Friday, August 31, 2012

Fishing In the Bathtub

This time when Husband found me, I was already on the bed, spread on my stomach, watching T.V. He plopped himself next to me, and we talked for a while, about mundane things: how our days went, what was going on in the world, funny things we'd seen online. After a while, the conversation died down, and I realized we were both in a holding pattern, waiting.
I was waiting for him to give me some kind of sign it was time to give him a blowjob...I had no idea what he was waiting for.

Finally, after a long pause, he said: "Why don't we go downstairs?"
"Why?" I asked, confused.
"So I can drag you back up here by your underpants," he said.
My eyebrows went up a good two inches. "But I'm already here. You don't need to drag me."
"I know," he sighed, "but I like to drag you. This...this is like fishing in a bathtub. There's no hunt."

People tell me regularly Husband and I have a weird D/s dynamic. I don't act submissive all the time; I don't check my behaviors in public. And he hardly seems the stereotypical "Domly" type. I think what makes our relationship seem quirky are our heightened "Predator/Prey" drives. Husband wants me to listen, he wants me to submit....
But not quite as much as he wants me to refuse, so he can make me do what he wants.

Of course, after he said that, it was ON. I clenched my teeth, said "the hunt's not over--the prey hasn't been caught yet," and rolled off the bed. He dove right after me, and we struggled for a while. It ended when he dug his fingers into my temple and pulled my head toward his cock; I locked my jaws, but he pried them open (painfully) and lunged his prick in my mouth. And that, as they say, was that.

Ladies, you want to try to make things interesting? Don't be the fish in the bathtub.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Please Force Me

Let me start with this:
I love giving Husband blowjobs.
His cock tastes divine, and while I wouldn't say it's a perfect fit for my mouth (oh God no way), I would say it's an unperfect fit in all the right ways. It's smooth. It's warm. It glides down my throat just so. It's great for sucking. It's great for just just about anything I'm in the mood for...but blowjobs are particularly nice.
I'm good at giving blowjobs. At least, Husband says so--and he's the only one who has to judge. I can deep throat him without problem; I can hold him down in my throat for long lengths of time with no problem. I can suck, lick, and pump my jaws, all at the same time. I am talented.
(One of those many talents I will never be able to openly market...but I digress.)
What it boils down to is I enjoy giving blowjobs, I'm good at it, and they make me happy.

Now here's the second thing:
I sabotage my own happiness; like, all the fucking time.
I have a feeling a lot of women do this; we just don't really open up about it. If there's something I know I should be doing, something that's good for me, something that will make me happy in the short or long term...I still try to convince myself not to do it. I don't know why. It's like a little voice inside my head says "O! This will end well! Best not do it!" And then I go on with doing something else.

So there are often times when I want to give Husband a blowjob, I know I'll enjoy it and obviously (oh how obviously) he will enjoy it, but for some reason, I won't offer to give him one, and I won't ask him if he wants one. The latter statement is more rhetorical (obviously he wants one, he wants one all the time) but it's polite to ask first before yanking a guy's pants down and start sucking on his cock. I think this falls under the heading of "common courtesy"; or maybe, in a D/s relationship, under "asking permission."

The other day I could tell these conflicting emotions were getting the better of me, so to nip it in the bud, I called Husband on his way home.
"Make me give you a blowjob tonight," I said.
"No problem!" He replied.

After all the kids had gone to bed (can I just say here, thank God for school-night bedtimes?), he came looking for me, and found me on the couch, watching television.
"Give me my blowjob," he said, staring down at me.
"Gah, I'm too tired," I said without looking away from the T.V.
"I don't care," he replied. "Give me my blowjob."
"I don't feel like it."
Giving me a penetrating look that would have pierced through lead, he turned off the television, grabbed my hand, and pulled. "Give me a blowjob," he said.
"No," I replied.
For a moment, we stared at each other. Then Husband reached into my lap, slipped his hand into the front of my pants, got a good grip on my panties...and pulled.
I jacked up off the couch, howling. My panties were now stretched taut inside my pussy, and pulling on my most sensitive parts.
It was the evil frontal wedgie.
Husband began to walk me upstairs, pulling on my panties like a leash. I could only keep up with his steps, walking on my tiptoes the whole while and whining as we went.
"When I say give me a blowjob," he growled as we walked, "I mean get up, stop whatever you're doing, get upstairs, and give me a fucking blowjob." We reached the bedroom, and he half flung me against the couch. Before I could regain my balance, he pushed me down by the shoulders and shoved me to the floor.
In one swift moment, he had his pants down and his hand behind my head, digging into my hair. He pulled my head into his crotch, and I had no choice but to take his cock in my mouth.
"There you go," he said. "Now get to work."
Of course, now that I was well positioned on the floor, his cock in my mouth, I automatically got down to work. Like I said, I take pride in my blowjobs. Once he got my over the initial struggle of fighting my own inclination, my own wants, I was fine. I gave that man a mighty fine blowjob to thank him for his troubles, and by the time he came, he had to collapse onto the nearby chair just to catch his breath.

