Down and dirty


It’s how we always do things. The practical takes precedence over the emotional. It was cold, so the socks stayed on.

Naturally, no other garment can remain and effect true practicality — at least, not when the most significant achievement being aimed for is an abundance of orgasms all round. But socks keep your feet warm, and there’s a lot to be said for warm feet when you’re engaged in prolonged fellatio.

Not that practicality as a concept should be knocked, but it’s also safe to say that it hadn’t been the main feature in this particular turn of events. Getting into the right position required much heaving, grunting and the occasional giggle — but again, it was a means to an end. The required positions were achieved, and the resultant touching, licking, stroking, pinching, caressing always pleased.

*****

I always enjoy a good solid straight forward orgasm, unenhanced by the wonders of nature, but goddammit  I just love it when said enhancement is there. The climax takes on a different hue — in fact, several. The jagged breathing as I near my peak melts into layered waves of bliss, each color more vivid and intense than the last, my lungs expanding to fill my chest cavity, until I finally burst and come, showering rainbows all over the room.

There was a moment one time, where I floated above my supine body, and watched such a set of proceedings unfold from above. My head on his leg, my tongue millimeters from his cock, where until recently — up until my attention was too severely distracted to continue — it had been engaged in providing some pleasure of its own. His head resting on one arm, regarding me with a knowing smile as his other hand engaged itself in painting me into a bed mural; my legs akimbo, a spreading dark patch beneath me, evidence of what had just ensued.

*****

Of course, I’m not without my own contributions to the hoopla. How he responds to my tongue is a source of pure pleasure for all concerned. Me, because I delight in his enjoyment, and him because…. well, because show me the man who doesn’t become an inanely grinning Mr Happy when their cock is firmly ensconced in the mouth of another, and I’ll show you a wax model. It takes a moment for the cock to realize where it is, and then it all of a sudden grows into its full glory, and hits the back of my throat — requiring my best gag reflex control skills.

It’s enormous fun. Watch this space.

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.

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.

Fleshbotted, here.

Open the door. What do you see? Me. You see me.

Look at me. Go on, look.

See the glint in my eye? You know what that means.

See the curve of my hip, cocked, with my hand resting gently upon it.

As i stand. Waiting for you. Wordlessly inviting you.

Come on. Come to me.

Come and get me.

See the glimpse of my thigh, visible through the elegantly draped slit in my skirt. Imagine your hand running up it. Imagine your fingers trailing up it seductively… from my ankle, to behind my knee and then…

Onwards. Up my thigh, moving inwards, the skin growing warmer as you progress further.

I know you can see me.

I know you want me.

Take me. I’ve waited long enough.

Feel the softness of my lips against yours. Of my hand against your cheek. Of my breasts against your chest.

See how easily my blouse slips off my shoulders? Doesn’t my shoulder look inviting? A kiss, a nibble, a nip… a bite? No underwear… no markings… no problem.

Your hands and your mouth delight in the luscious fullness of my breasts; lush and golden with rosy-hued tips. You could drown in them… and die happy.

Stand behind me, you can do that without letting go. Keep one hand there, guarding your spoils. I won’t complain.

Use your other hand to explore further South… tickle that sensitive area around my navel… stroke the silkiness a little further below… and then you’ll find that silky soon becomes slick, plump and moist.

Don’t neglect the soft flesh into which your cock is pressing. Your naked cock. My accomodating ass. Your hard, throbbing cock. My warm, open ass.

You know what to do. You have free rein.

* * *

I’m losing the ability to instruct you.

Can’t… focus.

Ecstasy… taking over.

Mind… blurry….

oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god…

And there i am. With you.

A tableau of sensuality.

Flung over the back of the armchair, almost carelessly.

Abandoned and open to you.

Arms akimbo, clothes discarded.

You’ll take me every way you want me.

Every way you can.

Every way i want you to.

You know it’s what you want.

Beguilingly and bewilderingly polite. This was my first impression.

A soft-spoken and courteous person by nature, Adam’s initial inquiries about me were very cordial, and carefully structured. In addition to the fact that English was not his mother tongue, which i could tell was restricting him slightly in how he expressed himself, he was obviously also uncomfortable in expressing his desires verbally. And, apparently, unused to dirty talk or profanity.

Or so I thought.

Maybe it’s a xenophobic trait within me that should be stamped out like a burning scrap of paper. But the northern European accent that colored his English so prettily invoked a very polite and well-mannered attitude and impression… which was hard to gel with the disgracefully depraved way in which I like to cavort.

