sand dunes

It’s May, 2008. I am working as the plankton of the scientific food chain, which while it did not afford me much in terms of upward mobility without the acquisition of another degree, it did provide me with a regular income, vacation days, and free evenings. I was taking advantage of all this spare time by being on vacation with Simon in one of the gayer spots on the American coastline.

We spent four days enjoying our unfamiliar surroundings. We explored some beaches, saw some flea markets, walked miles and miles in quaint villages, ate some delicious in-season seafood, and purchased some high-quality leather goods (which is a story for another time). 

Simon and I had a little thought that we wanted to realize on this trip.  Our last night, we set out for a walk along the beaches well after most of the sleepy vacation town had gone to bed. We walked along back roads, him in jeans and me in a knee-length A-line linen skirt with no panties. We walked hand in hand; seeking out a spot that we weren’t sure was real. We had a beach blanket and a pocket pack of tissues in tow.

There were few cars out that night. We walked out of the town, and wandered and wandered until we came across a beach that was made of sand and patches of grass that was situated away from the road by 25 feet and dunes. We slinked out into the moonlight, spread out the blanket, and laid down, side by side, on the oversized terrycloth.

His familiar touch across my thighs was magnified by the openness of the beach: his hands were firm on my muscles, kneading them and heading up to my hipbones, then spreading my legs apart with his knees and my labia with his fingers. It was not a warm night. We both had our hoods up as we writhed, with gooseflesh appearing on the outsides of my legs and the heat from my partner’s body warming their more medial aspects.

There was a zip, a fumbling of buckles, and the insistent pressing of Simon’s cock against the aching opening of my pussy. I raised my hips into his, my legs wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck, and I felt the satisfying stretch of him entering my body.

We rocked back and forth, tangled in each other, feeling the sting of sand whipped up from the beach and listening to the sound of waves overcoming our heavy breaths. I looked up into his face to see him surrounded by nothing but stars.

When a rare car drove by from the north, the headlights would trace out over the dunes, and we were hidden in their shadows. If someone were to drive by from the south, they would be treated to the sight of pale, muscular calves and thighs—mine—wrapped around a slender man’s frame.

When Simon came, he thrust into me, moaned into my ear, and wrapped his hand under my head between my hair and the sand. My pelvis is tilted up, his orgasming cock is pressing against my swollen g-spot and pushing me into my own climax. I cry out, I bite his neck over his pulse to stifle the sound, I run my hands under his hoodie and leave scratch marks across his back that I discover when we get home.

When we are done and coming down, we pant and wrap the blanket close in around our bodies to keep out the slightly too-cool air. Simon kisses my forehead. The air is crisp and salty, there is a car driving by and the dune’s shadow lengthens, shortens, and disappears. After a time, we separate, we grab some tissues to clean ourselves off, stand up, and dust off the sand from our bodies. We pick up the blanket and wander across the dunes.

There is a trace down the inside of my right leg of Simon’s semen leaking out of my pussy: our tidying attempts were clearly incomplete. I didn’t protest: the viscous fluid helped my thighs slide past each other as we walked back to the bed and breakfast. We stopped by the ice cream shop on the edge of town before going back to bed.

bones

“Osteoclasts acting together in a small group excavate a tunnel through the old bone, advancing at a rate of about 50 µm per day. Osteoblasts enter the tunnel behind them, line its walls, and begin to form new bone, depositing layers of matrix at a rate of 1-2 µm per day. At the same time, a capillary sprouts down the center of the tunnel. ...Typically, about 5-10% of the bone in a healthy adult mammal is replaced in this way each year”

Alberts, et al. Molecular Biology of the Cell, 4^th edition, Garland Science, 2002. pg 1306.

“Constant remodeling of bone is a normal part of skeletal maintenance. ...[Bone] remodeling involves replacing old bone with newly formed bone via the functional coupling of osteoclasts and osteoblasts. ...Bone remodeling enables bone to adapt to mechanical stress, maintain its strength, and regulate ...homeostasis.”

Rubin and Strayer, Rubin's Pathology, 5^th edition, Lippincott Williams and Wilkins, 2008. pg 1088.

I am 100% aware that probably none of my readership here is deeply interested in the physiology of bones. I don't really care. It occurred to me the other night that bones, bone remodeling, and the cells that accomplish this task are a physical metaphor of emotional structures and growth*. The osteoclast breaks down what the osteoblast regenerates. The skeleton appears unchanged from the outside but it is ultimately one of the most dynamic structures in the body.

