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.

"Your hands. Here."

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meet louis

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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.

Patience.

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.