Saturday, February 26, 2011

i love charts.

I have a new lover.

I also have a sense of humor, so I made this chart to describe some aspects of our sex life to a friend of mine.

NB: I do love lady on top, it just historically didn't really do much for me. Apparently this is also the case for this new guy, which means that we've got a statistically improbable new favorite.

Thursday, February 24, 2011


I am not on the pill.

I used to be. My periods came like clockwork every three weeks, only on weekdays, and for five days at a time. My mood was even. My libido wasn't dormant, but sex was a thing that I did to scratch other people's itches. I learned to take pleasure and find pride in other people's enjoyment of my body. This lasted eight years, and then I switched to a copper IUD.

Now I live inside my flesh. My body changes with my cycles: the skin on my stomach is tighter and looser; my breasts sometimes fuller and sometimes more supple. There was a space between my self and my surface that is now occupied by a humming desire whose frequency oscillates in a sine wave between noticeable and insatiable. When I ovulate my wave is at its peak; my angle is pi divided by my two legs.

At this peak, even walking is thrilling. My hips are dancing while the rest of me meanders. I have figured out how to control my bouncing breasts: at my peak I pop them with every step and my nipples assert themselves through my shirt. A breeze, a flutter of my scarf, the tickle of a hem, and the rub of my jeans across my thighs all feel faintly of a caress. My eyes flash at men and women, and I am almost concerned, but mostly excited, that they can smell that I am half-aroused by staring while walking.

I have a lover, though he is not always available when I need him to be. At my peak, my pussy is always slightly wet and reddened, and waiting for my lover is an impossible chore. I shower before he comes to see me, and I shave every hair from my legs and vulva and knead lotion into my newly smooth skin. I put on my robe and sit on my bed and as I wait for him my hands squeeze the insides of my thighs and creep up to my labia. My physiology is heightened and my response is quick: I am slick to my own touch as my clitoris hardens under my fingers.

I consider waiting. I decide against it. I open my robe and open my body.

My right middle finger massages my clitoris as my left hand cups the whole of my smooth sex. It heats my hand and I slip two fingers inside as my hips thrust up to consume them. I find the rough patch behind my pubis and stroke it in time with my right hand's action. My breathing is labored and my thighs flex against my hips. I pant, hold my breath, and finally moan and arch. I am calm for a moment and I pull my hand out of my body. I smell of sweat and want.

It is at this moment that my lover opens my bedroom door. He does not turn away from my disheveled state, but instead kisses my lips, licks my fingers and opens my robe further as he presses his body into mine.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

The Basement

There are a number of things that I've always wanted to do that I've never had the occasion to accomplish. Most of them involve strangers, public places, and variable degrees of nudity, but my desire to do all of these high risk things is always beat out by both the knowledge that these things are high risk and my seeming inability to find suitable partners. In this story, I pretend that none of these barriers exist.


It is the summertime, and in my fair city the summer heat isn't dry at all. It's a sticky, wet, humid heat; it glues my clothes to my body and everyone smells a little bit earthier. Owing to the climate, I have a tendency in the summertime to eschew pants and shorts and wear skirts as exclusively as possible. When I walk places, my thighs slip past each other. When I ride my bike—which is my preferred mode of transportation—my skirts always end up either hiked up to the tops of my thighs or blowing freely in the breeze I generate. My mount and dismount mark me as a graceless exhibitionist, and my thighs become strong and thick, and there's always something appealing to the thought of riding bent over through the city streets.

It's delightful.

I am riding my bike to a concert. The night's act is a DJ that's well known within circles that would care at all and is otherwise widely ignored. The show is in a basement venue. There are a surprisingly large number of places like this: they are dark, cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter, and the acoustics are always deplorable. There are many corners, and the temperature regulation that comes from being underground is lost when there are too many people enjoying themselves.

When I arrive at the venue, I ride through a cut in the sidewalk and in one motion stop my bicycle, pull my leg over the crossbar, and walk over to the nearest parking meter to lock up. I wear my lock and cable across my body like a messenger bag: the cable presses my tshirt against my skin and highlights the valley between my tits. In this story—as in real life—they bounce and sway as I dismount the bicycle and walk down the street. I carefully bend and squat to lock up: knees together, bending there first so as not to overexpose myself in the midthigh skirt this disgusting summer requires. There is sweat running down my legs and spine. A pair of friends meets me and lock up on the same post. We meander down the stairs to the basement.

We give our tickets to the ripper at the door, present our wrists to a young man with a stamp of something absurd in bright blue ink, and he opens the door for us to the show. Heat and evaporated sweat rolls out of the room, and the sounds that were dull suggestions of music are intense and melodic. Once inside, I fish a flask of whiskey out of one pocket, take a sip, and pass it to my friends. They refuse and take out their own.

