Sunday, June 3, 2012

area under the curve

At my undergrad, everyone is obliged to take a math class, which was the result of somewhat overzealous distribution requirements that were essentially a throwback to the Cold War. The thinking is like so: maybe if we make them take science and math, then instead of becoming resentful they will become physicists who will destroy Sputnik and we’ll win over the entirety of Communist Russia. Despite that lofty goal, the unfortunate truth is that there are many things that I am good at, but they don’t exactly extend to differential equations.

By the time I started college, I had figured out a few things about myself, and one of them is that I will never, ever manage to stay awake for an entire math class unless I sit in the very front. Today is just like any other day, so I even though I was about 5 minutes late I slipped into my desk on the second row back from the podium. I sat down and soon enough I settled into my seat: the balls of my feet on the floor, my heels on the legs of the chair, and my knees as far apart as the chair is wide. I am absentminded and think that the skirt I’ve worn to accommodate for the August heat is loose enough that it will demurely drape down between my thighs, and keep all inappropriate views hidden.

It doesn’t. I don’t figure that out until I detect my own odor floating through the air around me.

This classroom is structured so that since I am on the second row, my face is perfectly in line with the PowerPoint—that’s why I chose the spot—but that also means that my pelvis is in line with the TA’s head, who is standing about 15 feet away. When I consider this, along with my scent as it wafts through the room, I am immediately embarrassed. I squirm in my seat and pull my knees together again.

After 10 more minutes, the lecture becomes complex enough, with phis nesting inside of sigmas and more letters than numbers dotting the slides, that I don’t focus on my knees anymore, and simply move everything back to my original most comfortable position. When my TA is momentarily flustered and pink, I remember what I have done and scramble to pretend that I am modest.

I repeat this cycle maybe 3 more times through the lecture. By the end the TA looks distraught, and he can’t mind his rhos and thetas anymore.

A few minutes later, he finishes up the lecture: “That’s it for today. We’ll have our second quiz next Friday, and don’t forget the problem set due on Tuesday. The assignment is on Blackboard. Remember, group work is ok, but you can’t use the Internet!”

There’s some grumbling as everyone is leaving. I have managed to shove my notebooks back into my backpack before I hear the last part of the lecture:

“La Ravaudeuse,” the TA says, “I need to talk to you for a minute, don’t leave yet.”

I stop my motions for an instant and all the blood rushes to my face. I think about all the reasons I could need a talking-to, and most of them range around my palpable boredom, my fear of Greek letters, and possibly my posture this morning. I sit down with my ankles together and my bag in my lap as I await the verdict. I’m aware that the room has become approximately 50 degrees warmer in the last 3 minutes and that I am sweating as profusely as my heart is racing and my skin is flushing.

The TA wanders up the stairs to my desk. He stands beside me.

“Miss la Ravaudeuse,” he starts.

“Margot,” I correct him, with a shake in my voice that destroys all pretenses of composure.

“Ok, Margot.” He accepts my correction. “Follow me to my office, please?”

“You want to have a meeting now?” I’m surprised. It’s 3pm. I should be either hitting the gym, the library, or the bong. I have learned that college is a wonderful time of self-discovery.

“Now, please, unless you have another lecture to attend?”

“No, I guess I don’t have anywhere specific to be.”

I stand up and follow him out of the room and down the hall in this Soviet-era cinderblock building. I marvel at how this fluorescent lighting can make this graduate student—4 years my senior, a genius now 2 years into a math PhD, with the physique of someone for whom health and fitness was not a chore but something maintained with attention and a certain kind of pride—look pale and tubercular. Our shoes clatter and echo.

We get to his door, which he swings open with a flourish that is just as enthusiastic as the creaking sound the hinges generate. The room is covered in books and notebook paper. Three monitors glow in the corner. He gestured to a seat across from his desk. I flop into it.  My knees are together.

“Margot,” he says, sitting down opposite me, “I need to talk with you about your behavior in class today.”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I blurt. My mouth is talking and my brain is only modestly contributing. “I didn’t realize how I was dressed until like 10 minutes into lecture, I didn’t mean to be a distraction, I was so totally mortified and I kind of wanted to die because I always sit the same way when I study, it’s just this habit, and I didn’t think about the part where the classroom is shaped like some ridiculous ersatz amphitheater—“

“Um, ok.” He cuts me off. “I just meant to tell you that I need you to not sit in the front if you’re late, it interrupts the lecture.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“But we can definitely talk about that, too.”

“Oh.”

“That skirt.”

“What about it?”

“It’s short. I’m not sure if you realized it before today, but I could definitely, um, see right up it, and, you see, I could see that you weren’t, you know…” This TA has become increasing flustered during this conversation. He’s red in the face and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Oh my god.” I feel all my blood drain out of my face. I decided not to wear panties today, secondary to a near-complete lack of clean clothes. I squirm in this wooden chair, and feel my labia slide across its lacquered surface.

“Yeah. That was a bit of a distraction.”

“…fuck me.” I am not thinking too much about what I’m saying, and the tone I use reflects my complete exasperation. My knees flop to the sides as I realize what my words revealed.

“What?” He drops the pen out of his hand and raises one eyebrow as he peers straight up my skirt.

“I can’t believe I just said that.” I slump down in my chair, heels sliding up its legs as my pelvis inches out to the end.

“You totally did.” He is smiling while he stands up.

“Right.” I look up. The hemline is creeping up my thighs.

He stands up and walks around his desk and stands in front of me. His arms are crossed in front of his chest as he leans his bulk against the desk.  He is bolder now.  He reaches a hand out and touches my hair; his finger and thumb linger at the tip of a lock.

I decide that the distraction my skirt has generated is one that I am interested in, as well. The structures hidden in the area under the curving surface of my skirt are integral to the decisions that I make from here on after.