A year ago, my skeleton was fragile: too much breaking down without enough building up leads to a delicateness that lends itself to snapping. The turnover of my physiology was more rapid in degeneration than in growth. I was unable to get from my environment the nutrients and support necessary to maintain myself. The cracks in structure only show when the imbalance has gone on too long.

When the diet does not contain enough calcium or phosphorus, the bones begin to degrade. Calcium is used in other parts of the body for the immense tasks of regulating the functions of essentially all cells, and in the name of maintaining that ability the skeleton will be sacrificed. The osteoclast will break the bone and release the ions into the blood. The skeleton will waste.

A year ago, I gave away more than I had to take up. I poured calcium into the blood; I sacrificed my matrix to maintaining the integrity of other structures. I weakened under a demand that I felt I had a mandate to fulfill.

Tiny cracks began to form in me. I was not strong enough.

In order not to break, there must be a change: either the body demands less from the skeleton, or there there is more calcium made available to the bones. The alternative is unsustainable: the skeleton weakens, and there are new, crush fractures: the spine compresses; the pelvis thins.

A year ago, I had to make a decision: I could either give up less, or try to get more. I was breaking apart and all the structure that made me I was giving away.

My bones and his bones. We wore ourselves down to our ions. We let our osteoclasts work overtime, but skeletons in two separate bodies can't share. We eroded ourselves to the marrow and there was nothing left to do but break.

And we did.

And it hurt.

But a miraculous thing lives in a skeleton: the osteoblast. They wait for a signal and collect calcium; laying it down in giant woven nets to fill in the holes left over from a fracture. The woven bone is weak and can break again easily, especially if perturbed, but with time and support—from a cast, from collagen-making cells, whatever—the structure strengthens.

My osteoblasts are working. They lay down tissue, my blood nourishes it and I take the best care of it that I can. I feed and strengthen my body. I know more now about how to do this.

A year ago, what I thought was taking care of myself actually lead to wasting. I cleaved myself to a love that had become dysfunctional, and so did my partner. We tried so hard. The fracture that we were trying to fix would never heal, its ends were too far away to fuse. Two skeletons in separate bodies cannot repair each other.

I lead a life now that requires that I pour out almost my everything every day. What I take in must be restorative, or else I can't make this work. By necessity, I have learned when to give more and when to give less. I have learned what I need to take. I have discovered that other appetites and other drives sometimes serve me better.

When I open my body to a lover, they give me as much as I give them. We use the same currency. We trade the same ions. I have to pick then with some level of discrimination so that this trade is fair. The weight of another strengthens me.

Weight-bearing activity increases the functionality of the osteoblast. This increases the strength of the skeleton.

I learn new things about my skeleton with every encounter: I learn where old scars make me weaker, and where my remodeled bone is stronger than I expected. I learn where the limits of my strengths are and how the role of a new lover in my life contributes to that. I learn that I make the decisions about what to give myself and what to give away.

My skeleton looks the same on the outside.

For me, it is all newly made. I have turned over my bones. I am rebuilding. I am destroying. I strengthen and adapt. My osteoclasts and osteoblasts are in a delicate balance tipped off by breaking. My new strengths are things I would never trade.

*In case the graphs didn't tip you off, this is a sex blog maintained by a deeply nerdy gal.  

wildlife preserve

Simon and I were driving through fields in the rural area near where he used to live. It was July. We chattered away, a hand on each others' thigh. I wore a short black wrap dress. Everything was new, and everything about Simon excited me: his tall, slim build; auburn hair, and frank but gentle demeanor. He was immensely talented at reading other people, probably the best I've ever known, and combined with his background trait of honesty, being near him was often a discovery of what things you could learn about people if you just pay attention. He made no effort to hide his raw sexuality, and it was percolating just below the surface in all of our interactions when everything was new.

He always drove with a hand on my thigh, and I normally hand mine folded on top of his. Today, we were driving through the countryside, over fields filled with nothing and through tree-covered hills. The part of the world that he was from wasn't that far from the city where I lived in terms of distance, but in terms of geography and culture it was a separate world. It was beautiful and slow, and a place where you could go to be alone, outside, for miles.

Our conversation turned from whatever it was about before to what it always became: our fantasies. His hand crept up my thigh to the edge of my panties as I told him that I always wanted to fuck outside in broad daylight, and that I had never done it and was sad that I probably never would. As he traced the crease between my vulva and my inner thigh, I moved my hand over to his lap to discover a growing hardness.

