it just hit me. It felt really overwhelming. But it was there, in black-and-white, and I think having to really admit that out loud was the first step to figuring it out."

It's funny, this may be the absolute sexiest conversation I've had with her in eight months. And yet, we are fully clothed. I remember something I read recently about sex in long-term relationships, how it is a balancing act between the need to feel secure with a partner and the need to be surprised and stimulated by the same partner. I need to go back and read that. I think it's also a process of balancing your fears and inhibitions with the desire to explore and experiment.

I realize that every serious conversation I have with her, I start with my heart so intensely sitting in my throat. It feels like I am choking on the words, coughing up nonsense and fear. But instead of falling, instead of flailing my arms as the abyss rises around me, she pulls me in to catch me. 

I hope I do the same for her, but the truth is, I'm not sure I'll ever know. 

I do know that this is the right door to walk through. Confessing my fears to her has never left me regretful -- only relieved. It takes a lot of fighting through the haze of fear. But I'm getting it. I will get better at this. It will get easier. Maybe I will make fewer mistakes this time, or at least, I will make different ones. That's probably the best I can hope for. I'm not under the illusion that fairy tales exist or that love cures. But I have to believe I am capable of learning and change.

All of the Lights

I can feel her tensing up. It's incredibly subtle, but my complete focus is on her body. Her legs are spread wide across my bed, lower back arched, shoulders and braids burying into the pillows. My tongue is wrapped around her clit, and I'm caught mid stroke, trying to interpret what I need to change. She's so difficult to read. It doesn't help that I've barely heard a sound from her.

I pull my fingers back, slightly, releasing my grip on her g-spot. I want to play this very carefully. I pull my tongue away, but it's not a complete disconnect. I move slowly, climbing over her, kissing my way across her body. Leaning in, toward her neck, I catch the lobe of her ear between my teeth. I whisper, between biting her neck, "Don't be afraid to tell me what you want."

She shifts a bit, stiffening but moving her hands onto my thighs, and I swear I can hear the wheels turning. I don't know how she will respond, but I can tell, clear as day, that she knows exact what she wants. I just want to coax it out of her. I move back down her body, scratching my nails down the outside of her thighs, and pulling her legs roughly apart so I can tease her. She breaks her silence, as I'm leaning down to find her clit. Her voice comes out rough, unsure, "More head. Less penetration."

I crack a smile. "I think I can handle that." I push my shoulders up against the insides of her thighs, locking my lower arms around her hips, and run my tongue deep inside her. "How's that?" I get so fucking cocky sometimes. But damn. I just want to feel her melt. I get a soft moan in response, and she cups my head in her hands and pulls me back into her. I don't stop again  until she comes, bold and unforgiving.

********

I'm sitting up on one end of the bed in a position that can only be described as awkward. I wish I could see her in the dark, and I curse myself for a second for turning off the lights. She's still spread across the bed (how does that usually end up happening?), and I've got her clit between my right thumb and forefinger. I'm not used to anyone who can take this kind of direct stimulation, and I'm enjoying the hell out of the opportunity while I have it. I can feel her swelling under my fingers.

"That feels really good." I'm grateful for her praise, simply because it means I'm doing the right thing.

"Is there anything else you'd like?" I lean down to punctuate the question with a bite to her thigh.

She cocks her head to the side. I can see the motion faintly in the reflection of the street light outside the window. "I like you. In bed, I mean."

I can't follow her train of thought. I don't know her well enough. "What do you mean?"

"I like that you tell me to say what I want. I like that you ask me." I don't know what to say. It's a deeply flattering comment, simply because it's taken me so long to get here, too. But I always feel like I've got so much left to learn, to experience. I want so badly to ask about her history. I want to know where she comes from, what she thinks about her body, what she secretly desires. I want to know what she fears. But I'm already significantly pushing her boundaries. Any more could be overkill.

"I'll tell you a secret." I'm still rolling her clit between my fingers, tracing her labia, dipping around her vagina. There's nothing quite as sweet as the feeling of someone get wet in my hands. "I had the same reaction the first time someone asked me that question. I remember clearly I had to stop and think -- what was it that I wanted? Really? And where could I get the courage to say that out loud? It's why I ask. I can't give you what you want, what you deserve, if I don't know." She falls silent as she focuses into her body and comes again, her clit pulsing.

I pull her up after she finishes, reaching to bring her into my lap. But she stops me, telling me no, and pushing me gently toward the other side of the bed. "Lie down," she tells me, and for once, I don't put up any resistance. "Now tell me, what is it that you like?"

Drip, drip, drop

I'm digging under the celery, searching the shelf for the last jar of minced garlic, when I feel your palm sliding along the curve of my jeans, where my hips and thighs meet. You lean in, low and close, to whisper in my ear, "My God, you have a nice ass." I suppress a smart comment. Thankfully nothing but the ketchup and the milk can see my smirk, because I'm still bent over with my head in the fridge. The feeling is electrifying, as unexpected touch often is. I feel the hairs rising on my arms as you trace your hands along my back pockets.

Laughter explodes in the living room, and I hear a voice raised in protest. A group of our friends is carving pumpkins and drinking beers; I doubt they've noticed our absence. You've got you fingers tracing up the inside of my thighs. I back out of the fridge carefully, a hard-won jar in my hands, and turn to face you with my best poker face.

"Can I help you, sir?"

You move toward me, carefully pinning me to the counter with your hands on either side of my waist. You've got several inches on me, and I have to look up to make eye contact. You're almost close enough for me to kiss. But instead you ask me, "Where are your wooden spoons?"

I point across the kitchen and wiggle out of your grasp, turning my attention toward the chili pot on the stove. What a mistake. In a single move, you've got a wooden spoon out of my top shelf and it's colliding with my ass.

I can't help but jump with surprise. "...what the? What are you trying to prove?"

There's a cheshire grin stretching across your lips, dimples pulled tight. "Come upstairs."

"Now? With everyone here? I've got cooking to do" -- I gesture hopelessly at the pot to emphasize my point -- "and a pumpkin to carve and..." Your finger across my lips silences me. "It can wait. We won't be long."

I'm half turned toward the sink, and you reach out to pull the string on my apron, causing it to fall forward around my neck. I pull it off and stash it in mock-protest, turning the stove heat down to a simmer. You're already halfway up the stairs when I reach the banister, hoping no one else notices our disappearance.

I step in my bedroom, and you push the lock closed on the door behind me. I've taught you this, enabled this... but I don't say a word when you reach around my waist, kissing the nape of my neck as you pop the top button on my jeans. You peel the jeans and my lace panties down only as far as mid-thigh, running your palms carefully around my ass. I realize you are sizing me up, deciding where your palm will have the most impact. The cold air hits my cunt, and I try to stifle the nerves as the sensation spreads.