I turn my head just enough that I take this man’s thumb into my mouth, and I suck the end of the digit. I flick my tongue across its tip, and exhale onto its surface.  The man put the remainder of his hand on my face, thumb over my lips, and his fingers wrapped around into my hair.

His other hand explores the zipper that courses over the expanding volume revealed by topographic changes in his slim-cut trousers. His fingers undo the button and pull down the zipper; they lower the elastic underneath and reveal a perfect, hardening cock, covered with a thin glaze of fluid leaking out. The thumb moved as he tightens his grip on my hair and pulls my head towards his erection. I part my lips and my tongue skims the surface, tasting the fluid that slowly exits his body. 

He tolerates this for a moment before he pushes harder and thrusts his pelvis towards me. He enters my mouth with some force, and his now-free hand joins its partner in holding my hair by the fistful. He holds my head steady in place as his hips start to sway; gradually working to a strong, fast pace as he fucks my mouth.

My knees are completely spread as I sat on the edge of my chair, nearly kneeling to hold the right pose. My left hand explores his hips further and allows me to steady myself, while my right creeps up to my receding hem and slides between my labia in search of my clit. My hips glide across my hand to the rhythm of the TA’s hips. I decide that he clearly knows what he wants, and I remove my hand that steadies me and I press it inside my pussy, while its companion massages my clit. At this moment, I realize that I couldn’t recall the name he used when he introduced himself at the first class 10 days ago.

I hear a sudden clearing of a throat. It cannot be the TA’s, as he continues to moan throughout, becoming less and less verbose the longer he fucks my mouth.

“Mr. Maxon,” a new voice declares, “I thought we had discussed this. You are to call me before you have meetings with students.”

Mr. Maxon!  Andrew Samuel Maxon. Right. That was it, I remembered. That was his name, and also why he told us never to look for “Sam Maxon” in the directory, even if that was the name he used.

Sam did not release my head or miss a beat as he explained that this was an unplanned meeting to discuss a pattern of behavior that I was starting to develop. This was followed by a moment of silence, during which there was noting to be heard by the slopping sounds made by Sam’s impressive cock in my mouth, and a sound of metal on metal followed by some footfalls. This new man is standing behind me. I feel his breath on my back as he bends over me.

“You know we have a protocol,” he said. In an instant I felt something—I later figured out it was a belt this man had just pulled off—wrap around my torso, effectively pinning my arms to my side between the elbow and the wrist as it draws to a tight close. I inhale sharply: I hear the buckle of this belt slide and click into place before I realize that I am now completely powerless.

I feel a third hand on my head brushing off the first two. Then I feel two hands under my armpits that pull me up to my feet.  I am now standing up, facing Mr. Maxon, whose impressive dick is pointing straight at me. It twitches.

“Turn around,” he instructs me.

I comply. I did, after all, ask him to fuck me.

I turn, and I am standing face to face with Dr. Wynne. He is the 35-year-old prodigy head of the math department. Rumor has it he graduated from a nearby university with his bachelors when he was just 19, and he finished his PhD at 23. Part of the way he had made this happen was by being a charming person in addition to a possessor of a staggering intellect.

Of note, Dr. Wynne was a triathlete. It was particularly apparent in this moment. He moved towards me, and I heard Mr. Maxon step aside. Dr. Wynne had nudged me up to the edge of the desk, with the curve on the underside of my ass now starting to sit on its surface. I heard a sweep and clatter, and Mr. Maxon’s hands are on my shoulders from behind: he has moved to the opposite side of the desk.

Dr. Wynne is looking directly into my face. He presses a knee between mine, and nudges my legs apart. He grips my hips and pulls me up onto the desk.

“Sam,” he said, “You never told me anything about Miss la Ravaudeuse except that she was an exceptionally attentive student. You mentioned that you thought she might have a talent. You did not mention any remarkable behaviors.”

He presses my shoulders back. I loose my balance and fall onto Mr, Maxon’s large outstretched hands, which guide me to the table surface. He grabs my arms and pulls me back: my ass is now held up by this desk, and my head is hanging off the opposite end.  Dr. Wynne is now standing between my legs, with his thigh pressed right against my dripping cunt. Mr. Maxon’s hands rest on my mandible, and he opens my mouth for me.

It occurs to me that less than two minutes ago I was happily sucking cock for my math TA, and that now I am tied up, and somehow in a position that I may not be able to get out of. I am staring at a droplet of precome that is forming on the tip of Mr.. Maxon’s dick as I make this realization. His hands are busy pulling up my thin t-shirt and releasing my breasts from the flimsy bra that encases them. My nipples are hard and sensitive and completely erect.

It is at this moment that I feel two strong hands grab my thighs, pick them up, and spread them, ultimately wrapping them around a man’s waist. Three large fingers press their way into my body, and a thumb rubs roughly against my clit. I gasp at this surprise, and at that moment Mr. Maxon’s cock thrusts back into my mouth. One of his hands is on my jaw and the other in my hair as he steadies my head for the ease of fucking my face. His balls slap into me and saliva streaks down my cheeks.

The hand below starts to massage my pussy and my clit, and soon is fucking me with an equal intensity to this cock. Dr. Wynne’s free hand explores one of my bouncing tits as he steadies it to pinch the nipple. My hips begin to gyrate over his hand and I am making muffled sounds over this cock.

Dr. Wynne slaps my tit. I yelp as I press my pelvis harder into his hand. My legs are wrapped around his torso; they squeeze him insistently into my body.

He makes my pussy clench around his knuckles. He makes my body tighten and release and orgasm, his thumb steadily rubbing my clit as fluid flowed out of me and down his wrist, while his fingers fucked my spasming cunt. I nearly cried from the intensity, but the cock in my mouth distorted the sound.