And then it was time for one of those weird conversations you probably only hear in D/s households.
"Thank you for making me give you a blowjob, Husband," I said.
"No problem. You feel better?"
"Oh, yes."
"I didn't pull your hair too hard, did I?"
"No, I'm okay. Thanks for asking."
"I just want to make sure it wasn't too know, for next time."
"Next time?"
"Next time I think you need to feel better again. You were down before, but now you're smiling. You always seem to smile more after I do this. I'll probably force you to give me a blowjob every night for the rest of the week. How does that sound?"
"You're so good to me."

I have no idea what kind of pillow talk goes on in vanilla households. I imagine, though, it's very different from ours.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012


Quick writing post.

My latest work, The Edge of Jasmine: A Hotel Bentmoore World Novel is now available on Amazon, and should be available through Barnes&Noble (and other formats) by tomorrow.

This book serves as a sequel to Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore: Samantha. I know a lot of readers have been waiting for this to come out, and I'm sorry for the delay. But it's finally out! Yay! Thank you for waiting...and thank you for reading!

(Forgot to add: Glendon Haddix, over at, did the cover and formatting on this book, too. His banner is to the right. If you ever need artwork or formatting done for an ebook, he's your guy.)

Friday, August 24, 2012

All Things Being Unequal

Me, petulantly: You really hurt me.
Him, warily: Where did I really hurt you?
Me: My arm. It really hurts.
Him: Your arm? How did I hurt your arm?
Me: I don't know. Maybe when you grabbed my hand to twist me around and spank me?
Him: Show me where it hurts.
I show him the spot inside my arm, underneath my wrist. There is some redness. 
Him: This is not from me grabbing you. This is where I blocked your arm from trying to hit my ass.
Me: Well, it hurts!
Him: Good. You shouldn't be trying to hit my ass.
Me: But you get to hit my ass.
Him: This is true. (Swats my ass.)
Me: Hey!
Him: Did that really hurt?
Me: No.
Him: The moral of the lesson here is don't try to top me, cause you can't. Trying will only hurt you more.
Me: But you shouldn't let me hurt my arm! You should control these things!
Him, sighing and shaking his head: You're right. Next time I see you with that look in your eyes, I'm tying you up. Then I know where your hands are, and you can't get yourself into trouble. And it'll be much easier to spank you.
Me: That's right! Wait...I didn't mean...hold on....
Him: Go put ice on your arm. Right now. (Kisses me on the forehead and walks away.)

Husband has a very nice ass. But while I'm allowed to caress it, kiss it, knead it, lick it, and occasionally, nip it, I am not allowed, never ever, to spank it. Even though it is so very cute.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

An Example of What Happens When We Do Vanilla

Me: Do you want me?
Him: What kind of question is that? Of course I want you. I always want you.
Me: So can we have sex? Like, right now? Cause I want it, but I'm getting tired.
Him: What do you want, a quickie?
Me: Yes.
Him: No.
Me: No? You don't want me for a quickie?
Him: Not really. It always turns into "I can't breathe" and "oh my hair."
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Him: Fine. We'll go have a quickie, and you'll see.
We go upstairs, unceremoniously get naked, and lie down in bed. I rub his cock until it's hard, and then he starts to climb on top of me.
Him: You're dry.
Me: I'm tired.
Him: I don't care anymore.
His words serve to excite me a little, and I wetten up some. He thrusts inside and leans into me. As he begins to get serious, he balances his weight onto his elbows, but I'm still getting crushed.
Me: Can you lift up a little? I can't breathe.
He shifts his weight, moving over his elbows.
Me: Ow, my hair! Your arm is on my hair!
Him: (still thrusting) I told you. "I can't breathe; oh my hair." Don't laugh, you'll push me out!
Me: (Laughing so hard tears are forming)
Him: (Also beginning to laugh...but still pumping) Fine, laugh. But I'm not stopping.
Me: I can't breathe! Ow, my hair!
Him: .....