You climb on my bed, sitting down with your legs crossed. I know that look in your eyes. It breaks only for my whimpers, only when you have me utterly at your mercy. You coax me onto the bed, and I pull myself across your lap. This isn't my first rodeo; I'm well aware of what you want. I fight it almost out of habit, becoming sassy, wiggling until my ass is draped over your thighs, and my face is pressed south into the pillows.

"Be a good girl, and don't make too much noise. We wouldn't want to alert your guests downstairs, now would we?" You stroke my hair with one hand as you say this, it's a sweet gesture, but the tension in your voice tells me you're only a second away from gripping a handful of my hair and pulling it by the roots. My breath becomes shallow with anticipation.

"You will be quiet, yes? Answer me."

"Yes." The pillow muffled my response.

"I didn't hear you." This time I feel my hair twisting in your fingers.

"Yes... ma'm."

There's no warning before your hand collides with my bare right cheek. I tense from the pain, but don't make a sound.

"That's my girl."

You begin to spank me, a succession of slaps, soft enough that I can tell you are warming me up. I hear voices downstairs, and I hope the echo of my 14 foot ceilings and wood floors prevents our sounds from traveling to the guests below. The pain comes in quick succession, low along the dip where my ass meets my thigh, as you rotate from one side to the other. The first time I whimper, you switch, going for higher on the cheek where the sting from the last hit doesn't reverberate.

I'm letting go, relaxing into the pain, feeling the warmth of the needles along my skin each time you hit me. You stop for a second, and I tense. My stomach sinks. The warm up is over. The silence and the cold compound my tension.

"I love to keep you waiting," you whisper. "You're such a good girl. Tell me what you want."

I've forgotten the crowd downstairs, the stove, the pie in the oven. I've forgotten anything exists outside of my dripping cunt and the cold air hitting my raw backside.

"Spank me again," I whisper, "harder."

"Can you handle it?"

"Yes... ma'm."

You wait, again, leaving me to wonder when it will happen. But instead, I feel your finger reach between my thighs, stroking the lips of my cunt. "My, you are soaking wet."

I smile into the pillow. "You must really enjoy this." You're playing with me, now, stroking so lightly that I'm wiggling and stretching to hold my body still. I want your fingers buried in my cunt, your cock, your lips, hell, I don't care. Anything you can find to put inside me. But you stop, lean down to plant a soft kiss on my left cheek, and bring your hand down so hard on my right cheek that I jump involuntarily.

"Hold still," you growl, "or I'll take your insolence and disobedience out on you." I nod, and you bring your palm down again, hitting me without abandon, until I'm moaning low and softly, almost yelping. The seconds stretch out into minutes, and I find myself holding on tight, wishing for the end, but simultaneously reveling in the pain. Such a love/hate sensation, this need for pleasure and pain, so wound up together.

I can't take much more of this. I breathe a sigh of relief when you stop. You slide your fingers back into my cunt, teasing, as you lean over to whisper, "I'll finish you later."

You land one more good smack on my ass, then pull me up and off the bed. I turn away to pull my jeans back up and unbutton them, hoping I haven't soaked completely through the the fabric. You check to see that I'm dressed and unhook the latch, pulling the door open to let me leave first. But I turn back at the door way to kiss you, quick and dirty and deep, before bounding down the stairs for the kitchen.

Valerie

"I'm afraid I'll crush you."

She laughs, a little too loud, and cocks her head to the side in that quizzical, puppy dog way. "That's ridiculous! You can't crush me. You're not that much bigger than me."

"It feels like it. I don't know. It's probably just my being self conscious." I climb off her, shifting my weight onto my hands so I can fall on my hip into the bed next to her. She reaches up to slide her hands through my hair. She's been doing this exact move for months, over a year now, and I still turn my eyes down when she looks directly at me. I don't know if it's the intensity of her stare, or the way her fingers feel in my hair. I want to rest my chin in her palm, turn my cheek into her fingers. I find myself hesitating (again). It takes so long to let go. I can't handle this kind of intimacy with someone immediately. I shy away, turn stiff.

The thoughts turn off automatically when she kisses me, and I reach my hand back down between her thighs. She pulls away. "What are you doing?" She's cocky almost, and I immediately wonder if I overstepped my bounds.

"May I fuck you again?"

"May you... hm. You just did." I lean in to kiss her again, pushing my body against her until she falls back, buried in the pillows. I lean in to bite her neck, beginning at her clavicle and working my way to her ear, running my tongue along her earlobe until I can feel her start to squirm beneath me. "Did I?" I mutter softly into her ear. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much. I don't recollect this. How about I try once again, just to make sure?"

She hesitates, and I kiss her neck again, so softly I can barely taste the salt of her sweat on my lips.

"I don't want to be... a pillow princess." It's my turn to laugh. I spin her nipple in my fingers, twisting it before I bite around the areola. "Ouch!" She jumps in surprise, not hurt, but not sure what to make of it. I can see the playfulness in her eyes. "Please. I offered to fuck you. Hell, if you're sweet, I might even beg. Don't be silly. I promise to never, ever think less of you for asking for sex, for wanting to get off, for letting me play with you. If I didn't enjoy the hell out of it, I wouldn't offer."

She squirms again, as I hope my words sink in, wrapping around her self-conscious thoughts, and bringing her instead to the surface, to here, to now.

"I'm going to try this again," I coax her gently, "You're welcome to say no. May I fuck you again?" This time I don't touch her; I want a genuine answer -- not an influenced one. I look directly into her eyes, and even though the impulse to turn away is strong, I fight it. What do I want? This. Her. I can't ask her to not pull away, to not give into those same impulses, if I'm not willing to check my own.

The playful fire melts, and instead of her strength, I find her vulnerability swirling around dark pupils. Maybe this is why sex is intimate -- not because touching genitalia is, not because orgasms are, not because of nudity or skin-to-skin contact or the way her clit slides between my fingers. It's intimate because we bring our fears here, our baggage and our needs. It's intimate because we have to learn to ask for what we want, and more importantly, how to draw boundaries around what we don't. The give-and-take is intense.

She reaches up to put her hand through my hair again, stroking it, and this time I don't break eye contact. I can feel the fear building up under the surface, flooding my body, but I focus in on the crows feet around her eyes, the hit at the beginning of laugh lines. She pulls me in for a kiss, but slides over instead, letting her lips brush my earlobe, and whispers, "yes."

The word sends chills down my spine.

e[lust] #25

 Photo courtesy of Sadie
Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. And in this edition you can read all about the best sexuality conference of the year (ever?), Momentum, in a one-time-only Editor's Choice anomaly: I couldn't choose just one, so I chose them all! Want to be included in e[lust] #26? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Where We Are - It was only supposed to be about the fucking. I don't know how I convinced myself that it could be. I fretted before we began, about how I could ever possibly separate sex from emotion.
The Edible Slut - His hand made an audible crack as it connected with her ass, loud in the dim bedroom. Did he really sink his hand into her hair, turn her head to face him, and shout, “Stop being such a brat!”
Beyond Bisexual - I don’t identify as bisexual, because I am interested in so many more people than just two of the variety of sexes or genders out there. Except, that is a word that a lot of people understand.

