Precision

My eyes rake the ceiling in idle and vain search  of cobweb or crack upon which to focus. From somewhere beside me, I hear you whisper huskily:

“You’re writing again, aren’t you?”

In truth, no. Not this time. This time I am concentrating on exhaling and regaining some composure. I say “some” intentionally, for “all” is simply a pipe dream at this point. In the space of — what, three hours? Four? — I have lost all semblance of reality, and my outer identity and sense of self have been shed like so many outer garments.

I need to remember this. Above all else, it intensifies that oh-so-fleeting moment, dissipating almost as soon as it comes into existence. A sweetly poignant memory to cherish when this bubble bursts; but one for which albeit briefly, I must burst that very bubble in order to claim.

As I drift off into the never-never land to which you succeed in transporting me, a tiny part of my brain holds back, clinging to the here and now by the skin of its metaphorical teeth, and making tiny notes in the margin of my consciousness. Barely perceptible yet spine-tingling kisses become a rhythmic stroking of my skin, in a manner precisely calculated to send delicious shivers through me.

The word “precise” sticks in my head: it’s such an appropriate word. Every move you make is precise. Accurate. Meticulous.

Your tongue glides across my skin, and I feel you breathing. With no external restraint, despite hankerings to the contrary, you have me enthralled and supine; expectantly frozen in place, barely moving a muscle — save those that move of their own volition. As you close in on your prey, encircling the final location, the delectable fever of anticipation grips me from within. I can barely breathe — I know what will happen, yet I cannot predict the form it will take.

And then it begins — more exact and on the mark than ever before. I gasp, and silently scream my bliss to the rising heavens. The meticulously detailed locale of your soft tongue inside me is of an accuracy hitherto unparallelled. If all this were not enough, you manage to indicate your own pleasure vocally, which just sends me over the edge. That tiny part of my brain loses its tenuous hold and joins the remainder of my grey matter in space, as I spiral ever upwards into sheer ecstasy.

This is an experience that I never want to consign to oblivion — and yet oblivion is the place towards which I feel myself headed.

You navigate your way around my body using your own as leverage, and I marvel at your care and attention to detail. My outpouring of pleasure is both metaphorical and literal — not to mention seemingly endless.

Yet that which truly astounds me is your own participation. There is no distance; admittedly, physical distance would be quite a feat at this stage, but mentally it would not be considered that unusual. However as I writhe in exquisite agony, whimpering with pleasure, you are there with me. I feel you. I sense you through every pore on my skin.

You are precisely where you wish, desire, and intend to be — I couldn’t ask for anything more.

******************************

Epilogue:

It’s been wonderful — thank you.

 

Thank *you*

Thank you for making me feel so relaxed and welcome. Thank you for liking so many of the same things that I do, and concurring on so many others. Thank you for the tea with milk, and for then rendering said tea irelevant as my mouth was busy elsewhere.

Thank you for stroking my skin, and playing with my hair. Thank you for being so much fun to be with.  Thank you for being a wonderful kisser. I could kiss you for hours, days even. I might end up looking something like Mick Jagger, but it’d be worth it.

Thank you for taking me from zero to tsunami in under 10 seconds — a feat hitherto only ever achieved (speedwise) by my glass friend. Thank you for taking me from behind; it’s my favourite position (see above “liking the same things as I do”).

Thank you for hugging me and holding me close. Thank you for making me laugh, and then laughing at my attempts at humour. Thank you for being so damn sexy. Thank you for making me feel so natural and happy.

Thank you for letting me pleasure you. Thank you for getting hard for me. Thank you for telling me to suck your balls — I’d have sucked them anyway, but I really enjoy being given, and following, (certain) orders in the bedroom (from specific people).

Thank you for the one for the road. It did indeed last the whole way home, the rest of the day, all of last night and is still going — not so much in terms of orgasmic buzz but in terms of glowing from the inside out. Were I to walk past a Geiger counter, I’d be surprised if it didn’t light up and dance all over the surface on which it stood.