(About three minutes later)
Me: Well that was fast.
Him: You asked for a quickie.
Me: I didn't mean that fast.
Him: Too bad. You got what you asked for.
Me: But...could you help finish me off?
Him: Yes. Cause I'm a nice guy. (Starts pleasuring me with his fingers, makes a face at me) "I can't breathe! Ow, my hair!"
Me: (Laughing) If you make me laugh, I can't come!
Him: Well this sounds like a fun experiment. How long can I keep you from coming by making you laugh?

I did come a few minutes later. But it probably would have taken just as long, and been much more exciting, if I had taken a couple moments to get into the proper headspace before and come with him, instead of trying to take what I call "the vanilla way out."

Monday, August 20, 2012

Why We Need Consent Culture

By now I'm sure you've heard about the ridiculous comments Missouri Republican candidate Todd Akin said regarding abortion, and when, if ever, it should be allowed in cases of rape. His sentiment is/was, and I quote:

"First of all, from what I understand from doctors, that's really rare [for a woman to get pregnant as a result of rape]...If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down."

He goes on to say how, even in the cases of "legitimate rape," the rapist should be punished, and not the "child."

Now here's where things go from bad to worse. Akin has apologized for his comments...kinda. He said he "misspoke." He said he shouldn't have used the term "legitimate rape," because what he meant was "forcible rape."

This is why we need consent culture, people. Because no matter how nit-picky people can be get about it sometimes, no matter how annoying and frustrating and headache-inducing the whole issue can be, sometimes, we need to brush all our differences aside, stand up as one, and yell:


According to many people out there, including the people representing us in government, (including many people in the kink community, I think) there is still such a thing as "grey-area rape." Meaning-- well, she said no, but...she really wanted it. She knew what she was getting herself into. By what she was wearing, by what she was doing, she was asking for it. She needs to take responsibility for what happened, too. 
In other words? It wasn't really rape. 

Now, big surprise, we learn that Akin, along with his Republic cohorts, including Vice-President hopeful Paul Ryan, wanted to pass a bill that would have redefined the definition of rape. Their definition of rape would have excluded teenagers impregnated by older men; incest victims; basically, anyone under legal age; any woman who is drugged, drunk, or is mentally disabled.

Akin is perfectly able to say, with a straight face, that he thinks rape is abhorrent. He thinks rapists are the lowest of the low. 
But who is a rapist, according to him?
Not the guy who takes advantage of a sixteen-year-old. Not the guy who slips a pill in a woman's drink at a bar to 'loosen her up a little.' No; unless there are obvious signs of force, it wasn't rape at all.

It is this mentality we are still fighting in this day and age. It is this mentality which consent culture tries so hard to expose, to battle, and hopefully, to eradicate. And as long as there are people like Akin out there, I will be out there too, calling myself a proud feminist, a member of consent culture, fighting back as much as I can.

Care to join me?

Thursday, August 16, 2012

New Experiment I'm trying

Guys, my new anal sex story is out. It's a quickie (pun intended), so I'm offering it on Amazon ONLY. But here's the good news:

That's right, I didn't want to charge any of my readers for this story at all, because of its size. 
Size does count, ya'all. 
But Amazon doesn't work that way. So I enrolled it in a special program called "Select," and for the next five days, this story is free for everyone. After that, it will still be free for Amazon Prime customers.

You don't need a kindle to enjoy it. You can buy it off Amazon, and read it off your computer, too. It's short enough to be read during lunch hour.

I can't promise how productive you'll be afterwards, though.

Here's the blurb:
Michelle is back, ready for another scene of raunchy passionate sex with her host, Mr. Dean! 