~ Featured: Momentum Conference Posts (Lilly’s Picks) ~

An Extraordinary Gathering (and a Gathering of the Extraordinary)

 Finally! A Real Momentum Post

 Inspired by MomentumCon

 #mcon Rehash

 Momentum

 Momentumcon, Part One

~ e[lust] Editress ~

To Be or Not To Be....Anonymous, That Is - If you’re out or decide to be out….you’re not just outing yourself. You’re outing them all. And did they give their consent? Probably not, I’d guess. And even if they did give their consent could they even have a clue what consequences there will be?
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Thank you, and enjoy!

Knockout

"Come over at 9:30pm. Let yourself in. Have your cock ready when you walk in my door."

That's all the text message said.


I can hear her footsteps echoing in the wooden stairwell next to my bedroom. My door swings open. She's got a nervous look in her eyes, but she plays it off well. "Hey baby. How're you?"

"Hi." I climb out of bed, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and some cotton panties, and pull her into me roughly. I kiss her deeply and slide my hands down to her jeans, unbuttoning them and pulling her cock out. It's fast and smooth, all in one movement, and she pulls away a bit to assess what I'm doing.

"Sit down." I point to the chair in the corner of my room, a relic from a lifetime past, and I push her hips gently in that direction.

Now she looks really nervous. "What are you...?"

"You'll see." I pull out a coil of soft rope from underneath my bed, as she sits down.

"Put your palms together, and hold them out for me."

She's so obliging. I wrap the rope around and between her wrists, fastening them together. She's watching me with rapt attention, not sure what to expect. Holding the other thirteen feet of rope, I begin to wind it around her upper body and the chair back, restraining her neatly into the chair. She can breathe deeply and squirm a bit, but that's all the rope will allow her. I step back to admire my handiwork. Can't help it. There's something a bit sadistically beautiful about the way the light purple rope contrasts against her skin, across her dark blue t-shirt, and the way it pulls against the curves of her body.

Her fly is still unzipped; her dick is poking out, ready, waiting. I lean in to kiss her then get down to my knees, pushing her thighs apart. I start at her balls and run my tongue along her shaft, stopping at the head to slip her whole dick in my mouth.

That's all it takes. She melts into a mess. She's pulling against the ropes, moaning at the way I take her, almost sweetly, into the back of my throat. There's nothing that turns her on more than sticking whatever is available into my mouth.

I play with her a bit, licking the head of her cock, running my lips down her shaft, sucking her deep until I can't take it anymore. She'd come in my mouth in a heartbeat, if she could. But I'm not done with her yet.

I stand up, pulling the big t-shirt over my head. I reach down, pull my panties to the side, and remove the glass dildo from inside me. It's soaking wet; I've been clenching it so hard for the last fifteen minutes that the release is almost orgasmic.

"Oh you... how did you hide that from me?" She's been watching me in amazement.

I laugh and set the dildo on the shelf. "I still like to surprise you every once in awhile." I retrieve a condom from the dresser, tear it open, slide it on her. I climb over the chair, resting my thighs on the arms, and grip her cock, sliding it into the lips of my cunt. There's so much space between us that I can barely feet it against me, but the glass piece has left me so wound up that just the thought of her inside me is enough to make me drip.

Her nose touches mine, but she can't lean forward to kiss me. She wants to know what's coming next. What to expect. Where to go. As if she could go anywhere.

I kiss her, again and again until I'm too wet to play this game, and I stop to lean my lips into her ear.

"I'm going to untie you." She nods.

"You're going to take your jeans off. I'm going to get my bullet. I'm going to climb on the bed. Do you understand so far?"

"Yes, ma'm." Oh, so compliant.

"You're going to push me down on all fours. You're going to lube up your cock. And then you're going to slide inside of me and fuck me senseless. I want you to fuck me hard. Don't stop until I use my safeword. Can you do that?"

I lean back to look into her eyes. The edge of fear has been replaced by a desire, deep, rolling, an anticipation. She's so good at giving me exactly what I want. I pull the end of the rope, releasing the knot, and begin to unwind it and release her. With her wrists finally free, she slides her hands across my hips, pushing me deeper into her, and pulls my upper body forward to kiss her. I'm relinquishing physical control, and it feels amazing. She bites my neck, my earlobe, forcing the moans out of my lips.

"Yes, ma'm. I'll give you anything you want."

Reaching a Fever Pitch

The flame casts a truly beautiful glow across her face, her chest, her bare shoulders. She's concentrating, intently, on the candle she is holding in her hand. The flame is rising; it's almost two inches. I feel like I'm stealing a glance into a private moment, seeing something I shouldn't be privy to.

I turn back, in the pillow, before she can catch me watching.

I can barely see the flickering shadows on the walls out of the corner of my eye. I wish for a moment that we were doing this at night, instead of in the light of morning, but I seriously doubt this will be the last time. She has a hand on my back, holding me down gently, so that my whole body, nose to toes, is pressing into the black sheets.

"It's taking a bit to melt. Are you ready?"

How do I prepare for a pain I haven't experienced before?

"Yes."

I take a deep breath, trying to stop myself from tensing in anticipation.

The pain is exquisite. I begin to whimper, immediately, muffling the sound in the pillow.

It's not the sharp intensity of a needle, though it's focused into an equally small surface area. It's not the wide, warm, tingling friction of a paddle or a hand, yet, there's a similarity to the heat that fades quickly as the wax cools and solidifies on my skin. The sensation disappears so quickly that I find I miss it; I don't have the time to love it or hate it, but only to remember it.

She pours it in drops, beginning at my shoulder blades, across my upper back. The splatter feels wonderful, the pain skipping across nerves to land unexpectedly. I so enjoy the way the sensation spreads across my skin, in an increasingly wider surface area, when the heavy droplets splatter.

My whimpering increases with the pain, until it's almost a moan. It's quick and fluid; I don't have time to tense up between drops or even mentally retract from the pain. She stops to admire her handiwork. "There's a gorgeous X across your back."

How cruel. She knows I want to see it.

"Can you take more?"

There's no hesitation in my response. I don't even look up.

She drips it down, across the tattoo on my back, on to my ass. I'm scared for a moment that it will splatter in places I don't want to be cleaning wax out of, but she controls it deftly.

I begin to squirm from the pain and my thoughts end, as I can't seem to redirect my mind from focusing on the sensation. The heat spreads faster, becoming more intense, and I'm whimpering though the sound doesn't feel like it's coming from me. My skin feels like it is on fire at a very low heat, but the fire moves as each drop cools and dries and another droplet burns in succession.