Thank you for everything — and in particular, for thanking me. I can’t think of a higher compliment. As you said to me, it was wonderful having you, and I couldn’t agree more.

 

Sex Blogyssey — Kindle Readers!

Suzanne Portnoy recently acquired a Kindle and rather fell in love with the format. She’s asked a few of her favorite sex bloggers to contribute to a new erotic magazine she edits, available on only by subscription on Kindle. I’m honored to be among the contributors, who include some really fine smutmongers. Here are the details:

SexBlogyssey is a Kindle-only compilation of the best erotic blogging, bringing together smart, smutty writing from both sides of the Atlantic. Our contributors write about real experiences and their real lives, with a little fantasy/fiction thrown into the mix. We regularly publish new material, drawing on both new writing and the archives of our contributing bloggers.

SexBlogyssey was created by Suzanne Portnoy, author of a popular but now-retired blog describing her double life as a middle-aged single mother and entertainment publicist with a lively swinging lifestyle on the side. Other contributors include Jefferson, Bad Influence Girl, Joanne Cake, Todger Talk, Kitty Stryker, Mon Mouth, Elegant Slut, among others.

You can purchase a subscription here.

(With apologies to Jefferson for completely pilfering his intro. It’s been a tough week. Thanks, dude.)

 

Happy new year

The first moments of 2011 were spent naked, panting and kissing. Traditionally, in other words.

The new year thing was by-the-by — it was a tryst much longed for by all parties concerned, and the new year was another excuse to get together and get naked. And you all know only too well how I loves to get naked.

There is a myth that with age, the sex drive wanes. This is simply not true. Separating us chronologically are 17 years, although you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Or to fuck him, come to that.

He calls me “jailbait”. I’m 42.

In terms of experience, we pretty much match each other, thanks to my often wistfully remembered slutfest. And then every so often I surprise him. Or he surprises me.

Yesterday was my turn to be surprised. A confirmed kinkster, although he refers to himself as “conservative”, he took vanilla and spiced it up to a level beyond anything that had gone before. He gave me an all-over body massage that rendered me speechless. I murmured as much, from within my stupor-like haze, and he giggled.

“Good to know. So if I ever want to shut you up, I now know what to do.”

I would have fired back one of my trademark smartass comments, but I truthfully didn’t care. If it meant that I got to experience this fantastic and sensuous hand rub again, I’d gladly remain silent.

At one point he lay down on top of me. I was face down, and so was he — but he held off from the obvious poke-and-prod-with-cock scenario — he’s classy like that.

“Is this what you mean by a full body massage?” I whispered into the comforter.

“Kinda.”

At which point he flipped me over, and grabbed me by the cunt.

*************************

We spent today apart — family commitments, prior engagements and so on. Yet all day long I could feel his touch on me. His fingers between my thighs. His cock in my cunt. His breath on the back of my neck. His legs entwined with mine. It was like an indelible print — it kept me in a permanent daze all day. Thank god for multi-tasking, or I’d not have achieved anything since this morning that didn’t involve sitting and staring blankly into space.

All in all, a most auspicious start to the new year.

I raise a glass to you all — to the new year, to new challenges, to new experiences and new forms of fun. May 2011 be a great year for all of you.

Love,
Juno x

 

Prophecy

I can see the future.

The image is not as clear-cut as one might hope, but is less blurry than one might fear.

I see the past clearer, but that’s a given — the past is a reflection of what has been, and is, as so we well know, 20:20.

In the past, I see the comforting strong arms holding her passionately, kissing her as her knees buckle, preventing her from slumping to the floor in a delirious heap.

In the past, I see her, half-naked and half-delirious, legs akimbo, head thrown back, writhing in ecstasy. I hear the guttural sounds of unadulterated and pure joy escape her lips as his tongue and teeth work  their magic on her. I see her shudder to a thundering climax that seems to last for hours – and then another, almost concurrent, shakes her into further frenzy.