Of course, being the ass-man he is, there is no way Mr. Dean is going to be able to leave that adorable little bottom of hers alone…and Michelle wouldn’t have it any other way.
Filled with lewd debauchery and graphic erotica, this short story serves as a sequel to "Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore: Michelle."
So relax, lay back, and get ready for a short interlude into the world of the Hotel Bentmoore.

That's right, I couldn't leave Michelle's choice piece of ass alone. And neither could Mr. Dean.
Enjoy, dear readers.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Do Not Kink and Drive

I promised you a follow-up to this post, didn't I? Where I did something really, really, stupid?
I got side-railed there. Sorry. So much crap going on, so many narcissists to deal little time.
If only I could send pictures through DMs...
After Husband and I were done with our little sexcapades, we both headed downstairs for some fluid replacement. I don't know about you, but me? After sex, I get thirsty. 
It was then I realized how late it was. Oldest son was not home; he was at a party at a friend's house, about fifteen minutes away. So before I poured myself that glass of water, I texted him to let me know when to pick him up.
Now, he wrote back. 
Here is where I got stupid: without a second thought, I grabbed up my purse, put on my shoes, and told Husband I was going to pick up our son. He was fine with it, of course. He didn't see a problem, either.
I got to the house, and Son comes out...along with three friends. Can we give them a ride home? He asks. Sure, I reply; get in. So all four kids get into my car, and the first one starts giving me directions to his house.
That's when things started to get dangerous. My legs began to shake, and my thoughts began to disconnect, like frayed rope being pulled apart. 
I was going through subdrop.
It hadn't occurred to me I would, or even could. Husband and I hadn't done anything all that different that night. Yes, I had engaged in humiliating behavior that was rather new for me, but it didn't feel like it was supposed to be that big of a deal. I had not gone through anything painful; the scene, as it was, had not even taken all that long. I had not been restrained, or beaten, or put on any kind of restriction. 

But the new experience, the one single, and supposedly minor, difference in his tactics of humiliation, was enough to send me into a new field of subspace at the time, and now, I was paying the price. I was crashing.

Obviously, since I'm writing this now, you know everything turned out okay. I took deep breaths, focused on my driving, and everyone got home okay. I wish I could tell you this was the first time I had ever driven while in the midst of subdrop, but it was not. I knew how to handle it.
But it was not safe. It was no okay. I had four kids in my car, three of whom were not my own, and I was not in 100% control of my faculties. It was fucking wrong.

Moral of the story: Subdrop can hit after any journey into subspace, no matter how fleeting, no matter how shallow. It can hit right away, or it can hit after a delay. But--and this is true especially after a new technique/toy/kinky experience--you should always be ready for it. 
This means that next time Husband wants to send me whooshing off into subspace? He better be ready to drive.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Dubious Non-Consent

Oldest was at a friend's house; the younger two were in bed. I thought Husband was in his office, catching up on some work emails, so it was a surprise to see him come into the bedroom.
I was lying on the bed on my stomach, facing the television, watching a ridiculous documentary about the existence of mermaids. 
But not for long.

Husband stretched out next to me. "Hello," he said, placing a hand on my leg. In the position I was in, my shorts had ridden up my thighs a little. 
"Hi," I answered back without looking away from the television. Husband began to rub his hand up and down my leg, inching further and further up each time. When he was able to widen his hand across my butt cheek under my shorts, he stopped.
"Do you want me in your ass?"
I turned around. "What? No," I said, turning back to the television. My lips twitched, trying to curve into a grin, but I held them steady.

He slapped my ass, not hard, but enough to get my attention. "I said, do you want me in your ass?" There was more grit in his voice now.
"And I said no," I replied, trying to sound stern.
With quick movements, Husband reached under my shorts to wedge up my panties. As he pulled my panties up, he pushed my shorts down. Then he began to spank my ass with hard, flat smacks.

"I said," he repeated, "do you want me in your ass?"
"No!" I said loudly as I howled and laughed.

For a moment, he left the bed, leaving me wondering what was going on...leaving me worried he had given up. But he returned a second later. 
As I struggled and fought his machinations, he pulled down my shorts and panties, bent me over the bed, and locked both hands behind my back. But he was kind enough to put a pillow under my head before he got down to work.
As I shrieked, laughed, and fought, he showed me what he had left the bed to retrieve: a long-handled flat brush. He began to wallop me with it.
"I SAID, do you want me in your ass?" He hollered.
"NO!" I hollered back. He spanked me with the brush, again and again, and now I knew he had not put the pillow under my head to do me any favors: he had put it there so I could scream into it, and muffle the sound.
He kept spanking me, even as I struggled and clamored to get away from his firm grip. My breath soon became labored, coming in high-pitched gasps and wheezes. The brush kept slapping down on my reddening cheeks as his grip on my hands grew tighter and tighter.