She stops as I begin to struggle with the pain, squirming because I can't hold still. She blows out the candle, and sets it back on the mantle. My breath quiets again. The hardened wax drops feel like a casing on my back, the skin tight and untouched underneath. She traces the drops with her fingers, from my shoulders to my ass and back again, spreading across the small of my back.

"Can I see?"

She takes a picture with my phone, and the image is riveting. The droplets are tiny, most smaller than my pinky, but there are a mess of hundreds criss-crossing my back, almost hiding the black ink of my tattoo. It would be gorgeous intertwined with rope.

I turn to my side, and she leans down to kiss me, gently, in an almost surreal juxtaposition to the pain. I pull her in, roughly, and lean up to whisper in her ear.

"Fuck me."

"Yes, ma'm."

$25 EdenFantasys Gift Card Giveaway

So.

Most wonderful of news.

One of you is going to win a $25 gift card to purchase some Adult Toys at EdenFantasys.com.

I know, isn't that fantastic?

I have even better news.

I don't want you to sign up for anything or join a newsletter or follow me on Twitter or trade me your soul or give me your firstborn.

Nope. None of that.

Instead, this what you have to do to enter the contest:

I'm going to write the beginning of a story. Right below this. First, you're going to read it. Then, you're going to answer the question by going to EdenFantasys.com, picking out a sex toy (or a few), and leaving a comment saying which sex toy you would use and what position you would use it in. You must leave an email with the comment, or else there's no way I can contact you if you win. I'll pick out the most creative answer :)

The contest closes April 30th.

***********

I pulled open the door and stopped short, unable to speak. She was standing in the living room, a few feet from the door, holding a coil of rope. I could barely make out the white of the rope in the dim light of the room.

"Hi..." I couldn't seem to get out another word.

"Hey." She moved closer to me, eyes on fire. Clearly she had been planning this, and I had no idea what was coming next.

"Follow me." I wandered through the house, past the kitchen, into her bedroom. The bed was already turned down, and the room was lit by a single lamp. She stopped next to the bed, turned around, and took a step toward me. I felt overwhelmed by her presence, a bit close for comfort, but I also felt drawn to her. She dropped the rope on the bed and reached forward, unzipping my jacket.

"Take this off."

"Yes, ma'm." I pulled it off, dropped it to the ground.

She growled over me. "Take off the rest."

"All of my clothes?" The words slipped out before I could stop myself.

"You know better than to speak unless I'm asking you a question."

I nodded.

"Don't do it again. Do you understand?"

I wasn't sure if I was allowed to answer. Was this a question? My thoughts spun. Yes.

"Yes."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, ma'm."

I slowly slipped off my dress, unhooked my bra, slid my panties down around my ankles. I stood naked, stripped down, in front of her. She looked down on me from only a few inches above me, but in my exposure, it felt like she towered over me.

She put her hands on my shoulders and spun me around. She pushed me forward until I had my nose to the white wall, and she roughly pulled my hands behind me, locking my forearms into a box. I felt the ropes winding around my wrists, and within seconds, she had me bound, unable to break free. She wound the ropes across my chest, over my shoulders, building a chest harness. The ropes wound tighter and tighter, until I could barely wiggle the upper half of my body. She finished, hooked her fingers in the rope, and yanked back. I felt my body fall backward, and I jumped to catch up, unable to balance completely without her control. She laughed low and hard as I struggled. She backed me to the edge of the bed and threw me down, face first, into the dark sheets.

She climbed over me, holding me down with the weight of her chest and torso. I turned my head to the side, gasping for breath, and she leaned her lips right next to my ear.

"You've been such a good girl, letting  me tie you up without a word of protest. So I'm going to do something a bit unusual tonight. I'm going to let you choose what you want next. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'm." The words came out breathlessly.

"Ok. What would you like?"

**********

....Go to EdenFantasys.com. Choose a toy. Leave a comment (or send me an email at fleurderenaissance@gmail.com) describing what you chose, and how you (the submissive) would like her (the dominant) to use it on you. Creativity matters! Good luck. Don't forget -- get your comments in by April 30th!   

You Can Make It Feel So Real

"May I come?"

I pull back, disconnecting my lips from her labia, but leave both fingers inside her cunt.

"Excuse me?" My voice comes out low, hard.

"May I come?" She's moaning between questions. I'm enjoying making her wait.

"Aren't you missing something?"

"Please, ma'm? May I..."

I cut her off. "No. Wait."

She moans, almost whining. She swings her wrists down, but I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye, just as I'm about to dip my face back into her cunt.

"What are you doing? Put your hands back over your head."

She gulps.

"Yes, ma'm." She shifts her handcuffed wrists back above her head.

"If you behave, I'll let you come. Do you understand?"

She nods. "Yes, ma'm"

I slide back down, curling both fingers into her g-spot before I lick her slowly, from the base of my fingers, across her labia, and over her clit. She shudders and cries out, again; it's obvious how hard she is holding it in. I twirl my tongue around her clit once more, clockwise.

"Now. You can come."

She gasps for a huge breath, moans, and I lick her, tongue flat across her clit, until she's writhing and dripping down my tongue, my lips, my chin. She quiets for a minute, breathing deeply. We're far from done. I begin to twirl my fingers inside of her, very, very slowly. She's so tight; I know she can feel every touch, every movement, to the tips of her fingers and toes. I adore how the energy coils in her body after she comes; there's another orgasm hiding, but it must be coaxed out. Usually this is a slow process, a dance, as I loosen her up until she's crying out on the verge again.

I lick her, gently, pulling her g-spot with the tips of my fingers in rhythm with my tongue. She thrashes a bit, and comes across my lips again.

She didn't ask first. She knows better. But I don't stop. I want to see how far this will go. I keep licking, fucking, pushing against her cunt in a slow rhythm.

She moans. "May I come, please?"

But she doesn't wait for my answer. She's trying to pretend like she isn't coming, but the way she tightens around my fingers gives her away. I let her finish, then lift my head up.

"I... I... I came without your permission."

Dead silence.

"Did you?"

"Yes." It comes out as a whisper.

"Excuse me?" My voice becomes harsher, sharper.

"Yes, ma'm. Twice."

I pull my fingers out so quickly she jumps. I climb up the bed, over her, straddle her waist. She looks up at me, hands above her head, where they should be.

"Are you going to punish me?" Her voice is so soft, I can barely hear it.

"Do you deserve to be punished?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" Cut the bullshit.

"Yes, ma'm."

"Did I tell you I would punish you if you didn't ask before you came?"

Pause.

"Yes, ma'm."