I heard a zip. Then a rip, the distinctive sound of opening of a condom wrapper. I feel a new pressure on the introitus of my already-well fucked cunt before Dr. Wynne presses his cock into me. I feel like I could split in two.

He leans forward as he fucks me. Both his hands are on my breasts, kneeing them and pinching and rolling my hypersensitive nipples. His cock must be curved: it bends and makes pressure sensations inside me on the internal surface of my overstimulated clitoris. I feel another orgasm structuring itself inside me; its progress is relentless, and my cunt is shuddering around this cock in short order.

It doesn’t matter if I tried to make words now. The sounds are incoherent, due only in small part to the hardening dick that continues to fuck my mouth, that spasms and shoots a hot, salty, bitter load onto my tongue. He comes in several thrusts, with several squirts of fluid. It dripped out of my mouth and dribbled down into my hair.

Dr. Wynnes hands left my breasts and landed in the small of my waist, on the top of my hips. He was fucking me deeply now, and my pussy leaked clear fluid down the front of his suit.  His cock swelled and he groaned and fucked me so hard the desk moved. His orgasm ended only a few seconds after Mr. Maxon’s.

Mine had been continuous.


I feel Mr. Maxon lighten his grip on my hair as his cock softened between my swollen lips. Dr. Wynne steps back from me, too. In a moment both of their just-softened dicks slip from my body, my thighs quivers around Dr. Wynne’s waist. My skirt is a useless pile of fabric that has bunched up under my breasts, leaving the whole expanse of my naked pelvis present for viewing. The two of them each place a hand under my bound arms and help me up. Mr. Maxon releases the belt; Dr, Wynne adjusts my bra and shirt before he flips down the hem of my skirt. The both escort me off the table.

“Miss la Ravaudeuse,” Mr. Maxon started, “is a special student who revealed certain behaviors today during class, and I thought that she might benefit from a private meeting. I didn’t have time to call you, Dr. Wynne, and I’m so glad you kept our meeting for 3:10. I almost about it.”

“Margot,” this is the first time Dr. Wynne has addressed me. I am surprised that he knows my name. “It’s important to think about the effects of your behavior. If your behavior in class continues, we may have to form a disciplinary panel for you.” His stern face is softened with a wink.

“Do you understand?” he finishes.

“Yes, I do,” I reply.

I never wore panties to class after that.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

a surprise.


About a year ago, Leah (of the now sadly defunct Leah Lays London) introduced her unconventional blogroll using an excerpt of my writing. I always intended to return the favor, and there’s one topic that she has addressed more articulately than I have ever seen elsewhere: pornography. It’s a topic that I think is a natural source of curiosity for people who read a sex blog that is (ostensibly) about my real sex life. I have a select group of friends in the real world  who know about this blog, and it doesn't take belonging to that exclusive club to figure out that sex is one of my top five interests (also on this list: sleeping, eating, drinking, showering, peeing. If you've ever been unable to pee, you appreciate my perspective).

Interestingly, pornography is not even in the top ten.

Potentially not the top 20.

Leah explains it best:

I like having extended foreplay, lots of kissing and touching between the legs, the girl being eaten for more than thirty seconds, the principals sharing eye contact with each other and not the camera. I don’t need images of genitalia filling the screen: I know what’s happening below: it has happened to me. I’d rather look at the faces during sex, the masks of pleasure the two lovers wear, the way they kiss, how the lips and tongues are a much desired presence everywhere. I want unalloyed happiness at the thrill of fucking. I want heavy perspiration, the sweat shaking off the bodies as they move. I want the music gone. I want off-camera voices to shut the hell up. I don’t need the goddamned interview segment to start. I want to listen to dirty talk during. I want long passages of verbal silence punctuated by the offhand comment, private whispers, a joke. I want to hear the squeak of the bedsprings filling the spaces between words, the slap of flesh, the noises of surprise and delight when that precise spot is touched in exactly that way, just for an instant. I want unfeigned affection, the intensity of being in the moment, a sense of welcome and belonging, the quality of palpable joy. I want laughter.

Sweet tapdancing Jesus, Leah, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what I want.

Nothing is less exciting than watching people have bad sex. Nothing is less erotic than knowing I'm looking at a fake production, than being hyperaware that the couple fornicating on my computer screen are no further invested in each other than what their brand professionalism requires, or that this is the result of multiple takes. The artifice of pornography kills my libido.

I want to love it.

I want to see tension. I want the things that I enjoy the most about sex—intensity, culmination of desire, a complete lack of inhibition—to be palpable. I don't want to see older, less attractive men telling cookie-cutter blond coquettes that their pussies are so tight and then hear a performed groan. I am categorically disinterested in perfect lighting and mood music.

I want stimulus and response. I want snarling, passionate interactions. I want arching backs and reciprocal gazes, enthusiastic exchanges and particular noises. I want the fourth wall to be left intact. If I watch people fucking and know that they are fucking for my pleasure, I derive nothing from it. If I am so lucky as to watch people fucking and know that the pleasure of greatest concern is what they derive from their own bodies, it's hot beyond belief.

I want to see undulating hips and hands grasping at backs; teeth biting into pillows and touching with whole palms. Please, don't fuck at an angle that facilitates my watching penetration; it just looks less comfortable than it probably feels. Fuck to bring pleasure, to bring up goosebumps, to bring sounds out of diaphragms and infinite loops of current running between bodies.

I want more porn of people smiling:

Thanks, Unicorn Sex Party, for what I think might be my favorite coital photo ever.



More porn of people focused on each other (Pornfaerie)




More cunnilingus that's about the pleasure of eating pussy in its own right, as opposed to a means to an end (piqued interest)

More people enjoying the living hell out of sex.

Maybe I should just stop bothering with videos and only stick to pictures and stories?