In the past I see his lips meet hers, and hear them murmur to each other through passionate kisses. Not words per se, but sounds of acquiescence and wonder, or warmth and affection, of sensuality and desire.

Looking forward, the images are not so sharp, but they are very real.

I see two figures, sans clothing. She is restrained, arms secured firmly to the side. He is poised above her, teasing her body with feathery licks and nips wherever he pleases. He has her at his mercy, or so it would seem, much to the delight of them both.

I see him straighten, and the reposition himself to thrust into her — but he stops with only an inch of cock inside her yearning cunt. Their eyes meet and each holds the others’ gaze, each willing the other to break first — he for her to beg, her for him to fuck her, hard… just as they both know they want him to. Eventually, she cracks.

“Fuck me.”

“What? Say again.”

“Fuck me.”

“Do what? Why? Tell me.”

“Fuck me. Now. FUCK ME NOW.”

“Tell me why.”

“You want it.”

“And?”

“I want it.”

“And?”

“You need to be inside me.”

“And?”

“I need you inside me.”

“Magic word?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please … you know what!”

“No. Say it. Tell me. Articulate.”

“Please fuck me.”

“That’s a start. Give me more.”

“Please slide your cock inside me.”

“More.”

“Please fuck me before I explode with frustrated desire. Please… just, for the love of god, just please fuck me now.”

“Because?”

“Because I need you inside me. Because you arouse me beyond belief. Because I want us to meld. Because… I can’t focus anymore… goddamit — please!”

It is there that the future dissipates. The vision swims and swirls before my eyes, and I cannot see what happens next.

Will he fuck her, slam himself into her, make her scream with ecstasy?

I prophesize that he will.

 

Fisted, first.

It was never an ambition of mine to be fisted.

In fact, when reading this piece, I was reminded of how I once felt about the whole fisting experience. Except I was far less enthusiastic than she sounds.

“Euw,” I thought to myself on more than one occasion.

“A whole fist? Inside my poor little pussy? What if it goes too far in, and I feel his watch in me– and it snags on one of the leftover pubic hairs goddamn-them that evaded the all-pervading destruction of my depilatory efforts? What then? Aiieee!!!”

When i imagine the bad of a situation, I tend to go straight to worst-possible-case scenario, and wallow there for a while. It’s one of the joys of being neurotic. Of which there are many.

And then it happened for the first time.

I lay in his arms, and I could feel his fingers inside me, probing into the deepest part of me, furiously. It was his desire to make me gush my come all over his hand, and by golly he was giving it his all.

“How many are inside me?” I asked him. “Fingers, I mean.”

He giggled. (How sexy is it when a guy giggles with pure pleasure? It could sway even the most frigid of hearts, I’ll bet.)

“Umm… all of them.”

“All of them? All???”

“Yeah. All.”

“All. Four. Fingers.”

“Yes, all four. And don’t forget my thumb.”

“You mean you’re….”

“Yeah. I’m fisting you. How does it feel?”

It felt fabulous, if the truth be told. I felt filled up, but it was different than the thick-cock-filling-me-feeling. And it was lovely, because the movements made by his fist inside me were so different to a cock. So sensual, yet so raw and so powerful. I could liken the smooth, fullness of the moments to how it felt immediately after my anal passage relaxes and allows a cock that is fucking it full access.

It was wonderful.

But I was still doubtful. I mean, if it was this easy, what had stopped all my other lovers from trying it? Was it because this guy was more perverted? Unlikely. Perverted in a different way, maybe?

Yeah — maybe.

I strained to look. “I wanna see!”

“Here, I have an idea. Hold on a second…”

His voice trailed away as he reached behind him and grabbed a large professional digital camera from the stand next to the bed. He fiddled with it a little, and then handed it to me and started positioning my arms with his free hand.