I reach above her, pull the cuffs off, one by one. I'm contemplating her punishment, and I need a second. I consider a spanking, but I haven't hit her or spanked her yet. I'm not sure she's ready. I'd prefer something she doesn't know yet to fear, something that will cut psychologically, not physically.

She lies waiting quietly in anticipation. I say nothing, let her fear build. I get out of bed and move around the room, replacing the handcuffs in the drawer, giving us both a few moments.

Hm. This is going to be good.

I pull my Hitachi wand out of the drawer. I can feel her eyes following me in the faint light. I plug it in next to my bed.

"Get on your side of the bed." She shifts over, away from me, still on her back. Her eyes are huge. I can tell that she's extremely nervous.

I look directly into her eyes. "You disobeyed me."

Pause.

"Why did you disobey me?"

"I... I guess...I wanted to know what the consequences would be."

"You wanted to know if I would really punish you?" I'm astounded at this blatant disobedience.

"Yes.... ma'm." She knows she's in deep trouble now.

"So, you're telling me that not only did you disobey me, but you did it purposefully." I don't wait for her answer. "You're testing me. I don't appreciate it. You deserve to be punished. I don't threaten what I am not willing to carry out. Do you understand me?"

The fear is getting the better of her. "Yes, ma'm."

"Do you understand why you are being punished?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes, ma'm."

"Good." I lie down next to her, but several inches away. No part of my body is touching hers. I pull the Hitachi into my lap.

"I'm going to get off, and you're going to watch. Under no circumstances can you touch me. Do you understand?"

She whines, but it comes out almost as a moan. Holding me, touching me, as I masturbate is one of her favorite ways to have sex. It's probably her biggest fetish. And I'm about to turn it against her.

"Yes...."

I turn the Hitachi on, rub it against my clit, and begin to moan. It's almost theatre, putting this show on for her. I'm not sure if I'm more audience or performer. I can't see her, next to me in the dark, but I can feel her writhing, struggling physically and mentally with her punishment.

"Please? Please, can I touch you?"

"No." Punishments are not to be taken lightly.

I turn my head and moan near her ear. She whimpers a bit, quiets down. I'm so very much enjoying this. I come, my moans reaching a crescendo, cut the power of the Hitachi, and lie in the bed, letting my body reverberate from the powerful vibrations. I can feel her still writhing, getting upset with me.

"May I... may I touch you now?"

"Did you forget something, again?"

"Please?"

"No. You may not touch me."

I drop the Hitachi on the floor, and turn toward her, propping up on my side to look down on her.

"How does it feel to be punished?"

She gasps, still wanting to touch me. My body is so very close to hers, and I can feel the magnetism between us. I want to touch her, too. I want to cradle her, hold her, nuzzle her, kiss her. But I hold back. I want her to know that I'm serious, that a threat results in action. I want her to understand she isn't going to get away with disobeying me.

"It... it was... torture." She shivers. "To hear you, to see you next to me, and not to touch you. That was really mean."

"How did it make you feel?"

She thinks for a second. "Angry. I'm kind of mad at you."

I digest this for a minute. "Did you disobey me?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that if you did not ask before you came, I would punish you? Was I clear in explaining the consequences?"

"Yes."

"Did you decide to test me by purposefully disobeying?"

She's becoming petulant with my pushing. "Yes."

"Then you do understand that you brought this on yourself?"

"......yes."

"You don't have any right to be angry with me. You made a choice. You chose to disobey, knowing full and well that there would be consequences. You had the agency here. I responded to your actions. I think you need to reconsider who your anger should be aimed at."

She seethes a bit in the dark, but I can tell the wheels are turning.

"But that punishment was really mean."

"Yes. But you wanted to test me, and you chose to disobey me." I take a breath. "I think we should end this scene. Is that ok?"

"Yes, please."

I kiss her, softly, on the lips. I put my arm around her, pull her head into my chest, and cradle her body into mine. She shutters, breathes deeply, and curls into me.

a Kinkster is Born

The overhead fan is beating through the heavy summer heat, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. My room is stifling. The afternoon sun glaring on my windows isn’t helping – but neither are we. I’ve got her down on my bed, my hips holding her captive. She slides her hands under the oversized men’s cotton polo shirt I’m wearing; her fingers feel cool against the heat of my skin.

I stop kissing her, pull away. “Will you take your jeans off?”

I’m making her nervous. I can tell. I’m always a bit surprised when this happens, especially when I know for a fact that I’m younger, less experienced. But I suppose everyone isn’t quite so brash, completely sober and determined to get laid in the middle of the afternoon.

“I don’t know…”

“Please?” I keep pushing, foolishly, because I’m young and aggressive.

But she clearly isn’t going to oblige. I flip around, climbing off her, and fall into the bed next to her. She pulls up on her side, leaning over me, pulling me under her.

“Yes?” I’m not trying to be rude, but my response comes off as a cocky question.

“I want to fuck you.”

I look directly into her eyes, unfazed. “You already have. I want to fuck you.”

“Not today, not now.” She’s insistent.

“That’s not fair. I don’t want you to keep fucking me and not let me touch you.” In my head, I rationalize not wanting to start this – whatever this is – as anything but reciprocal.

“Just for today.”

I’m clearly not getting anywhere, and there's a time to stop pushing. I relax and pull her into me. She leans in to kiss me. She wants to get me off. We fucked the day before, and I didn’t come. I had gotten close – so close, then my body shut off at the last moment. It’s not abnormal. Bodies are fickle, unpredictable, changing. An orgasm, or lack of one, doesn’t mean or prove anything, at least, not in my eyes.

We’re still kissing, but I’m pondering the next move. My choices are to let her fuck me or get out of bed. This isn’t a difficult decision. She begins to unbutton my shirt from the bottom, and I follow her lead, unbuttoning it from the top. She slides off the only other article of clothing I’m wearing – a pair of cotton panties – and runs her hands across my body.

She swings her body across mine, holding herself up over me, and pulls the down comforter up and over our bodies. She’s stripped down from three shirts to one by this point, and I’ve got her bra off, even if she’s still holding on to her t-shirt and jeans. She sits up, hips holding me down, and catches both my wrists with her hands, pulling them above my head. I don't expect this, at all, and my body tenses reflexively. But I don't have any time to react. The weight of her body is pushing me deeper into the bed; I can't move. She leans in, lips grazing my ear. 


"I'm going to let go of your wrists. But you're not going to move. Do you understand?"


I'm gulping for air. Between breaths, I nod. 


"Don't say anything. I don't want to hear a peep from you. I don't want you to move a muscle. Understood?"


I'm nodding.


"Say 'yes' so I know you understand."


"Yes," I whisper. 


"If you move, I'll won't touch you." Every muscle in my body is frozen. 