If there's a tumblr (or 50) out there of porn of people smiling, I want to be looking at it/them right now. I couldn't care less what the intended audience is in terms of who's having the sex, as long as the sex they're having is more full of passion than full of staging. I want to get wet by looking at pictures; I want to see people having sex that they carnally want to have. I want to get off from other images of other people's intimacy.

I want to love porn.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

wordless


I do not remember the beginning of this story so well as I remember the middle and end of it.

Grant and I had come home from a day out, probably exploring the woods somewhere to the south of our fair city, and we showered and ate and wandered up to my room. We have made a habit of watching old episodes of Star Trek—from season 1, episode 1, on through the end, in sequential order, thank you SO much for that, Netflix—at night before bed. This night was no exception. We stripped to our skivvies and spooned while listening to the dulcet tones of a young William Shatner’s voice.

It isn’t so much that I really go for a young Captain Kirk (though I must admit he was a beautiful man) as the fact that I melt when Grant’s hand wanders across my bare breast. This is the familiar touch from a partner who simultaneously wants to show his affection and who is also aware that the right kind of caress will make my back arch and press my hips to his groin.

Grant’s left arm holds up his head while his right snakes over my waist to hold my breast and play with my nipple. This calculated touch has its desired effect as I squirm against him and lose my ability to focus on the computer screen. Grant’s breath against my ears and neck makes my nipples harden further, and I am not even attempting to pay attention to our TV show. I reach over and close the laptop and roll over to face him. Grant does not waste time, and after he returns my kiss he pushes me onto my back.

Grant is on top of me, using his weight to pin me in place. My hips press into his belly as he slides down my body, stopping at my neck and shoulders to suck and bite, and again at my nipples. He kneads one breast while kissing the other. I am incapable of silence. He moves further down my belly and lands between my thighs. He peels my panties down from my hips.

“Margot,” he says. “Is that a wet spot on your panties?”

I laugh and wink. “I’m ovulating.”

Grant lands between my thighs again. He approximates his face against the skin between my legs; he inhales deeply, and flicks his tongue over the fold of flesh to either side of my labia, between my leg and my mons. I sigh. I am quivering and aching. Grant is taking his time, and turning his attentions into agony. His eyes are closed in focus.

When he finally parts my cleft, it is with his tongue. He is light at first, and then firmer, but always slow. By now I am so sensitive that a touch even half so pressing as this would overwhelm me. Grants hands alternate between gripping my ass and seeming to pull me into his mouth, like he wants to devour me whole from my pelvis outwards, to crawling up my torso to twist and flick my nipples. He occasionally slaps my breast, which after I gasp makes my skin so sensitive to his advances that I feel like I might orgasm from a flick of his fingers on my tits alone.

When I orgasm I pull his hair. I use it to steer his face into me, while my back arches and my legs flex. My hips crack in response to all my opposing forces. Grant sucks on my clit and concurrently flicks his tongue across it, and I dissolve into his mouth.

He pulls away from me and returns my panties to me. I reach for his body and am surprised when he rebuffs me:

“Margot,” he says, “I’m really tired.”

“Oh,” I am surprised. “Ok. Nothing, then?”

“That wasn’t nothing for me.” His boxers have a tiny, tiny wet spot over the fly that betrays a certain amount of fluid, but nothing even approaching an orgasm.

“Ok. I would love to fuck you. Let me know if you change your mind.” I say, pulling my panties up over my hips. I’m satisfied with his explanation: Grant occasionally goes through periods where all he wants to do is eat pussy, nothing else. This is one of the reasons why he’s delightful.

It’s cool in my bedroom. We embrace under the covers, spooning again: this time with one of his arms under my neck and the other around my waist, with his beard tickling my neck when he breathes. He runs his hands across my belly and thighs as I press back into his torso. Eventually we are still.

I am about to sleep when I feel his hands moving again, running up to my breast and down to my legs, pressing and pulling my flesh as he explores. His hand finds its way to the elastic of my panties, while the hand under my neck grips my tit and flicks my nipple. I am immediately cognizant of the fact that Grants cock is pressing against my ass and is growing more and more insistent. His fingers slide down to my still-damp pussy and begin to massage my clit.

The sensation of his breath on my earlobe, his beard on my neck, and his hands exploring me combine into a tension that seems to pull everything towards the center of my back and down to the middle of body.

Grant’s hand pulls away from my pussy and reaches to the back of my panties. He pulls them halfway down my thighs before freeing his cock from his boxers. He grabs my hipbone and pulls it back, and tilts his pelvis just so he can slide inside me. He grunts. The hand that was under my neck to fondle my breast is now pressing against my shoulder and holding my torso in place while Grant fucks me.

He is rough with me. He is urgent. He pulls my panties further down my legs, and I can slip one foot out of them.

Without words or preamble, Grant pulls his arms out from around me, and pushes my hips and shoulders so I am face down on the bed.  Without exiting my body, he has positioned himself on top of me, his knees between my thighs and his weight pressing down on me. He continues to fuck me as he repositions me into a shallow doggystyle pose. I am moaning into a pillow as his breathing grows more labored. His hands are now free to spank my ass as hard as he wants.

When he hikes my hips a little further up, he repositions me just enough that his dick presses against my cervix and g-spot with every thrust. I don’t suppress the orgasm that this forces me to have, and I feel myself drenching the bed as my pussy tightens around Grant’s cock.

Grant is about 30 seconds behind me. When he comes I can feel his ejaculate leaking out of my pussy around his dick.  His hands are gripping my hips, and he gasps my name. These are the only words spoken between the two of us for the last 20 minutes.

When he is done, he slides forward and lies on top of me and his hands cover mine. I turn my face to kiss his lips and he runs a hand through my hair. After a minute or two, he rolls off of me and I press my body to his, with my head in the space where his arm joins his chest. I will sleep here, my naked body pressed to his, with his arms wrapped around me.