Suffice it to say that I presume way too much.

For this particular blind date, pictures had been exchanged. By the handful. We’d recognized each other immediately from aforementioned photos, through the steam of a Saquella espresso machine in the corner of a seductively warm cafe on a blustery cold and wintry evening. The lights outside along the sea front danced brightly, giving a false impression of cheeriness, but there was nothing cheery about the biting wind outside. We had, however, done our best to banish any last vestige of cold by both ordering wine — red for him, mulled with a stick of fresh cinnamon for me. We looked at each other, and smiled… and I was wondering how to broach a subject somewhat less conventional than the severity of the weather, when he took my hand and placed it on his thigh.

No words really necessary after all. Especially not when i ran my finger deliberately slowly over the growing bulge on his inner thigh.

I’m wet just at the thought of it, as I write.

He leaned into me and whispered politely “I need to fuck you, the sooner, the better. Can we go?”

The next few minutes were a blur of giggles, and bill-paying, and urgency, and hands clasped tightly, and half-walking, half-running to his place, only a short block away from the cafe. Formalities that had seemed to worryingly important had all but been dispensed with as we collapsed through the door, and into each other.

At first, we hugged and held each other very close, our hands roaming, and divesting each other of our accumulated layer of clothing. Once we were suitably scantily attired, he paused, and took my chin in his hand, lifting my face to kiss him.

Dear god, but he could kiss. My knees nearly buckled.

The passion intensified, and not breaking from the kiss, he managed to remove my remaining articles of clothing. Lacy panties in a puddle on the floor, where they had fallen after he’d given them a sharp, commanding tug. Matching lacy bra strewn halfway across the room, where I’d find it much, much later, decorating a very good reproduction of Guernica. All i wore were knee high socks, and tall, black, leather cowboy boots, which despite their heel, brought me not very close to his height at all (he had to bend to kiss me, but he didn’t seem to mind).

So i was naked but for the boots, which put me in mind of another occasion, and he was barefoot, in jeans, with a button fly with which I’d been struggling until he began kissing me. Once he’d started the kiss, it distracted me enough that I’d kind of concentrated just on that.

His giant-like gentleness was short-lived. He finally broke from my lips, and somehow twirled me in a circle until i was held tight with his arm, but bent over it, with my side against his muscular but softly fuzzy stomach. He almost lifted me in order to get me into position, nudging my arms up and onto the desk, where i rested, facing down, leaning on my forearms and elbows. He slowly stroked my back with his hands; long, relaxing strokes that discombobulated me so much that when he landed me a massive blow to the buttocks, i jumped.

“Stay still,” he commanded, still very polite, but unarguably firm.

I do what I’m told, me.

I felt the warmth of his body as he leaned over me, his cock nudging against my ass, as his hands explored me. He left one hand stroking my body, holding it inches from the surface of the desk, and used the other to draw an imaginary line from my cunt to the end of my ass. All the way, in one slick and slippery stroke.

I gasped. His fingers were strong and probing, and still cold from the inclement weather outside. I wasn’t complaining.

Slowly, deliberately slowly, he started to stimulate me, his whole hand probing, touching, encircling and teasing. This was a touch unlike any I’d previously encountered, and the heady feeling with which it left me had me reeling. In a good way. In moments he brought me to a surprisingly thundersome climax, leaving me wet, spent and thoroughly slippery. As i leaned on my forearms and panted to get my breath back, I heard the crackle of a foil wrapper, then the unzipping of his jeans, followed by the soft sound of denim hitting carpet.

Then politeness left the building once and for all. He grabbed me, hard, but not ungently, spread my legs apart, and held me still with my face on the table; then swiftly, smoothly entered me with a single thrust and no fumbling. His cock felt like solid steel as it entered me and he made sure i could feel how hard he wanted, or needed to fuck me.

“Spread those legs more, baby… yes!” As he pumped.. and pumped.

He grunted, I moaned.

He sweated, drops of moisture falling onto my back. One hand twisted in my hair, pulling it but not yanking my head. Thrust. Fuck. Pump. Push.

“God yes. Yes. Fuck me. Fill me. Yes.”

Harder. Faster. Harder still… faster still…

He grunted his intentions like a mantra.

“Fuck that cunt, that soft sweet cunt, going to fuck it harder than it’s ever been fucked. Fill your cunt. Yes? You want that, baby? Yes?”