She releases my wrists and moves down my body, slowly, kissing across my breasts, my stomach, my hip bones, the inside of my thighs. It's taking every ounce of my concentration to  focus on not moving, not twitching. She spreads my legs wide; they feel like jello -- I have no control. Her tongue finds my swollen clit, and a moan falls out of my lips. I tense, hoping she didn't hear me. 


She stops. Fuck. "Did I just hear you moan?"


I shake my head back and forth.


"Answer me."


"No. Yes. I'm sorry."


"Don't do it again."


She puts her mouth back to my clit, wraps both arms under and around my thighs until she's gripping me so tight I'm tensing against her. 


I don't have time to think, to process this totally new sensation in my body. I come so fucking fast that it scares me. I couldn't hold back if I wanted to. 

[e]lust #23

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #24? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Roadmaps of Consent - I fucking love consent. I love safewords. I can be much more cruel, and push much harder, if I trust my partner to tell me when I go too far.

Staying Safe - One cock, from one man, missing one condom, ultimately led to my brother’s death. And that sucks.

Flying the Friendly Skies - One button on her sweater was undone, there was a rip in her hose, scratches on her boots, and her hair was carelessly pinned back with stray wisps of hair escaping. There was a curious flavor of soiling about her, something a bit dirty and unkempt.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Labels and my thoughts... - In the past year and a half I have gone from being someone that was lost, without identity that fit, rattling around inside myself to someone that has names for what they are.

~ e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly

 
See also: Pleasurists #116 and #117 for all your sex toy review needs
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

She's an 8 Ball

As she walks up the steps, I pull open the front door, revealing my dining room cloaked in darkness. She leans down to kiss me, and I shift up on my toes, pulling her face down to mine. Connecting in. I like starting in a comfortable place, a calm place. She drops her backpack at my feet, and I let her grasp me around the waste, her lips still reaching for mine.

I pull away from her with a left ball change, and my body stiffens. She reaches for me again, leans toward me, but this time I rock back again slowly, cautiously. It's subtle, but she doesn't miss it. She stops, midway. Reaches for me with her hand, questioningly, but my body fluidly moves backward out of her reach.

"May I?" her voice is strong, not demanding, but confident.

I lean in to kiss her, but stop an inch from her lips. She comes back quickly, but I retract. She bites her bottom lip, cocks her head to the side, stares hungrily. I love the power in her stare. I love pushing her down, holding her there, watching her eyes as she gives way into yearning. The power is still there when she begs me. But there's something else, too -- a touch of fear mingled with the raw need for submission.

I move toward her once more, stop before she can reach for me to kiss me. She can't have me. She can't touch me, she can't kiss me. I lean it, catch her bottom lip, and bite it softly. She hesitates before kissing me back. She hesitates again, leans in to touch me. I pull away, ending the kiss.

"May I touch you?"

"No." Low and soft, I find my voice. It has the feeling of a familiar weapon, the handle of a old knife I haven't palmed in a long time. "I don't think so."

I can feel a shift in her. My voice takes her aback. I'm not sure when, but I know it has hit her that the room is dark. All the lights are off, which is unusual -- I always leave one or two on, click them off in a row on my way up to bed.

"Follow me." I take her arm, lead her though the dark rooms, into the stairwell. She doesn't know what to expect, and I'm going to thoroughly enjoy toying with her.

I stop in front of the stairs, midway into the house. "Kiss me," I order her. We dance for a minute, again, as I pull back from her kisses and she reaches in for more. I find pleasure in training her to follow my movements. She's intelligent, catches on fast. It's a mind game at this point, a psychological power play.

I find her hands in the darkness, put them on the waist of my jeans. "Take my pants off."

She giggles nervously. "But you'll be cold..." It's half question, half statement.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" I pause and lean in, my lips right next to her ear. "I told you to take my pants off."

"Yes, ma'm," she whispers.

"I'm glad you're listening." I don't have time for bullshit.

She undoes the button on my jeans carefully, slowly pulling the legs of my jeans down my thighs. I have the feeling she wants to touch me, but I haven't given her permission to. She knows better.

She stands back up and waits for my next command, nervously.

"What can I do for you?" she asks. It's one of her favorite questions. She's pulling what she knows, trying to apply it to the situation to make it more familiar, more comfortable.

"Whatever I tell you."

She giggles again, and a part of me wants to reach out to her as she navigates this space outside her comfort zone. But I haven't pushed her into anything she can't handle.

"Take off my panties."

"Here?"

"Don't question me." She moves slowly, carefully, working down my body. Her face is inches from my cunt.

"Stand up."

I can feel the cold air hitting my body. I guide her hand to the desk next to me, where my robe sits. She picks it up. "Put the robe on me."

"Yes, ma'm." She gingerly sets it on me. I lean in and bite her neck, bit her lip. Run my hands across her chest. She's bound, tight, but I find her nipples anyway. I want to pinch them, but that's not possible. She groans softly when I touch her.

"May I touch you?" I let this question sink in.

"What do you want?" My response is low, cold.

"May I touch you, please?" God, how I love to hear her beg.

"No."

She is accustomed to my consent. "Please?" But my body is stiff and cold as my voice.

"No. Follow me."

I lead her through the curtain, into the kitchen. The only light is a street lamp glinting through the window over the sink. In the middle of the kitchen I pull her into me roughly, nails digging into her neck, and kiss her. Her uncertainty is almost tangible.

I snatch her shirt in my fist, back up into the counter top, and pull her into me. Her hands rest on the counter.

"Do you know what I want?"

She shakes her head.

"Answer me."

"No." Her voice is so small, awkward.

"Do you feel this countertop?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what." It's not a question.

"Yes, ma'm."

"Lift me onto it." She cups her hands under my ass, and I pull my body up as she lifts me. I lock my thighs around her waist, bend over her, and kiss her. Her hand touches my thigh, cautiously. I pull away sharply from her lips.

"Did I say you could touch me?"

She hangs her head. "No."

"No, what?"

"No, ma'm."

"Then why are you touching me?"

"I..." She's stuttering. "I wanted to feel you."

"Don't touch me unless I tell you to. Do you understand me?"

"Yes... ma'm."

"Good. I made that pretty fucking clear."

I wrap my hands around her cheeks, pull her in close to me. I can't see her eyes in the dark, though I want to.

I shift my legs open, spread wide across the kitchen counter. "Do you know what I want?"

She shifts nervously but doesn't answer.

"I'm going to tell you what you're going to do. You're going to lick me until I come all over your tongue. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'm."

I push her head down roughly between my thighs, lean back, and let her cup her hands under my ass and lift me to her face.

Believe Them When They Say...

Fabulous. A girl I know who lives in NYC posted this on her Facebook, and I'm happy to help it make the rounds on the interwebs. And I have to say, Rebecca Drysdale, if you make it to New Orleans any time soon, give me a call.