“That was definitely not nothing for you,” I say. I am, at best, a quarter awake.

“Definitely not,” Grant replies. 

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Q: who has two thumbs and a boyfriend who likes smut??

What up, y'all!


Allow me to explain my absence with a Venn diagram:




This Venn diagram is extra true when you've got a new boyfriend and you really don't want to fuck it up. As you may have noticed, my new boyfriend is less new, and has now earned his own tag over here in my little corner of the internet. Grant knows about this blog and he approves: it's not so much that he proofreads my writing--because he only kind of does--as the fact that I think he finds the whole idea novel and interesting and a little bit odd. 

Some number of months ago, not too long after I signed off for the indefinite future, Grant and I were rolling around in bed and talking about things we had done. I had previously noticed—because it was obvious—that when I told him stories about my past, he would become particularly aggressive and affectionate. Therefore, it does not require that much imagination to figure out why I told Grant about this blog.

At the time, there was some discussion regarding if he should know the blog’s name just yet. We decided to wait, and I emailed him the original email I had sent a lover about a year before that inspired this whole literary endeavor. He told me he would read it when he felt ready.

About four months later, I got a text from Grant while I was at work. He wanted a link.

I internally hemmed and hawed for a little bit, because this blog is, ultimately, embellishments of things that I’ve done with other people, and I know that I could never, ever read something like this blog as written by a current lover, as it would make me absolutely crazy and miserable with jealousy.

“Are you sure?” I replied.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”

So I sent him the link. And I became anxious.

When I saw him that night, I asked what he had thought. He told me relatively little about how he felt about it, and that he hadn’t really read that much.

I discovered over the course of the next few days that “that much” really meant “I know all about Buddy Holly and I kind of like the graphs.”

And here we are. I'm currently working to amass a nice cushion of material to post when I don't have time to write, but now that I have one particularly vocal and particularly interesting audience member, I suppose it's not unreasonable to think that finally, my more regular updates might be back for good.


I'm so glad that my (awesome) readership has decided to come back and join me again for more adventures in storytelling that's 80% real and 20% fabricated or embellished (but which 20% is something I'll never reveal). I've missed writing here, I've missed the creative outlet, and I'm delighted to find that you guys missed lil' ol' me, too. It feels good to be back.


A bientot!
Margot


PS: A: it's all of you who have both thumbs and a boyfriend. Let's not pretend that there's a single boyfriend out there who's not into smut, but only the special ones also love a good graph.

Monday, May 7, 2012

brewer


Grant is curious about the things that I write here.

The other evening, he and I had spent the day together in a smallish suburb of our fair city. We visited museums with surprisingly extensive collections for the middle of nowhere, shops that indulge our mutual interest in out-of-print books, and found a surprisingly great pub with a delicious, exclusive brew. We sat at the bar and ate mussels and drank lager and talked about the kinds of sex I want to have and the kinds of sex that I had previously enjoyed. He shared similar information.

“So what kind of names do you like to be called?” Grant’s voice is low; he is a number of things but an extrovert isn’t one of them.

“Oh, you know, like ‘whore’ and ‘slut,’ that kind of thing. I chose not to think too much about why I like it, because I’m pretty sure that would just make me less happy.”

“You’re probably right. What else do you like?”

“Bruises.”

“What?”

“Not on my face, not on my neck, but handprints on my ass, that sort of thing.”

“You like power dynamics.”

“Oh yes. I like it when you’re in charge.”

“You like being dominated.”

“Uh-huh.” I squirm in my chair. I’m pretty sure the barmaids are not actually paying attention to us. Grant changes the subject.

In the car on the way home, we revisit our bar conversation.  We are discussing where I like to be slapped, how I like being tied up, and the fact that the backs of my knees are surprisingly sensitive when I look over and see that Grant’s cock is straining against the fly of his jeans, and there is a tiny, tiny wet spot bleeding through at the tip.

“Did you ever take naked photos of yourself?” he asks, my hand snaking across his lap to investigate these new developments.

“Yes, but a lot of them have my ex in them.”

“Can I see them?”

“Some. If you want, we can swing by my place for pictures.” We are planning to stay at his place for the night, as his roommate is out of town for the month.

“Ok.” My hand explores his hardening cock.

When we stop by my house, Grant stays in the car while I run in to grab a box of restraints and an envelope full of old polaroids of me and Simon, or photos of me taken by Simon, that were the spoils of that breakup. Looking at them feels awkward at best to me, and I flip through the stack of pictures to find the ones that reveal as little of Simon as possible and that flatter my then-22-year-old body, and then stuff the rest of them back in an envelope that lives somewhere out of sight and out of mind. I run back to Grant’s car with my spoils, and offer to show him one photo. He has to pick from a fanned-out selection of blank boxes on the backs of the pictures.

He selects one where I am adjusting a strap-on. He laughs before starting the car back up and driving us home. His erection has not faded in the slightest in the face of these photos.

When we get into his house, we drop our things on the floor. Grant wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me, his hands running up and down my back from ass to shoulder. They find the hem of my shirt, pull it off over my head, and fling it across the kitchen table.

“What do you want to do?” he inquires. He is playing with my belt buckle, and eventually loosening it. His breath in my ear is hot, and it resonates through my brain and down my spine. I pull out of his embrace and kneel. I pull his jeans to the floor with me and bring his cock into my mouth, where it hits the back of my throat and I struggle not to gag. He pulls my hair into his fists and guides my head along his shaft.

“Get up,” he says. “Bend over.”

I comply: I stand up and bend at the waist, forearms on the table to steady myself. Grant grabs my hipbones, hikes them up, and enters me from behind. I am so wet that he slides into me with ease, and he fucks me against the table until I come, and clear fluid leaks from my body down my leg to a puddle on the floor. He decides we need to go to the bedroom.

