a study in contrasting temperatures.

Two weeks is too long. It is February.

We walked up the stairs to his one-bedroom. He cupped the fullness of my buttocks in his large chapped hands; squeezing me through my jeans. I had a weekend's worth of clothing in a backpack, which I threw off as soon as we crossed from the front door into the kitchen. He grabbed me around the waist, pressing his abdomen to my back as I raised my arms up around his neck and he kissed my shoulders.

Those hands explored my body: they squeezed my flesh and piqued my senses; they ran over my shirt then under my belt. He pinched a nipple through my bra with one hand while slowly exploring my overheating sex with the other. My hips rose and fell with the rhythm he defined. His erection grew and pressed against the small of my back. We were edging towards the kitchen table.

His hand left my tit and joined its companion at the buckle of my jeans: that was swiftly undone and my pants and panties were immediately around my knees. The edge of the table was level with my mons, and the pressure of the cold wood against my skin raised goosebumps across my body. With his left hand he pulled back on my left hip and with his right he undid his fly and released his penis, then grabbed my other hip. I bent forward stood and on my toes as he penetrated me, the both of us sighing and flushing with the satisfaction of our combined sense of urgency that had percolated over the course of the days that we could not be together.

Everything is hot and cold: the air and the table steal warmth from our bodies and harden our nipples, the heat from my lover's flesh brings a glaze of sweat to my back. The cool smoothness of the wooden table against my outer labia is in stark contrast to the temperature of cock inside me, the tempo generated by the one heightens the sensual-pressure-numbness-warmth donated by the other.

His hands dig into the curve of my waist. I brace myself against the table with mine pressed flatly on its surface. The combined sensation of my partner's aggressive thrusting and the firmness against which I am forced is overwhelming, and when I orgasm I leak fluid down my thighs and leave a small puddle on the table while I whimper.

My lover pulls out of me before he comes. I am momentarily surprised at the sudden departure, until I hear him moan behind me and feel his semen splash against the cleft between my cheeks. He grabs me by the joint between the top of my thigh and the fold beneath the fullness of my ass, pulls towards himself, and licks from my perineum to the top of my sacrum until I am clean. The warmth of his mouth is the opposite of the coolness of his saliva left on my body. When he stands, I spin around and we embrace, squeezing out all the air between our torsos and having as much flesh against flesh as we can. The time without my lover is the antithesis of this closeness.

We shower. We clean off the longsuffering kitchen table. We eat and laugh, I sit in his lap and he pinches and tickles me. These two days are what I spent ages waiting on, and they are always over far too quickly.

the results of many strenuous, peer-reviewed protocols

After a few years of tinkering, I think I've figured it out:

I'm pretty sure this is God's honest truth.

This week is a rough one in Grad-School-Land, so expect more regular descriptions of boning and awesome saturday nights after it has passed.

i suppose that's one good word, yes.

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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 Venn diagram that explains everything

I was going to make a road map, but this seemed more efficient. 

Everything here is something I love.

(NB: QC = Questionable Content by Jeph Jaques; SMBC = Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal by Zach Weiner)