“Margot, you know there's nobody here for miles, we're driving through a wildlife preserve.” I looked out the window: we were driving through a field with gently rolling hills, sun everywhere, and far enough out that I couldn't actually see another road. Simon pinched my thigh, and ran his hand under my wet panties. I rubbed his cock through his jeans. “Why don't we stop here?” I pulled my panties down and off my ankles and over my sandal-covered feet.

Simon pulled over, and we both hopped out of his green sedan. We looked and listened: nothing. Nobody. He kissed me, pushed me over the hood of his car, and untied my dress as I undid his belt. The metal of the hood of the car burned the backs of my thighs until he pulled my ankles up to his shoulders and penetrated me. He did not start off slowly or gently: our conversation in the car turned us both on to the point that this sex was the culmination of a fantasy.

We were instantly sweating in the mid-July sun. I was wearing a bra that closed in the front: I snapped it open, pressed my tits together, and played with my nipples while Simon fucked me, lifting my ass up off of the car with the force of his pelvis and forcing me to be almost completely bent in half while his hands squeezed my hips. We were grunting and rutting like animals.

Wildlife preserve, indeed.

When Simon fucked me like this: him on top of me or standing, my knees to my chest with my legs fully extended in a feat of flexibility that I'm not sure I could do without training up to it, I always came quickly and hard. Today was no exception, and I was quickly panting and crying out, with my pussy squeezing him harder and leaking all over our hips. Simon stepped back and pulled out of me, and promptly came in ropes from my pubis to my sternum. He leaned over me for an instant; panting, sweating, and glowing.

He looked up.

“Oh shit, Margot!” he shouted, and quickly threw the halves of my dress over my nakedness before shoving his still half-erect cock back into his jeans, just as not one, but two, totally full minivans drove by. They had decals on them from one of the larger summer camps in the area. They drove past, pulled over 50 feet away, and stopped. Simon and I had thrown our clothes back on and jumped in the car and drove off as quickly as possible as I reined in my breasts and tried to clean myself off with tissues from the glove box while keeping myself covered as we drove past these two vans, full of staff from the camps. If they weren't staff, they were the most twentysomething-looking campers I have ever seen. They were staring at us as we drove past. I was trying not to get ejaculate all over my dress, the car, or the seatbelt, and had pretty much given up. I tied up my dress, and looked at my partner.

Simon was laughing hysterically. My shocked feelings turned to giggles, and turned to belly laughs with him. This was not the end I fantasized about—my exhibitionist streak did not include fantasizing about accidental minivans full of observers—but it's definitely a much better end than anything I could ever make up.  

The Unicorn

I was two months out of a serious relationship. It was September, grad school was back in full swing, and I was categorically undersexed and overextended. My skin felt tight around my viscera, and when I thought about sex, or love, or Simon and how things ended, it felt a little bit like pulling the scab off of a wound that wasn't nearly as healed as I thought it was. I was wound so tightly that the smallest stimulus would make me spring into pieces. It was unsustainable. My roommate told me, as I sat on the radiator in our kitchen, bouncing my knees up and down with nervous energy and drinking a beer, that I obviously just needed to get laid. I decided she was right.

A friend of mine is a DJ here, and that night he was performing at a cramped basement venue. After feeding them sufficient amounts of whiskey, I dragged three friends (Including the delightful Liplicker) with me for a night of overpriced drinks and the very best of 1970s funk-soul and 1990-2000s hip hop in a room with horrible acoustics and murals on the stone walls. I wore my tightest jeans, black riding boots, and a cream-colored shirt with a low-plunging front and back. I wore a purple ribbon in my short blond hair to keep it out of my face.

When we walked into the bar, it was not particularly crowded. The room itself is maybe 12 feet wide by about 20 feet long, with a bar at one end, the DJ booth at the other, and everything else in between for dancing. There are a few tables near the entrance, but they mostly get used as a coat rack. My friends and I shed our outer layers and started dancing. There were some young men who tried to impress us with well-executed but categorically ridiculous dance moves, and the four of us soundly ignored them.

About 45 minutes in, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, he asked me to dance, I said yes. He was tall and slim, little bit of an accent, very plain in the face, with dark curly chest hair creeping over the edge of his shirt. He put his arms on my waist and pulled me close.

“My name is Buddy Holly,” he told me.

“Is it really, or is it actually Brian and you're just trying to get in my pants?”