He pushes me onto the bed and lands on top of me, covering me with his body. He grabs my hair with both hands and uses it to pull my face to his and kiss me. My hips are pressing insistently into his, and he enters me again. He lets go of my head with one hand and uses it to push a leg over his shoulder, bending it back so my knee touches my breast.

Grant’s penis has a curve to it that is difficult to describe. When we are not actively fucking I like to tease him that he is built for sex, because it is so easy to have mind-ending orgasms with him inside of me, easier and far more pleasurable than it has ever been with anyone else. Tonight is no exception, and I tighten around him and muffle my cries into his chest. 

We have been having sex for about an hour and a half. We decide we need a break. We take a shower and return to his bedroom. We contemplate changing the sheets and decide against it.

“Margot, what is your favorite thing you’ve ever written in your blog?”

“My favorite thing or a thing I think you might like?”

“Either-or.”

“Well, I think this one is particularly hot, but knowing you I think you’ll really like this one.”

He starts to read. He starts to get hard. I stroke his cock. He sighs and raises his hips to my touch.

“Suck my cock, Margot.”

I comply.

I look up and see the pale monitor light reflected in his glasses as he scrolls through my writing.  One hand operates the touchpad on his computer, the other alternately pulls my hair and plays with my breasts while I lick and stroke his dick. There is an exceptional amount of fluid dripping from the tip into my mouth.

“How much of this is real?”

“I’m busy, I’ll tell you later,” I reply, the sound muffled by his erection on my tongue.

His hips are thrusting into my face, and his hand holding my head steady. He is groaning and sighing as his other hand joins its mate in controlling his angle of penetration.

“I need to fuck you,” he pants. “I don’t care if it’s your face or your cunt or any other part of you, but I need to fuck you.”

I lift my face off of him and roll onto my back.

“Fuck my tits, then.” I reply.

He straddles my ribcage. My saliva is all over his cock as I press my breasts around it. He thrusts across my sternum and I lick the tip of his glans ever time it approaches my mouth.

He is flushed. He groans and sighs. He alerts me that he is very, very close to orgasm.

I squeeze my breasts more tightly together; I can get the tip of his penis into my mouth. His glans is swollen and its now-rigid corona catches my flesh as he thrusts in and out of the valley between my tits.

Grant exhales deeply. He comes in ropes across my chest, this fluid streaking across my neck and face and landing in my hair and on the headboard. His orgasm is prolonged, and as a result there is a truly astonishing amount of liquid on my skin and in the sheets.

Grant dismounts from my torso. His breathing is heavy. Before he can lean in to kiss me, I have found a tissue and have cleaned my lips and eye. He kisses me and chuckles a little bit; wiping more of his come off of my face.

“I think I need another shower,” I tell him.

“Ok.” He blushes. “I’m sorry I kind of messed you up.” Grant has returned to his normal self: kind, considerate, and a touch shy.

I grab a slightly damp towel and head off to the bathroom. When I return, Grant has changed the sheets and is waiting for me in bed. My old photos are scattered across the room. I crawl under the covers with him and straddle his lap. He kisses my nose and forehead while stroking my back.

We make plans for the rest of the weekend that include a bike trip in a nearby national park before I fall asleep, my chest to his back with an arm over his waist, with his arms covering mine. When I wake in the morning, we have rotated and traded places. We go to brunch and share our food. We are obligated to spend this day apart.

We will only be apart for 24 hours, but I always am excited for him to come back home to me.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

all you need is one


It is New Year’s Eve and unseasonably warm, and I am out to begin celebrating with some close friends. My girlfriends and I, we are all grad students and we are all in that special hell that’s populated exclusively with the smart, the miserable, and the not particularly self-aware.

We start off our evening with a heavyish meal, as our plans for later involve more whiskey than I like to remember. We are at a greasy sandwich shop, enjoying falafel and hummus wraps coupled with fries covered in jalapeños, with a side of champagne for my girlfriends and a diet coke with Jim Beam from my flask for me. We laugh, not realizing that this moment is one of those perfect times that I can look back at now and see how beautiful our friendships were in the midst of a sea of more professional bullshit than I had ever imagined. We toast all the horrible things that are finally ending with 2010: problems with our exes, problems with our families, problems with our schooling, problems with our credit card bills, and to the glimmer of hope that’s promised ever year on this day in the few hours before midnight. We inhale our meal and hail a cab to a party in the northern part of our fair city that we like to joke will be populated with about two hundred women, seven hundred gay men, and maybe 5 straight(ish) ones, and more sequins than you could find in the costumes for Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. We are ultimately very correct in our assessment.

Over dinner, I have been telling Siobhán just how badly I want to fuck someone else to get the bitter taste of Adam out of my mouth. She teases me about the words I use, she teases me about my sex drive, she teases me about going to the gayest new year’s party in the city if what I really want is to fuck a man.  I take it in stride and return the jokes to her.

“All I need is one dude who’s willing to take my pants off,” I tell her, “and then it really doesn’t matter just how little the rest of them care about my junk.”

“Fair,” she says. “After all, if the incidence of something is 1 in 1,000 in the real world, but it happens to you, the incidence for you is 1 in 1.”

“Siobhán, that’s the nerdiest way I’ve ever heard a hookup described. Ever.”

“You’re welcome.”

We snag a cab and arrive just in time to beat a mass of fashionably late types to our new year’s event. We shed our coats. We get drinks. We strengthen them from my flask that’s tucked into the top of my boot.  We assess the crowd and find a blank spot for dancing.