There are about three hundred people in the basement: most between (presumably) 21 and 35, with a few exceptions. There are people suffering in jeans, men with shirts unbuttoned, women with short skirts and plunging necklines. Everyone is glistening and swaying with the beat. My friends and I push through to the crowded center of the audience to dance. It's dark but not pitch black, with enough light that I can see who admires me as they pass, and who admires my friends, as we sway our hips and bounce our bodies to the beat. My breasts are chaotic with the rest of my body, and every motion of my torso is amplified in how they shake. I notice a man who notices me.

There is a dance that people do when they may or may not have the attention of an attractive stranger. I take the first step: I look at him for just an instant with my chin slightly lowered, directly into his eyes from the sides of mine, and then blink and look away. I keep dancing. He keeps staring. He is tall, square-jawed and -shouldered, with hair a length that suggests a profession where appearances aren't important. He is not the oldest or the youngest person in the room. We keep at this for the next half hour: I look at him, he looks at me, we catch each other in the act, I smile broadly and continue dancing. My friends dance with me; lights and music swirl around us.

I feel a hand lightly touch my arm. I turn around. My flirtatious dance partner's face is six inches away. His eyes are hyaline blue with a ring of yellow in the middle, his lashes are long and languid, and his gaze is focused squarely on mine. The corner of his lips turns up in a half-grin, I reply with open-mouthed laughter. At the same instant as he asks me to dance, his hand slips from my arm to the curve at the small of my back, and I put an arm around his neck.

We dance like this for a time, his eyes locked into mine, our mouths make small talk while our hips skip pleasantries altogether. When he asks, I tell him my name is Michelle and that I am a journalist from some city 500 miles away, and I assume that everything he tells me—his name is Anders, he's a research technician from the neighboring county—is equally false. His other arm is around me now, pulling me closer in to him. He is strong, his hands are large, his frame is lithe and muscular, and a little bit of sweat-soaked chest hair creeps over the edge of his tshirt. My tits are pressed tightly to his chest, his growing erection is pressed tightly to my pelvis. My friends have scampered off somewhere else, potentially with other men and potentially with each other. The music is loud and the beat pulsing as our lower bodies become more and more entangled.

Our faces are barely an inch apart, and with eyes wide open, he presses his mouth to mine. His face is scratchy with 36-hour-old stubble, my lips part for his tongue as he explores my teeth. I sigh and run a hand to the nape of his neck, he laughs and moves his hands southward towards my cyclist's ass. He tastes of whiskey and sweat. It is delicious.

His hands roam up and down my back, now squeezing my ass, now making a grab for my breasts. We edge towards a darkened corner, and as we dance I feel his cock swell against my thigh as my pussy starts to seep underneath my skirt, which his eager hands have managed to pull up to just shy of the fold where my thighs join my body. His knee is between my legs, my crotch grinds against his hip. His kisses are slow, measured, and deep, and I rut against his body with the beat of the bass. When my back presses into the wall, it's the first time I've felt anything cooler than body temperature in the last hour and a half, and the sudden relative cold combined with dancing makes my nipples ache.

In the relative privacy of the dark, Anders slips his hand under my skirt and kneads my left cheek, while he pins me to the wall. I am wearing a minimal thong—just enough material to not break laws on my bicycle, and not so much that it's anything less than thrilling under a short skirt. His dick is pressing insistently at my pussy, my clitoris is engorged and every grind gives me shivers. We kiss like we're starving, and I lick the salty sweat from his neck and nip his earlobes. He moans and thrusts against me. There is another couple a few feet away from us engaged in nearly the same activity: one woman is a petite, voluptuous black woman in hot pants and a tank top with a shaved head; the other is a a blonde Amazon in a tube dress. Their hands are not immediately visible, but their smells are potent and their muffled sounds intoxicating. They are either completely unaware of, or completely disinterested in, me and my stranger. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that the both the top of the tube dress and the tank top are failing at containing their breasts.

I take my hands away from around Anders' neck, and move them towards his belt. He inhales sharply as I slip my right hand down the front of his jeans to his hard, longsuffering cock. He lets me pull it out: it's impressive in size and girth, and deliciously uncut. I work my hand up and down his firm shaft as his breathing quickens in my mouth and his hands move from my buttock to my pussy, where he pushes my thong aside and slides a finger between my lips. With his other hand he roughly pulls up my shirt and pulls down my bra and begins to run his hand across my nipple, which responds promptly to his touch, and I moan and writhe against him. He pushes through the opening of my body as my hips thrust against him; I kiss him deeply to keep myself quiet.