"FINE! Yes! Yes, I want you in my ass," I cried with a choke. The brush slapped me once more, then stopped.
"What was that now?"
"I want you in my ass."
"Ask nicely."
"I would please like you in my ass, Sir."
He threw the brush down to the floor. "I thought so," he said, triumphant. "Go wash up."
I stood up (slowly, as my knees were wobbly), stuck my tongue out at him, and retreated to the bathroom. As I shut the door, I heard him say:
"Were you trying to send me a message with your tongue?"

In BDSM, there's a sub-topic we call 'dubious consent.' It's the notion of getting consent out of the sub under questionable circumstances. Dubious consent in erotica can be very, very hot. Dubious consent in real life? It depends.
We don't hear a lot about dubious non-consent because in real life, we're led to believe there is no such thing. Non-consent should never be questioned; no is no.
Of course, no matter how much some of us don't want to admit it, sometimes, for some couples, no does not mean no. Sometimes no means "make me say yes." It depends on the couple, the trust involved, and how well the people know each other. 
For Husband and I? It can lead to some very fun scenes.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Guest Post

The following post was written by my friend, Sara Eiser. If you want to comment to her directly, you can find her on Twitter. 

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found myself voluntarily becoming part of quite a few minority groups. As an adult, I converted to Judaism and became part of the BDSM community, and found some of the joys and the challenges of living in insular communities like these. Since the age of the internet exploded and the world got smaller and people became easier to connect, some of these more insular groups have been facing major challenges to both our identities and how we are viewed by outsiders.

With small, insular groups, there is an element of exoticism to those standing in the mainstream. I’m pretty sure we’ve all heard a few of these: Why do “those people” do that? Why is that woman/man voluntarily submitting to abuse? You have to be sick to enjoy hurting someone. Isn’t that anti-feminist/emasculating? No woman/man with self-respect would ever choose that. I bet she/he has mommy/daddy issues. When seen through a “mainstream” lens, even the benign aspects of our lifestyles can seem strange and harmful to modern American society. We’ve been called backwards, sick, unenlightened, regressionist, and we’ve all heard “Well, if they just [understood/got therapy/had a real relationship, etc], then they would come around.”

When the mainstream, majority-controlled world (and media) so fundamentally misunderstands who you are, how much worse is it when abuse comes into the picture? All communities have their abusers, but there is an element of statistical inevitability when abuse happens in a majority community. Take, for instance, a domestic violence situation in a white, straight marriage. It’s easy to say “Well, sometimes it doesn’t work out. Sometimes people are abusive. That one person is a problem. It’s not about the whole institution of marriage/all straight people being abusive.” That abusive situation doesn’t get extrapolated to all white, straight marriages, because you have thousands of examples for which that isn’t the case. For the mainstream, who may only have one or two “out” kinksters to look at, what happens? This person’s failings become everything that is “wrong” about the BDSM lifestyle.

When we in insular communities see abuse, there is a tendency to circle the wagons against outsiders to protect ourselves from those generalizations. There is a tendency to hide, to sweep “unseemly” behavior under the rug, to not talk about the bad things for fear that they will become extrapolated to our entire community. Segments of Jewish groups do it, and through the past two weeks on FetLife, I’ve realized kinksters do it too.

The scary reality of the situation, though, is that to a victim in the kink community, even to bring an abuse case to the police, to the court systems, seems unreasonable. We are a minority group, and these judges and juries are not our peers, despite our bill of rights. These are people to whom we would have to explain the basics of consensual non-consent. We would have to try to put into words the difference between sadism and abuse, the power that comes from submission. These are people who will look at us and see someone damaged, unenlightened, regressionist, and we wonder why more minority victims don’t seek the help of the authorities?