My friends and I take sweaty, smiling pictures of each other all night. My outfit for the evening (black tanktop, black tights, black boots, black leather miniskirt, and a poorly-thought-out, visible through my shirt only in a camera flash, turquoise bra) is well documented next to my friends’ flashy party dresses and broad grins. There are photos of women embracing whose relationships—romantic or otherwise—have since dissolved, and photos of new friendships in their awkward beginnings before a deeper, more intimate connection is later forged.

I love these photos. I hate these photos.

After 45 minutes or so, I see a tall, boyish-faced man from the corner of my eye.

He looks at me, smiles, and looks away; he tells something to one of his friends.

I look at Siobhán: “All I need is one,” I remind her. She laughs and continues her dancing, which is a charming mix of voguing and gyrations over a beatific smile that never fails to attract a suitor.

I look up and see that stranger’s grin, this time with a wink. I look him in the face, raise an eyebrow in his direction, and keep up my dancing.

This tango goes on for longer than I anticipate.

I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn around to see someone other than who I expect, who happens to be standing about 3 feet away and talking to some other friend. The stranger I want to see is completely oblivious to this exchange.

This suitor is not a beautiful man, wearing not a beautiful hat, using not exactly eloquent words and covered in not particularly alluring sweat, and I think he might be hitting on me.

I may only need one to meet my goal for the evening, but just because an opportunity presents itself does not mean I am obligated to take it.

In equal parts desperation and irritation, I swing around to the tall, boyish man that I was hoping was seeking my attention. I tap his shoulder, square my shoulders and squeeze my breasts together with my upper arms, and when he turns to me I ask him, very bluntly:

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Yes.”

The other suitor is completely crestfallen. I really don’t care.

His arm slides around my waist and I place my hands on his shoulders. We are far enough apart to be acceptable for a middle school party.

“What’s your name?”

“Margot. You?”

“I’m Louis.”

We dance for the next hour between now and midnight. He tells me what he does for a living. I tell him what I do. He tells me that he is from my fair city, I tell him that my hometown is several hundred miles away and I am surprised to discover that he used to work there. He is smart and charming and a little bit grabbier than I expect.

When midnight rolls around he pulls me in and kisses me with one hand exploring the texture of my woven tights under the short hemline of my leather miniskirt.

For the next 45 minutes we continue this dance. He kisses me and gropes me, he tells me that he expects me to slap him at any minute and is surprised when I don’t. I see my friends over his shoulder and they are keeping a watchful, yet encouraging, eye on my activities. Siobhán has wandered off somewhere with one of Louis’s group and I don’t hear from her until the next day.

When he tries to cup my pussy under my skirt on the dance floor, I draw a line.

“For that,” I inform him, “you better just take me home.”

“Ok.”

We leave. We scamper out of the club like we’re getting away with something. We get a cab driven by a dry old man who could not care less about our excitement as long as we don’t destroy his backseat.

Unicorn Lane and la Ravaudeuse Road,” I yelp, crashing into the cab and on top of my newfound paramour.

“Ok.” The cab driver has clearly been a witness to this scene several times over in just this one evening.

In the relative privacy of the backseat, Louis bites my earlobes and my neck, he pulls down the tops of my tights and his aggressive hand is immediately exploring my anatomy.

“Margot, when we get to your house I am going to eat your pussy for at least an hour.”

I spread my thighs and stifle a moan, I tell him not to make me come in the cab because the driver would probably hate it. He laughs. I unzip his pants and wrap my free hand around the base of his cock.

Many months later, Louis tells me that the comment that I make, that he is thicker than I anticipate, was so unexpected to him that he struggled not to come into my palm at that moment.

We put ourselves together when the cab careens to a halt at the designated corner. Louis flings some money at the driver as we tumble out. I lead him halfway down the block to the front door of my building. His hands are up my skirt as he follows me up the stairs to my apartment’s front door. I let us in and shed all my clothes on the walk back to my room. I hear astonished comments from behind me.

We arrive at the back of the apartment. Louis is naked too, he presses against me in a heated, urgent kiss. I drop to my knees and take his cock into my mouth as he grabs my hair, in part to steady his bulk and in part from the thrill of dominating a relatively unknown woman. This only last a minute before he pulls me up by the underarms and presses me towards the bed. I land on my back.

It is his turn to drop to his knees. He makes good on the promise he made me in the cab: while it isn’t anywhere approaching an hour, it is plenty of time for me to come with my pussy squeezing the three fingers he has shoved inside me while I arch my back and pant.

I breathlessly tell him that the condoms are, of course, in the bedside drawer. He grabs one and rolls it on. As soon as he is done, I am on top of him and riding him while he squeezes my ass. He pulls me forward by the waist and lands his face between my breasts. He pinches and bites my nipples when I ask him to. I pull his hair when he asks me to. I come in a flood across his pelvis.

He rolls me over on my back without missing a beat and bends me in half to put my legs over his shoulders. He bites me and sucks my earlobes, his nails scratch into my waist and hips as deeply as mine do into his back. When he comes he lets out a guttural sound that shakes my diaphragm.

We are silent except for our heavy breath.

After, we talk. I discover that Louis is a good person, or at least he passes for one on what I expect is a one-night stand. He tells me more intimate details about his life that night than he will ever be comfortable telling me later, because I am a perfect stranger to him. I tell him fewer of my own and am generally cooler than I ever could normally be, because he is a perfect stranger to me. He is older than he looks, and more complex than he likes to be.

“Happy new year,” he mutters to me before we fall asleep. It is 4am.

The next morning, a thick hand parting my labia and exploring my clit coupled with a hard dick pressing into my back awakens me, and I am exactly on the edge of orgasm. When another hand finds my now-sore breast and stimulates an aching nipple, I moan and shudder into consciousness.