His cock swells in my fist, and he starts to groan. He pinches my nipple and fucks my pussy harder with his hands, slipping in another finger as I tighten up around him and liquid mingles with sweat as it slides down my thighs and onto his jeans. His glans is hard and swollen as he moans and starts to come on my exposed right thigh, our bodies pressed together and grinding to the beat. His come lands a few inches from my vulva. I shiver around his hand. He picks up my fingers from around his penis and licks the come out from between them as my eyes widen and my clit swells. He has three fingers inside me and his thumb pressed firmly against my clit and I am grinding against him, moaning and sweaty and hoarse.

As his come is starting to slowly trace down my thigh, he pulls his torso away from mine. I'm suddenly cold and surprised, and before I have the time to become annoyed that this stranger would let me get him off without bothering to return the favor, he is kneeing in front of me, turning his hand palm up and pressing against my g-spot as he starts to lick my clit. I gasp, and grab fistfulls of his thick hair to steady myself in my shock. As he fucks me with his hand, he gently sucks and flicks his tongue against my snatch. The couple next to us is paying a little bit more attention now through their own lust-filled groping, as are a few other faces in the crowd. I don't care, and neither does this surprise lover.

As he moans into my pussy, I convulse around him. My hips buck against his hand press back against his mouth, while my hands pull his hair and I moan and cry out indiscreetly. He presses back against me and sighs against me, and with his free hand holds on to my ass to help keep his face anchored between my thighs. I come in waves around him. When my gyrations slow down, he gently pulls his hand out of me, and moves it over to my left thigh. With his face wet with my own secretions he runs his tongue up the opposite thigh, licking up his own come mixed with my sweat. When finishes, he stands up and kisses me deeply with his salt-flavored tongue, and I taste myself mixed with sweat and come in his mouth. I fumble to do up his belt while he pulls my skirt back down again over my hips, and I pull my bra back and shirt back over my now-cooler breast. We look almost put together.

The show is nearing its end, and my friends have materialized in my peripheral vision, and their faces are covered in smirks. I look at Anders. He slips a piece of paper—the back of his ticket stub—into my hands, with a phone number and the name Miles scribbled across it, and winks as he wanders back to the crowd.

Sunday, February 13, 2011


In this story, I am 23. We are both young, my lover and I, and we do not get to see each other with any kind of frequency. I spend long bus trips traveling out to his apartment, my pussy getting wetter with anticipation and every passing mile. The town he lives in is conservative and traditional; he and I are not.

Simon is tall and slim, in sharp contrast to my voluptuousness. He is patient and caring, and historically very attentive to my pleasure. He has large, strong hands that he does not use gently. His bed has a wooden headboard with rings that he installed on it that clang when we roll over in our sleep, or when he fucks me too hard. They are not for show alone. He keeps a row of cabinets on the wall by the bed.

I am straddling his lap on the small blue couch in his apartment. I am kissing him deeply; smelling his slightly salty, slightly earthy body and feeling his tongue explore me. His hands move from firmly gripping both of the globes of my ass and pulling me closer towards him, to gripping my hips as he lifts me off. As I stand, he undoes the buckle on my wide belt roughly pulls my jeans off, dragging my panties along with. I step out of them and he pulls my shirt over my head. I am standing in front of him in a black lace bra, with my blonde hair in a sloppy ponytail, his hand lifting my chin up so that I am looking him directly in his hazel eyes. He kisses me deeply again and leads me by the hand to his bedroom.

The only light that's on tonight is a lamp standing in the corner. The bed is made.

“Sit on the bed, Margot, put this over your eyes. Do not take it off. Do not move. Do not make a sound, unless I tell you to.”

I say nothing, as requested, as he roughly ties a blindfold around my face. The room is just a little bit cooler than is comfortable, and my nipples stick out prominently from my breasts. My skin is covered in goosebumps, my hands are patiently waiting on my thighs, and I am sitting upright with perfect posture. I hear a shuffling in the room, the opening and closing of cabinet doors, and the familiar ring of metal on metal. My lover has a predilection for chains.

He roughly picks my hands up off my lap, straps them into leather cuffs, and pulls me into standing. He presses me against the back of the bedroom door.

“Turn around,” he says, “put your hands over your head and put your ankles apart.” I oblige. I feel a click at each wrist and my arms are supported from above. I hear him pace around the room, and I feel my pussy swelling in tiny increments with every step he takes while he makes me wait.

The first slap of the flogger is a surprise. It lands squarely across my back, stinging it a bright red, and pushing me forwards into the door. I stifle a gasp. He flogs me again, this time on my left asscheek, and again on the right. I fail to remain silent on the last one and let out a squeak.

“What's that noise you made, Margot?” He stops flogging me, and steps close behind me. I can feel his words on my shoulders.

I say nothing.

“Didn't I tell you not to make a sound?” He is reaching his left arm around my hips and snaking it down towards my dripping sex.

I nod my head yes.