Heal Me, My Darling

My first year of college, I worked as a DJ at my college's radio station. I found this single hidden among the rows and rows and rows of CD's, and it quickly became my favorite cover of this song. For a few months, it was the last song I would play every Sunday night, before I signed of the air. This song will always be, for me, about watching the sun set on Sunday evening after spending all morning in bed with a warm, naked woman.

Closer

“It’s been quite a while since I’ve been topped…”

Her voice comes soft, breathless, so close to my ear. I have my hips squarely between the inside of her thighs, legs spread open, pushing her up into my headboard, two fingers inside her cunt, so tight I can barely move them. I have long ago lost count of how many times she had come, if I was ever keeping track at all. We are almost still; I’m catching my breath, enjoying the heat between our bodies, barely stroking her g-spot.

I moan deep, almost guttural, the sound I make when puzzling through my thoughts. “I don’t quite see it that way.” I try the word on for size, hesitantly. “Topping...”

“Tell me more about that.”

My thoughts race. It’s a word that didn't enter my vocabulary until I moved to New Orleans, a foreign concept I had equated up until that point only with gay men. I hadn’t come of age in a lesbian culture – I didn’t grow up in the bars, didn’t grow up with elders, didn’t become initiated into an established community. This was new for me, to meet women who identified as tops and bottoms. I had always experienced queer sex as fluid, without roles. It didn’t help that my introduction to the terms, the idea, was not born out of sex-positivity or identity. Instead, these words came to me encased in the crude language of competition and pride, masculinity and femininity, where “to top” was a status of pride and strength, and “to bottom” was an act of submission, a put down, a source of embarrassment and shame. I rejected the terms, outright and immediately, because I didn’t like what that binary implied. Not until I met people who embraced those identities and actions as a source of equal strength, as a yin and yang, did I begin to accept where those words, those identities, could fit.

I try hard to pull myself out of my head, back to the moment, before I get lost and leave her underneath me, waiting.

“I don’t know. I…” I stumble for words, for a way to express what the hell I was trying to say. I find myself burying my head in her neck. “It’s not about putting you down, or asking you to submit. It’s not about…power? Hm. Don’t get me wrong, the power is great. It’s a trip to be in this position, and I enjoy the hell out of it. But… it’s about my wanting to please you. It’s about letting go. It’s born out of a place of deep respect, because I know how hard it is to just let go. But I don’t see it as dominating you, I see it as playing with you, fucking with you.”

It’s a nightmare to navigate those emotional barriers, at times. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to leave control, to leave fear, to leave my own socialization and understanding of gender roles, of strength and weakness, at the bedroom door. I like to dominate, and I like to submit, but, for me, the latter takes significantly more emotional work. To lay out my body, my strength, and let her take me for everything I am worth requires a lot of trust.  To dominate comes almost as a default. Control is heady, easy, disconnected. But I want to approach her differently. I wanted to connect in, to work through this process with her as I work through it myself. I want to give, I want to enjoy receiving, and I want respect and consent and pleasure to guide us instead of letting our own fears and preconceptions hold us back.

I still struggle with my words. I don’t feel like I conveyed what I wanted to say, only touched the tip of the iceberg. Of course, power and submission and domination is a part of this. But those words, outside the context of kink circles, tend to imply strength and weakness, oppression and victimization. I come from a sociology background, so for me, these are buzzwords into analyzing social stratification, hierarchies, and social capital. But I’m in bed, and here, these words imply something different – consent, agency, respect. Asking for what I want, and getting it from someone who earnestly wants to give it... who might even give it to me by denying it, by not allowing me to ask.

“I trust you,” she whispers.

I skip a beat, mentally, emotionally, physically. I lay my head down on her chest, for just a moment, listening to the pacing of her heartbeat, taking in every inch of her body. And then I begin to rock her, slowly, pulling her hips deeper into mine. I love to listen, to pay attention to the very subtle ways her body responds. To feel each contraction of her cunt, to hear each breath, to feel the heat spread slowly across her skin. She reaches up, curling her body tighter around me. With my left hand, I push her back down, deep into the bed, kneeding my other hand deeper and harder into her. She moans, half in mock protest and half in genuine pleasure. I have her pinned to the bed now, arms spread across the pillows.

“Relax, and just let me fuck you.” She takes a long breath, arches her back one last time, and sinks deeper and deeper into me, into the bed, until I can feel her focusing on nothing but herself. 

e[lust] #22

One of my posts from last month has been included in e[lust] #22! There's plenty of great erotica to read if you're looking for something to get your blood flowing this week. 

 Photo courtesy of Lady Grinning Soul
Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #23? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~
Erotic asphyxiation: treatments of kink in therapy and the media - Kink and BDSM practitioners often come to an enhanced understanding of their own desires through the emphasis on personal boundaries and communicative consent which arises from a responsible approach to power and pain play.
Mirror, mirror - I found myself back there again, perched on the edge of the white expanse, spreading myself shamelessly in front of the glass
Worry - I’ve been thinking about rape culture more than ever before. On the outside, much of K’s and my play looks like sexual abuse. It’s not, because consent is always central.
~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~
gender and misogyny: responsibility and erotic writing - I spent a good portion of my adult life being gender fluid myself ..., and have partnered with several gender fluid folks as a top. Creating representation of us and our eroticism feels so vital to me, so important.
~ e[lust] Editress ~
Help End the Backlog - Speaking out works. Taking action works. Silence doesn’t. Politicians on every level need to hear your voice saying “this is unacceptable”. 76%. 3/4. That’s how many rapists get away with it on a national level.
See also: Pleasurists #111 and #112 for all your sex toy review needs
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Parts and Pieces

***********

Your skin radiates warmth, and my first thought is that I’m glad I let you sleep over, simply for this sensation. The morning light is flooding in, and I’m fighting the obligation to get out of bed and stumble into the shower. You’re still breathing, heavy, uneven. I want to curl up to you, bury in your skin, but strangely, cuddling is one of the few things I’m unsure about with you. It's not an emotional activity for me, but for some people, cuddling is intensely personal in a way sex simply isn't. I find myself mulling over how we've discussed and navigated so much, and yet, never this. I roll up against you, instead, pull the comforter back over my head, and shut out the light. I’m lulled back to sleep before I can even count to ten.

**********

The heat of the water almost burns as I step in. Having a heated pool at a gay bar, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the night? Only in New Orleans. I slip underwater, pulling myself forward, deeper, and though the Chlorine burns my eyes, I want to be swallowed into the water, I want to float weightless, I want to escape. As I child, I used to pretend I was a mermaid, a whale, a fish, or some combination… swimming deep into the depths, holding the air in my lungs until the pressure rose, expanding, forcing me upward. I feel free in water, unencumbered by the parts of my body that are awkward, heavy, uneven. I feel graceful.