“No, I'm from Texas,” he said.*

We danced together some more. His hands spread firmly up and down my back, searching to get under my belt and rub the flesh of my ass, and I rebuffed him. I had never slept with a stranger before, and I was wary of this man who pulled me in, felt me up, and whose face was so close to mine I could nearly taste his breath.

After dancing like this for a time, he told me the greatest pickup line I have ever heard, before or since: “You are visually delicious.” I laughed in his face and danced closer, shocked that someone would try that on me and even moreso that I didn't hate it.

There was lots of small talk. I discovered that he worked at a local large university in their political science department, putting the brand name MBA he had earned at a young age to work figuring out how nonprofits should spend their money. I told him my name, and my desire to work in a research-heavy field of healthcare. He was unphased. People who spend all their time at Big Name University in my city expect nothing less from their dance partners than a bachelor's degree and a large vocabulary.

We danced. We chatted. Our faces were close, our lips were close, our breathing was labored. I didn't know his last name. I was rubbing his back under his shirt and letting him squeeze my body. My friends winked at me from across the room. I leaned forward half a centimeter and Buddy Holly and I were suddenly kissing deeply, pulling each other in, while I slipped out a small, surprised moan. Our hips had long ago skipped over these pleasantries, and twenty minutes later my pussy was totally slick, and I could feel him pressing insistently against me. He was a stranger. He was exciting. This was exciting. This was terrifying. This was a bad idea, and such a good one.

“Margot,” he said, “I feel a connection with you. I would love to take you home and drink a bottle of wine with you and get to know you better.”

“You can buy me a drink, but I'm not going home with you.” I was firm. I believed it. I had never gone home with anyone before and I was nervous about taking my chances, since I believed pretty strongly that there was a good chance that he was, in fact, actually an axe murderer who preyed on the large-busted and recently single.

He acquiesced and bought me a drink. He said he wanted to know everything about me. I was cagey and told him very little, except that if he had met me six months ago I would have told him that I was getting ready to marry Simon. That was true.

As he and I finished our beers, he pulled his arm around my waist, and asked if I wouldn't mind leaving with him to grab something to eat. If I was uncomfortable at any point, I could back out, and leave, and he would respect it. I agreed. We ran out of the bar, his friends giving him high fives and mine frantically texting me that I can call them if things went sour.

The next half hour or so was a blur. He pressed me against an SUV in the street and kissed me like he was going to fuck me right then. I pressed back. We stumbled down the sidewalks. He told me all about nonprofits. I impressed him with my French, and I discovered that while his English is nearly impeccable, that accent was authentic and he was not a native speaker. We ate pizza and talked about feminism. This is truly the way into my heart/pants.

When we crossed the threshold of his apartment, he offered me mescal: “I have the normal kind, and I have something a little bit more fancy. You can have whichever you like.” I took some of the nicer one. I sat next to him on his white couch, on the white rug, next to the black coffee table: his apartment was clean and minimalist; the living space of a young person with not a lot of money but enough taste to know what to do with it.

On the couch, he leaned into me. My drunken mind was racing: will I or won't I? Will he or won't he? Do I want to? Why? Why not? What am I going to do? Is it so bad? It could be SO good. Will I or won't I? He was saying words and I was not paying attention. And then we were kissing like teenagers, with his hand around my waist and his chest pressing into me. He asked me to come back to his room.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said. “I want to make you forget about all the bullshit that troubles you. I just want you to feel good.” Buddy Holly fed me lines about sex and feminism that I am, even now, completely sure that he meant with all honesty.

Then we were naked, him running his hands all over my body. He smelled sweaty and masculine and hot. His chest and abdomen were covered in dense hair, his body was lean and muscular and far stronger than he looked, and he was on top of me, kissing my breasts and squeezing my ass. The light was on. I wrapped my legs around his waist. His penis pressed against the inside of my thigh, he kissed down my stomach to my mons, then to my clit. He licked it indelicately, and I moaned.

In about 30 seconds I asked him to get a condom; he agreed. I finally saw his dick: it was impressive. Probably about eight inches fully hard, not particularly thick but slightly curved. He rolled on the condom, threw my ankles over his shoulder, bit my neck and slid into me fully. I arched my back and moaned, he felt amazing inside me and I felt like I was waking up.