“You failed to obey me,” he informs he, as he runs his fingers over the outsides of my folds. I arch my back into him and hold the restraints in a white-knuckled grip, pressing my breasts into the wall and my ass into his hips. “I'll have to punish you for that.” His finger lightly grazes my clit, and flicks it a tiny bit. I leak a little onto my inner thighs as he pushes off of me.

He steps back. There is a moment of silence, which is broken by the loud thud of the flogger against my hips. He works into a rhythm again, and I am silent for as long as I can help it, until a gasp involuntarily escapes my lips a second time. He stops flogging me.

“Margot, I told you to be silent.” He places his left hand on the curve below my waist.

“I told you not to do that.” He brings his body close behind me, and I feel that his cock is completely hard and pressed against my body. I arch my back the slightest bit, and feel the heat of his erection against my pussy.

“I can't have you disobeying me.” With that, he thrusts his hips forward and pulls me towards him, roughly entering me completely. I am biting my lip and my nostrils flare. I am standing on the tips of my feet as he pulls back and thrusts into me again, and with his left hand roughly pinches and rolls my left nipple through the lace of my bra. After entirely too little time, he pulls out, stands back, and flogs me again.

This time he only flogs me for a few strokes, and then stops.

“Margot,” he informs me, “Your pussy felt so good and juicy that I think I need to fuck you some more.” He pushes into me again, and with every thrust he presses against the spot on the back of my pelvis that seems to go straight to my core. The restraints are cutting into my wrists and my hands are nearly numb, but his body feels exquisite in mine.

“You are allowed to moan, but you must not come or speak unless I tell you to,” he tells me as he fucks me. I finally let out a sigh. My breasts are are shaking with every thrust and my hard nipples are sensitive even to air moving over them. His fingers draws circles around my clit. I am struggling. He pulls out and starts flogging me again.

We continue like this for a time; him flogging me for a few strokes, stopping, and fucking me for a few strokes. Sometimes he is so kind as to rub my clit at the same time, sometimes not. At one point, he pulls down the fabric of my bra just far enough to expose my nipples, and the cool room air thrills me. I am moaning, my pussy is tightening, and every time he pulls out of me liquid leads out of my pussy and rolls down the inside of my thighs. It is by sheer force of will and obedience that I am not orgasming.

He puts down the flogger.

“Margot,” he says, “when I fuck you you moan like a whore. What does that make you?”

I am silent; quivering.

“Margot, I asked you a question. What are you?”

“I'm a dirty whore.” My voice is hoarse and unsteady.

“For whom?”

“For you, Simon.” My hips are still gyrating the smallest bit.

“Why don't you tell me what you are? Be loud for me”

“I'm your dirty whore, Simon.” I am not shouting, but I'm not whispering.

“What's that? I need you to be louder.”

“I AM YOUR DIRTY WHORE.” I am speaking form my guts and projecting my voice loudly enough that his small-town neighbors will surely perk up a bit.

“Good! What does a dirty whore like you love to do?” He is running both of his hands up and down my body, and as if to punctuate his question he pinches my nipples.

“I love it when you fuck me, Simon.” I am gasping, he is still playing with my breasts, and my pussy is hinting at tightening and spasming.

“Good.” He runs his hands down to my hips and tugs me roughly onto his waiting cock. He slides inside me easily, despite my tightness, and starts slowly fucking me. I am breathless.

“Margot, when I tell you to I want you to come.”

“Yes Simon.” My pussy is tightening and relaxing at regular intervals, and his cock is getting harder and harder inside me. Fluid is coming out on my body, running down my legs and making a small puddle on the floor. My breasts shake with every thrust and I feel sweat drip off of him and onto the small of my back. I am panting and groaning; practically shouting while he is nearly silent.

Not orgasming is almost impossible. My control over my body is flagging, and Simon can feel it. He is rhythmically rubbing my clit, and I am nearly crying.

“Margot, I feel your snatch gripping pretty tightly. Do you want to come?”

I can't use words, I can only moan.

“Margot, you have to tell me, do you want to come?”

“Yes, Simon.” I sigh.

“Good girl,” he says. “I'm going to let you come.”

With that, he pounds into me harder and faster, and indelicately massages my clit. My pussy gushes all over our thighs and I tighten up so much around him that he will tell me later it became nearly impossible to fuck me. I let out a sound that comes from somewhere primitive inside me while my body flushes and my hips thrust back into him.

He is not far behind me. When he comes, he grabs my hips tightly and fucks me more deeply than I thought he could, he also moans out my name.

We stand together for a moment, and he lets my wrists out of their restraints. My arms are completely numb, but I don't particularly care.

He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into his body and his warmth, kissing my neck. I am still shaking as I turn around and place my face in his chest. He runs his hand through my hair, undoes my bra, lets it fall to the floor, and holds me to him.

He leads me by the hand to the shower, where he washes me from head to toe, even shampooing my scalp before he does the same to himself, and we crawl into bed.