When I am a thinking person again, I roll over onto my belly and place myself between this stranger’s thighs. He is hard again. I take him into my mouth, with one hand gripping the base of his cock and the other fondling his balls. Louis is not yet friendly enough to call me names, so instead he grabs my hair and complements my skills before he orgasms down my throat.

After a few minutes we are both calm. We are both finding out more about each other, these two relative unknowns who will, we find out later, be perfectly unmatched.

I offer him a shower, and ask if he wants to get brunch. He politely declines, saying that he has to meet his friends from last night. I check my phone to find about ten texts from last night, ranging from friends reminding me to be safe and careful to complimenting me, to Siobhán asking if I want to get our customary New Year’s meal of lo mein, which is an invitation that I accept.

Louis reassembles himself in his sweaty clothes. I put on some pajamas and make coffee. He kisses me on the cheek in the kitchen before we trade phone numbers. As I see him out the door, my roommate wanders out of her room and looks at Louis, then back at me, and then promptly goes back to bed.

I wrongly expect to never see him again.

Sunday, April 29, 2012

in media res


Grant is tall and has hazel eyes, which when we are alone he embellishes with glasses, but in public he uses contacts. He wears a beard to make me happy, and his hair is unruly and brown. He is the smartest person I’ve ever met, and also one of the most reserved. He holds my hand in public and nuzzles his face into my pillow when he sleeps. He likes to take me to museums, and we watch sci-fi from the 1960s and 70s on a semi-regular basis. He suffers my horrible schedule and obliges my need for human contact.

Some number of weeks ago, I dragged Grant out of the house for a reconstruction of our first date: Indian food from the wrong side of the western river in our fair city—all the really good places are in some other neighborhood, except for the one—followed by wandering through a picturesque park and stopping by a bookstore. I am wearing a full skirt with a long jacket, with some stockings that are entirely more elaborate than necessary. It is a little too cool out for my attire.

The restaurant has a perfect wine list, and we are tottering through the park. We laugh, we make jokes, and as we walk arm in arm our hands explored more than would have comfortable in more revealing light. As we walk down the street and back to my house, the stockings grip the tops of my thighs exactly where my legs slide past each other as I walk. I am wearing red lace panties over the garters that suspend my hosiery. This costume is a secret known to the two of us alone as we stride down the street to my two-story home.

Grant and I arrive at my front door. I let us in. I am delighted that the lights are off and the house is silent: nobody is home but us. I head up the stairs ahead of him. The bend of my waist is mildly exaggerated by the angle; I imagine that the tops of my stockings may be just visible to my partner as he follows me up the incline. At the next hallway, I turn left to the bedroom. He excuses himself to brush his teeth. I debate how much to undress, and I have gotten as far as my skirt by the time he returns. He returns to find me in a black t-shirt, black stockings, a black garter belt, the aforementioned red lace panties, and black boots. Grant laughs and gives me a half-smile. He sits on the bed as I bend over to unzip my footwear. I feel his eyes on my ass before I feel his hand.

“Grant,” I say, raising my head and putting my face in close approximation with his, “What do you mean by that?”

He kisses me and licks my lower lip; he tugs at the hem of my shirt to suggest that I remove it. I comply.

“Margot,” he replies, “I think tonight I would really love to go down on you.”

This is not so rare an occurrence that it requires any kind of fanfare or announcement.

Grant pushes me onto the bed by my shoulders. He lands on top of me, and bites my lip while pulling my hair. His palm is against my skull and the pads of his fingers massage scalp. He pulls my head to one side and kisses and bites my neck and shoulders while traveling south to my breasts. He bites my nipples through my bra, then he pinches and twists them through the thin fabric. My hips press into his chest in response.  His attentions linger on my bust. My pussy aches. The smell of his head and chest overwhelm me. I am panting.

He pulls my panties off. His mouth wanders down to my mons. His hands continue to manipulate my breasts. His tongue starts to trace the outline of the union of my labia through the thin, red lace that encases it. I am making guttural, primitive sounds. His mouth traces from my pussy to the top of my stockings: he licks from my thighs to behind my knees and back up again. During this motion, his hands press into my flesh, and in sliding over my skin they remove my inconvenient panties. My hands run through his hair and press his face into my pelvis.

Grant’s tongue glides over my clit while his hands travel back to my breasts to roll my nipples. My thighs internally rotate and my feet flex, my belly tightens and my neck extends. I am making sounds without meaning and my partner echoes them into my body.

My mind is more peacefully blank than it has been in ages.  Grant arises from the cleft between my thighs. He is still fully clothed. He pulls his sweater over his head and unbuckles his belt; his clothing is shed in short order. There is no pretense. He picks up my left leg and throws it over his right shoulder; he kisses and licks the arch of my foot through my stocking as his perfectly curved dick pushes into my still-tight cunt.

Grant exhales and groans. He pulls on my hair. He presses his torso into mine. His tongue fills my mouth and he sighs into me. When he approaches orgasm, his mouth starts making words that are clearly divorced from his conscious thought. He begs me to choke him. His neck is in my hand. I avoid the trachea while I gently press the external carotids. His face is red from exertion. My free hand scratches his back. His right hand grips and kneads my ass. My name escapes his mouth as his cock pulsates inside me.

The weight of Grant’s torso as it presses into mine, when he is covered in sweat and exhausted from the work of fucking me, is overwhelming. My face is pressed into his chest hair, I breathe in his scent and run my hands over the expanse of his back. I study the three freckles in his right iris; he returns my gaze and we kiss.

We sleep naked next to each other. His head works onto my pillow in his sleep, his arm is thrown across my hips and his breath is a soft exhale on the nape of my neck. When he sleeps his face is softened, and if I wake before him he wraps his body around mine when I stir.  The serenity that the morning offers is the perfect counterpart to our evening before, but even in a more tranquil atmosphere the sentiments that governed our previous activities persists.