We fucked like this for about a minute and a half, and he asked me to roll over onto my stomach, which I was happy to oblige. That slight curve made this perfect: he grabbed the space between my ribs and my waist and entered me while I was on my stomach, pushing my hips into the air at a sharp angle. We were like this for approximately a minute before I came, hard, with him inside me and in a flood all over his (white) sheets. I was shaking. He sounded a little sad as he asked me if I was done for the night.

I told him no, don't be ridiculous, give me a minute.

He held me to him. I was quivering. I told him—truthfully--that he was the first man I had come with like that since I left Simon. He stroked my hair and kissed me, he pulled off the condom, and whispered kind words in my ear. He laid me on my back, and we made out in his bed while his still-hard penis pressed against me. I was still wet, I still wanted him, I was grinding my hips against his thigh like we had done on the dance floor, and he held my arms down over my head. He rolled on another condom.

When I have already come once, my vagina is much tighter afterwards. I am not sure if it's like this for other women, but my lover seemed to appreciate it. He fucked me slowly, through another orgasm and another, and he put me on top of him and I rode him while I came. I was shocked by how well he fit into me. We were at it for hours: he stared intensely into my eyes, we tried every position I know, I lost track of orgasms. It was wonderful.

I asked him if I could make him come.

He hesitated.

“I can't.”

“I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

“I can't, unless I know this is real, that this is a real connection.”

“This connection is absurd. I've never felt anything like it. You've made me feel so good, it would mean so much to me if you would let me make you come.”

“Ok.”

I slid down to the foot of the bed. I parted his legs. I kissed the insides of his thighs, and licked one of his balls, before I took him into my mouth. He sighed. He started to mutter, and he wasn't speaking English while he played with my hair and raised and lowered his pelvis to the rhythm of my mouth. I played with his scrotum with one hand and ran my other in a fist up and down his shaft with the other.

He collected himself, and sputtered out, “I want your pussy on my face, I want to taste you, please.”

I was happy to oblige. We 69'd for a good while: he moaned into me and I took as much of him in my mouth as I could. After a few minutes, he switched from eating my pussy to licking my perineum, and then to rimming me. I had only done that with Simon, it felt wonderful with him and it was stunning now. I was having a hard time sucking his cock with any skill from how good it felt, until he pressed his hips to my face and thrusted harder, and ejaculated into my mouth. He tasted like a man who had spent the past several hours drinking and dancing with a strange woman that he had fucked senseless a half hour earlier.

I dismounted. He was in a daze.

“Margot, you are an excellent cocksucker.”

He asked if he could hold me while I slept. I fell into his arms, he spooned me. I believe him that he fully intended to sleep with me this way, but I felt his cock harden again when I pressed my ass against his pelvis. He reached between my legs, kissed the back of my neck, and asked if he could get a condom. I agreed.

We were awake until about 5:00, and we collapsed into a sweaty sleep after: he held me tightly just as he said he wanted to. We awoke some hours later, and repeated the previous night's events. All told, we used maybe eight condoms, I sucked him off three times, and I have absolutely no idea how many times I came. In the morning he kissed me gently and saw me out the door.

He and I texted back and forth briefly. I never saw him again. He's my Unicorn: the man I slept with, who was exactly what I needed at the time and who I don't know if I'll ever see again. He was absolutely the best sex I've ever had—and I've had a decent amount of sex—and he was extraordinarily kind. I don't need to ever sleep with him again, because the memory I have of the man who, essentially, fucked the memory of my ex-love, my ex-almost-fiancé, right out of me with skill and aplomb, is perfect.

EPILOGUE:

Buddy Holly belongs to a very small population of people of a certain ethnicity in my fair city, and he works at one of its largest employers. Some number of months later, Liplicker told her girlfriend, in jest, that she was “Visually delicious.” In between fits of laughter, the girlfriend asked where on earth my friend had heard this.

“Buddy, Margot's unicorn, said it to her!”

“Buddy HOLLY?!” she replied.

As it turns out, this girlfriend knew my unicorn through a series of other friends. She told me later that he has a girlfriend (or two?) now, and that he is, in fact, a prodigy at work and a feminist in real life, and that he never takes home women from bars. When she asked him about me, he said:

“Margot? Margot la Ravaudeuse? Yes, I know her. I took her home, and we had epic, marathonic, earth-shattering sex.”

As it turns out, I'm his Unicorn, too.

*In truth, Buddy Holly's real name is very distinctive and also the name of a pop song, so this story is considerably less funny when the names are changed to avoid any kind of detection, ever. Trust me, it was awesome.

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.