When I come up for air, fifteen feet away, I can hear the echo of voices and laughter from the other end of the pool. The sounds bring life to the cold January night air. There’s no one here but us, and it’s the perfect place to be at two in the morning – a bit of familiar and a bit of unexpected, but mostly just a whole lot of ridiculous antics, bad inside jokes, and easy conversation. Behind me, our beer cans line the edge of the pool, and nipples rise and fall above the water line. It’s my first time being topless in public since Pensacola Pride in May 2007, and the water is beautiful against my skin.

***********

I can feel the weight of your head falling on my shoulder, cushioned by my hoodie. I want to pull you in. I want to bury in you. You make me want to be vulnerable, in a way no one has in a very long time. But I can’t. I won’t. I… I have a million reasons, and while sometimes they sound like excuses, at other times they’re perfectly valid.

“That one, there,” I’m pointing up into the night sky, “is that the big dipper?”

“Yep. And look across, there,” You point to the left of the constellation, “It’s the north star. It’s like it fell out 

of the dipper. You can always find them together.”

I have a vague recollection of my father telling me this same fact, as I stood on our driveway in Mississippi on a summer night, a thousand years ago. The Pontchartrain stretches out into the darkness, watercolor waves for as far as I can see. Fog is still rising from the surface of the water, eclipsing the horizon so that the starry sky and the lake almost blend together. I sink into the bench, looking up across the bowl of sky. I feel infinitely small, and yet full to the brim.

“I can barely see the horizon. It’s such a thin line.” I can barely see your face in the dark, but I know you’re squinting, trying to decide which line.

“If I were painting it, I probably wouldn’t paint a horizon line.” I can picture the paintbrush in my hand, bleeding black onto the canvas.

I hear the surprise in your voice when you respond. “If I were painting it, I would make the horizon line thick.” 

For a moment I’m tempted to analyze what this says about us. Not that I haven’t already thought about our differences, in so many other situations. But I put that thought away. Instead I lean back toward you, take a really deep breath, and let the night sky overwhelm me.

***********

I roll over again, restless, unsure of what I want. I see your eyes start to peek open. Outside my bedroom door, I hear my roommate talking to her friend who is crashing in the guest room for the night. I hold my breath as their footsteps echo in the hall. You stumble out, pulling my bathrobe around you, heading for the bathroom. “Good morning,” I hear from the hallway. Mass giggling ensues. I can’t help but smile.

***********

It’s three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and I’m not really sure what I’m doing with my life right now, but damn, it feels right. There’s a half-empty Abita in front of me, and outside the late sun is bouncing off the exposed brick of a French Quarter home.

***********

I'm trying to think of a 1940's actress, but no one is coming to mind. Too late for Mae West (my favorite), too early for Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe. Hell, I can't even think of a 1940's movie. I stumble, my heel catching into the uneven brick, and you reach out to catch me. You put your arm out for me to hold as I walk, and I brush away the thousand memories that simple gesture brings to my mind. You weren't around for those moments, and I don't wish to burden you, or the night, with them. Seconds later my passing thoughts are silenced as you pull an arm around my waist and kiss me. I lean back, lean it, letting go. Momentarily. You smile (or is it a smirk?) and I push against you, resisting, flexing. You catch my wrists and pin me to my car, but I'm still reaching forward to kiss you, letting my lips beg without words. Your lips travel down my neck, around the heavy black cross, a relic that somehow always ends up around my neck when I'm in compromising positions. I gasp, and when the air leaves my lips, there's a smoky outline of my breath under the streetlight. You've let go by now, never dominant for long, and I push my hips forward, swinging to catch you by surprise. I want to pin you, but you've got a couple pounds and more muscle than me. We struggle as you fight back, pushing me deeper against the car, and you're laughing at me. I'm defiant, as always. Stubborn. I lift my leg and curl it around your thigh, bringing the heel between the back of your legs. 

Your hand slides up the inside of my thigh, bare under my black dress, but seconds later, you're pulling away. You're serious. Well, as serious as drunkenly possible. "You're better than this."

"Better than what?" I mentally note to ask you later, when you're more sober. 

"This." You gesture down the street, pulling me into you as a car's headlights fall on us, climb closer, speed by.

Having sex in a public place? Hardly, I've been there. Having a quick fuck when I'd rather take you to bed for a few hours? Yes, probably, but sometimes I'm willing to settle. Sleeping with someone who is drunk? Well, no, as long as you're capable of giving and withdrawing consent, and I know you well enough to know that neither of us takes that lightly. Nor would you say something only to please me. 

I table it. I want to argue; it's bubbling up in me. I feel like you've made a judgment call on what I should and shouldn't do with my body, and though I doubt that's what you mean, I'm drunk enough to take it that way and put up a defensive wall. Not worth it. 

You're still staring at me. Something else is coming. "I don't know how I feel about fucking my friends. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

And God knows, I respect you so much for that, probably more than you'll ever know. "I understand." I reach up to kiss you on the cheek, because I'm going to walk away now. But you turn, and my lips find yours instead. 

"Not that you've given me any reason not think that you can't handle it." You're right, I haven't.

"That's true. But still. If you hesitate, I respect that. I'll back off." 

No matter what I say, you can't see my heart. 

**********

“I like the idea of control. But the truth, as a friend so vividly pointed out to me today, is that's an illusion. Not having control makes me vulnerable. And while I do really enjoy that place, it can be hard to let go. It can be hard not to plan.”

**********

I know what I want, but I hesitate. All of the circumstances are shaky: we’re sober, it’s morning, we both have places to be and things to do. The harsh sunlight is bouncing around my room; a part of me becomes shy, embarrassed of the imperfections of my body which are so easy to find in the light. But you’re in my bed, in my house, in my morning, naked. I pull closer, kissing the nape of your neck very softly. I begin to trace my fingers down your back, slowly, carefully, dancing across your curves. Oh. so. very. slowly. My touch is exploratory at first, gentle. You’re not responding, but not pulling away, either. I slide my hand down, across your hip bone, circling, my palm across the inside of your thigh. I’m waiting for you to let me in, asking the question with my hands. You shift inches, rolling from your side, putting the weight of your thigh onto me. I can feel the arch in your back, involuntary, almost imperceptible to the eye. My fingers wander up, around, across, and I find your nipple, circle the areola, and twist the ring softly between my thumb and forefinger. A gasp escapes from your lips. That’s the answer I’m looking for.  I bite hard into your neck, and your hips roll toward me, opening, and you pull me in for a kiss.

***********

“I don't want promises. I don't want guarantees, and if you hurt me -- or I put myself in a place to be hurt, which is always a possibility, too -- then it happens, and I'll deal then. I want your honesty, and I want you to know why I hesitate in talking, sometimes, and why there will be things you can't push or pull out of me at this point. Past that, I don't expect you to do anything but be you.”

***********

namaste.