So we victims go to our own group, and even there, we are told to hush up for fear that these small, tight-knit groups will unravel. For fear that leaders of the group whom we respect will be seen in a bad light. For fear that there are actually damaged, unenlightened, and regressionist people in our very midst. That maybe we are more like what the mainstream says, that they will be able to point to this person and say “See? This person is exactly what we said the group is. There is your proof.” We try to put a good face on everything, to be perfect minorities, despite the damage it does to the victims in our groups.

When you’re a victim and you know that the courts will misunderstand you, you go to your fellow kinksters for understanding and to help protect others. Then they tell you to stop creating drama, to be quiet, to get over it, that you don’t want to ruin someone. That maybe it was all just a misunderstanding and maybe it didn’t even happen. You have no protection, no recourse, and abusers keep on abusing because of the silence, and more victims keep piling up and becoming alienated until the group itself unravels because it is no longer enriching.

Is this really where we want to go? Is this really the community that we cherish so much?

This whole discussion needs to be reframed. When abuse happens in an insular community, when abuse is brought up on FetLife, we need to reframe the discussion from “don’t hurt this one man” and “don’t make a scene because you’re making us all look bad” to “what keeps this from happening again?” and “how do we protect our other community members from this?”

The reality of the situation is that if we in our insular communities don’t protect our own, nobody will. We cannot count on the court systems to understand us - that much is patently clear - so our victims, our friends, have nowhere to go except to us. We owe it to them to listen, to understand, and to address the underlying issues in our communities that allow this to happen. We need mechanisms within our community for making spaces safer for all of us. For making the word “consent” mean something beyond a philosophical guideline. We need to be the ones to shut down spaces where subs have to be chaperoned in order to be safe, where abusers can flourish because our silence works in their favor. We need to actively be doing things to ensure that victims have space and support to speak.

We need to look out for each other. Fundamentally, that is what makes us a community rather than a shared-interest group. We need to become an actual community and protect our people from becoming victims, or who else will?

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

The Things I Share With You...

I was so horny.

It's possible I would have protested more, fought harder against it, if circumstances had been different. But I was so horny. That is my only defense, my only explanation. So please, dear readers, if this squicks you out, please be kind, have some compassion, and know that it squicked me out, too. But...Lord, it was hot.

He ordered me out of the bathroom naked, and told me to get on the bed, onto my hands and knees. He was already holding the lube, ready and waiting.
I crawled on the bed, smiling, anticipating a fun romp. My blood hummed, my skin flushed, my senses tingled. I wanted him badly. I wanted to fuck, badly. 

As I lowered my face to the mattress and lifted my ass in the air, he stood still, not moving...just admiring the view.
"Well?" I asked, my voice clipped. "It's not going to lube itself, you know."

He stretched out his hand and offered me the lube. "You do it," he said.
I stared at him over my shoulder.
"Lube your ass."
I grabbed the lube, staring at it like I've never seen it before. Slowly, I opened the top, squeezed a glob of lube onto my fingers...reached behind me...and rubbed my asshole.
"That's not going to do the job," he said, amused. 
"Then get me a toy."
"No," he replied. "Get your fingers in there."
I stopped.
" want me to put my fingers in my ass?"
"Yes. Why not? I do it all the time."
"But...." How could I explain to him that while the idea of him putting his fingers in my ass was a total turn on, the idea of sticking my own fingers up there totally squicked me out? Double standard or no, it was true. I had never stuck my own fingers up my ass before.
"Do it." There was no brokering now. The order was clear and precise.
Slowly, I pressed one finger into my ass, and felt it slide in. I groaned. It felt hot, and tight, slippery with the wrong, so dirty, and so fucking good.
"That's it," he encouraged me. "Use two fingers can go deeper...get it ready for me...good girl...."
I pressed my fingers in harder, deeper, straining to get my arm around as far as it could go. I was used to feeling my ass being stretched and rubbed, but now I could feel my fingers doing the work, too, stretching and rubbing. The double sensation was new, exciting, and so, so naughty.
As I finger-fucked my own asshole, I sank deeper into subspace. My mind was a black void, free of of inhibitions.
"Get down on the floor," I heard. "On your hands and knees. But don't take your fingers out of your ass."
Awkwardly I stood up, keeping my fingers inside my own ass, and planted myself on the floor. Husband spread my knees wide. Then he rammed into my cunt.
"Keep going," he said, pumping into me from behind. "I'm not ready for your ass yet. Keep it open for me."
I stretched my ass as he rammed my cunt. But I couldn't balance on one hand; my cheek rested against the carpet, lifting my hips and ass even more. 
"Now," he said. As I pulled my fingers from my ass, he lunged inside, to the hilt. And then he was fucking my ass like he had fucked my cunt, with deep, even thrusts.
In between thrusts, he taunted me.
"Do you like feeling inside your own ass?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
I groaned. "Yes."
"Does it feel good?"
"Does it turn you on?"
"Yes," my voice cracked.
"Good. It turns me on, too. Put your head back down, lift your ass up."
I lowered my cheek back down to the carpet, feeling it burn as it rubbed against the fibers but no longer caring. My elbows and knees were burning, too, but I hardly noticed. Even the burn coming from my nipples brushing against the scratchy carpet only added to my excitement.
He fucked my ass for a long time, and as my series of orgasms began, he grabbed my hips and pumped harder, holding my chest down with a hand placed in the small of my back. I stretched my arms out in front of me and let go, letting him push me forward, fill me up, and fuck me hard as I came again, and again, groaning and howling each time I did.
Finally, he came with a grunt, pushing me a foot up the carpet. I squealed, feeling him explode inside my rear channel.
As he got up to wash, he slapped my ass, as he often does after a nice bout of anal sex.
"That was hot," he said. 
"Yes, it was," I had to agree. I knew he wasn't must making a blanket statement: he was letting me know I'd be doing it again, lubing up my own ass, and probably quite soon.