“Wait… let me move your hands for you… lift your arms up a bit… yes.. that’s it. Now push the button.”

I duly pushed the button, and heard the satisfying click-whirr-clunk of a photo taken. He took the camera from me, and single-handedly adjusted it so that it reflected the last picture taken, and then showed me.

Sure enough, there was my cunt, and his fist… all the way inside it. (And he wasn’t wearing a watch.)

It’s the oddest thing to see your pussy iconized like that. The whole picture was my pussy and his wrist protruding from it. And as i was looking at it, I could feel his fist inside me. Accommodating myself to fit him had been far easier than I’d thought, although I am not terrifically big in the cunt area.

Practicalities dispensed with, we returned our attentions to fucking. Specifically, to him fucking me with his hand.

His whole hand all the way inside me. Fisting me.

The sweetest and most intense pressure as his pace increased and my grip on reality started to unhinge. The build-up inside me of pre-orgasmic excitement and an almost-but-not-quite unbearable tension in my bladder or thereabouts spiralled me higher and higher to orgasmic bliss until i came and gushed out rivers of fluid all over his hand, and I heard his contented sigh of satisfaction.

“That’s it, come for me baby. Yesss….”

I exhaled, and lay back, exhausted. I felt his hand slide out of me, caressing me as it slid. I heard his satisfied breathing complementing my own jagged coming-down gasps and i felt blissed-out and dazed.

My first fisting.

 

Meet and Greet (redux)

Meet

8.00 am, under the station clock. Cold air whipping around my face, my gloved hands shoved deep inside my fleece jacket pocket to keep the cold out. Expectantly looking for the train that is supposed to draw in on platform 7.

Hearing my name, i look up, and there he is, arms outstretched, walking towards me. He envelops me within them, and kisses me softly but with such passion that my head spins, and I literally forget where I am for a brief moment. Automatically, I respond, one arm around him, one lifted so that i can feel his cheek beneath my palm as we endlessly kiss; and that he can feel my palm on his cheek.

Finally breaking, and setting off for my place, our bodies continually colliding sideways; we cannot bear to be separated. We half-hug, half-walk through central London’s crowded streets, bumping into pedestrians and obstacles alike. Every so often, I stop, and stand back to regard him carefully. He doesn’t object, and returns the favour.

I see an older, bearded man, with gentle and laughing blue eyes that readily meet my own. I see height and strength — broad shoulders with arms that held me tight only moments before; the feeling being a fusion of total security combined and complemented by raw, steaming desire.

I see the love of my life.

We arrive at mine, and pause to catch our breath before ascending the stone steps at the front of my building. Turning to me, he rests his chin on the top of my head (“Adorable!” squeaks the little man living in my head) and once again pulls me close to him. I feel myself held close and revel in the euphoria i feel swelling in my heart, before I grasp his hand tightly in my gloved one, and lead him inside.

Once in my room, we part to remove the various outer garments necessitated by the inclement conditions outside. My room is rather warm, and he looks on with little surprise as, instead of stopping the shedding of layers at coat, scarf, hat and extra sweater, i continue until I am standing before him, in my white socks and a warm, welcoming smile.

He draws an appreciative and audible breath and crosses the room in two strides, gathering me close as if he needs to engulf me with his body. I murmur at him, disapprovingly.

“You really need to be less clothed, darling.”

Obediently, he complies with my wishes, his laughing eyes meeting mine, and informing me silently that he loves the way my mouth moves as i speak. [He will repeat this fact later, in the dim, lamp-lit post-coital glow that surrounds us like an autumnal haze.] I undo his shirt slowly, my chocolate-brown nail polish in stark contrast against the pearlized buttons and brushed cotton, his eyes following my every move. My hands reach his waist and within seconds, he is evidently more naked than I.

We maneuver ourselves to a horizontal position on the bed; each lying on their side, resting their head on their upturned palm, regarding the other with unsuppressed longing. He sees my socks, and smiles a secret smile at me that only I could possibly understand. For months he has expressed a wish that the first time we fuck, I be wearing knee-high white socks… and I have complied.