Saturday, August 4, 2012

Like the TARDIS, It's Bigger on the Inside

Here's what I want you to do: take your index and thumb, make a tight circle with them, and press it tight. Now try to fit a finger of your other hand through.
Do you feel how thick that ring is, trying to get through it? Do you feel how tight it is?
That is (at least!) how thick and how tight the muscle of the rectal sphincter is.

The human asshole does not just make up what you see on the outside. Now granted, men LOVE to watch an asshole clench and wink. They like imagining what things can slip through.

But it is important to remember that the rear gate does not only include what you can see with the naked eye. The ring of muscle is THICK, and it goes DEEPER. It is a very thick door with a very tight frame. It is a nice looking door, but a functional one, too.

Yes: Once a cock has passed that ring of muscle, the entry gets much smoother. A cock can slide, rather than push.
(Now I'm getting all quivery and wet)
But an average-sized cock will not actually be past that high-security gate until, oh, I'd say, the whole helmeted tip is in.

So if you get the first few millimeters of your cock in your bottom's
(or, if you want to make it more accurate, your bottom's bottom) (tee hee)
asshole, that is not the time to start thinking "Oh, YES! I'm IN! I ROCK!" Because you are not IN. You are still getting in. The door has been cracked open; you have not yet been beckoned inside. You still have to go slowly, carefully, and painstakingly
(get it? Pains-taking? Okay, I'll stop)
to make sure you don't go too hard too fast and get yourself thrown out the door completely.

Consider this your PSA of the day.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Personal Shopper

Me: Shit, I forgot to go to the supermarket.
Husband: Make me a list and I'll go.
Me: No, it's okay. I need to get stuff you won't want to get.
Husband: Oh? Like what?
Me: Like tampons. You won't want to pick up tampons.
Husband: I don't mind.
Me: Oh, really? You used to mind.
Husband: Yeah, but then I figured, it's not like anyone's going to think I'm buying them for me. I mean, the worst they can think is that I'm buying them for someone I'm going to fuck.
Me: Why would they think it's for someone you're going to fuck?
Husband: Well I'm damn well not going to buy tampons for a woman who's not going to fuck me.
Me: I see...okay, what about a bra and panties? Would you be willing to buy me a bra and panties?
Husband: Absolutely. I'd walk into a Victoria's Secret, and make it very clear I'm buying that stuff for my wife, who is going to fuck me. But I wouldn't call it underwear. I'd call it lingerie, cause that sounds sexier.
Me: what wouldn't you be willing to buy me?
Husband: A dildo.
Me: A dildo?
Husband: Yeah. That's something you just have pick out and buy for yourself.

And this, dear readers, is how I end up buying all my own dildos and vibrators. Which is not a bad thing; it means everything we own, I like. :)