He leans forward to kiss me softly as he takes me into his arms once again, and i realise that we have just been enjoying the calm before the storm. And what a wonderful storm.

Greet

We lie next to each other, naked apart from my white socks, which i utilize in causing a gentle friction on his skin, as i run my toe up and down the back of his calf. He strokes my hair, and kisses me, stopping every now and then to look into my eyes lovingly, and then kiss me again.

His hands feel strong and comforting around me, but they do not remain still. He feels my skin as if he were learning my body in braille, although for now he studiously avoids any of the more easily ignitable erogenous zones. I know he is holding back to increase the anticipation, not in order to tease, and i feel very relaxed and comfortable.

Our bodies melt into one another as we lie there, caressing each other as a prelude to hiking up the proceedings a notch. He takes my face in my hands, and kisses me tenderly, drawing back to look deep into my eyes.

“Juno, my love, I simply must fuck you now.”

I smile at him.

“Well, since you insist.”

We begin in basic missionary, as he pulls himself into me. My legs wrapped around his body, his arms supporting them from beneath them. I feel his cockhead press against my labia, his wetness mingling with my own, and i gasp as he slides right into me.

I mean it. He slides straight in. No fumbling, or “oh.. no, left a bit… yes, right a bit… yes!“. None of that. It is as though we have been built to fit together: jigsaw pieces, magnets, yin and yang, true connections… however you wish to describe it, that’s how it is.

He moves within me, as i tilt my hips to match his thrusts. My lips move along his collarbone, leaving butterfly kisses and delicate nips until I suddenly find myself flying up into the air, and landing astride him, looking down into his twinkling eyes through my tousled hair.

“That was a nifty little move there,” I say, admiringly.

I grind my hips against his, recapturing the momentarily-lost rhythm and increasing the intensity.

“I like this. I like watching your mouth as you talk, while I fuck you,” he says, looking into my face as he fucks me in a leisurely manner.

I lean my head towards his, and move my lips softly against his ear, whispering specific details regarding the other man i’d fucked not hours before; vivid descriptions of how he’d taken me, fucked me good and hard, left me spent and exhausted, full and satisfied.

The more lurid the description, the more aroused he becomes.

The more aroused he becomes, the more intense our fucking.

The more intense our fucking, the better he feels inside me.

And he feels so very, very good inside me.

We keep at it for nearly an hour… the orgasms mounting in their intensity for me, and his unswerving self-control keeping him focused.

“I love you,” one of us says.

“I love you,” the other replies.

“I could stay like this forever,” I whisper.

“What ever suggested to you that there was a statute of limitations regarding my cock in your gorgeous cunt?” he murmurs back, as he pumps and bucks beneath me, swirling me ever higher into my orgasmic haze. “My darling, you are the most unbelievably glorious fuck. Don’t ever leave here. Stay.”

“I’m certainly not going anywhere until you come, baby,” I assure him, redoubling my efforts to make him come. Damn, but he has amazing control. Then it hits me — and i move my hand to his chest.

“I’ll come when I’m damn well good and ready young lady, don’t you– ah! oh! yes! oh god yes! oh god, that’s good, that’s so good…”

I’ve shifted my hand to his nipples and am paying them some serious attention. I am back in the saddle, so to speak.

“Just for that,” he grunts breathlessly, “I’m going to come. Right. Now. Oh god!”

I lean forward again and kiss him as his body jerks and writhes in pleasure concurrently with my own. His soft, full mouth responds to mine, our kiss sealing our ethereal passion for each other with our mutual corporeal lust and desire.

He holds me on him, close to him, his lips against mine, as we both subside, shuddering quietly as we come down. I am speechless. No one has ever fucked me in that way before. I’ve never felt so euphoric.

I know this is the real thing. That connection we all search for. It. Love.

And so does he.