In my head, I drifted away on a cloud of spaced-out bliss; the physical not matching the mental. I was in full physical submission, restrained by his strong hand, and his deliberately thrusting body; yet my body gladly accepted, even welcomed the hard furious fucking it was receiving.

Somewhere far away, I heard myself wail… softly at first but growing gradually stronger and more shrill. I could sense the pink light of orgasm approaching as he kept pounding my g-spot until i gushed, my mind afloat in ecstasy, my cunt awash with girlie-cum. It didn’t stop him. Rather, it increased the intensity of his fucking and the depth of each push into me. I felt my body slide forward across the desk, skater-like on a film of sweat. Astonishing really, since such a short while ago I’d felt so cold i couldn’t stand still, and now i was perspiring.

Since i was now sated, regrouping after the orgasm, i could concentrate on his pleasure more fully. I pushed back onto him, using my sweat-aided leverage. I tried to do my kegels as he fucked me, only succeeding some of the time since he was by now pumping hard and very fast.

“Yessss!” With a shout, he came, holding me tightly by the shoulder and hair.

Not quite so polite, after all. But a pleasure to know.

The moment that you feel his hand on your flesh, that’s when you know.

Not all trysts work this way, it can be freely admitted. But there are occasions where you instinctively know that the owner of said hand is one with whom there is something very unusual and special going on.

You know for sure that you two have connected in a very unique way; that the sex will be of the mind-blowing, furniture-moving, scrape-me-off-the-ceiling variety… These are usually the times where you have cause to feel as though an electric shock just ripped straight through you, from nipples-to-cunt, with a nod and a wave at your g-spot.

And you’re right. A casual touch over a table in a restaurant, as he passes you the soy sauce. You take a lump of Wasabi with chopsticks clutched in trembling fingers — what the fuck was that?! Your skin is tingling as though you’ve just been rubbed with mentholated cream, and your heart is beating faster than it should.

You take a deep breath, and try to compose yourself, but there’s no point. You don’t really want to. Such levels of connection are so rare and so precious that you want to savor every second, but still cannot quite help your knee-jerk reaction to deny it, suppress it, re-normalize the situation. Each attempt you make is very clearly in vain.

Nothing seems normal at the moment, but you revel in the abnormality. This is what you thrive on, and you plan to utilize it to the max.

The remains of the Miso soup and the Tuna Tataki are arranged in that lackadaisical manner that the leftover food from a carefully ordered meal is wont to take; sprawled in disarray over the dishes where once they were heaped so beautifully.

And you two sit, exhausted from the effort of eating, but exhilarated at what is to come. From the moment your fingertips touched you knew that you had connected in that amazingly intimate, physical way, and the countdown was on till the required niceties were out of the way and you could be alone.

Although, if the truth be told, both of you had, at separate times, considered sweeping the dishes onto the floor, throwing the other over the table and fucking them senseless. Said thought had rendered the thinker speechless for a while; which had actually gone unnoticed due to the disproportionate amount of body language being used as the primary means of conversation.

Bills are paid and you leave, and as you do, your hands bump against each other, which immediately becomes a firm handhold. The urgency is palpable and rising, and you know that it doesn’t matter where, or what, but you must be alone with him now. Now. NOW! Apparently he feels the same as he drags you down the side street where his car is parked and almost throws you up against it, much as you might have thrown him over the restaurant table, and kisses you for the first time.

It’s amazing how much a kiss can convey; how it surpasses speech in its communicative ability. You know what he is thinking, feeling, needing and wanting — and he knows the same about you.

It’s only a matter of time before it happens. The time it will take for you to drive there. A journey which will not allow you to separate your hands, and a destination where the remainder of your bodies will continue what the hands started.

And all this you know, from his touch.

Fleshbotted again.

She felt him slide in and out of her, as he lay on top of her, holding him close to her.

“You like that?” he whispered lasciviously into her ear. “My cock is all the way inside your ass. Do you like it like that?”

She shivered with joy, and murmured a tiny “Yes…” into the pillow.

He hugged her tighter, and continued to slowly pump himself into her.

“That’s so good to hear, baby. You’re such a good girl.”

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

This entire anal sex episode had started some months earlier, on a theoretical level. The subject had come up in conversation, and nervously she had mentioned how she was scared of trying it again.

“I tried it once,” she typed him on an Instant Message application. “It hurt so badly, and only after a long time did it start feeling good. I tried once or twice since, but I couldn’t make it past the pain.”

There was dead air for an ominous and elongated minute and then she saw that he was typing a reply.

“Firstly,” he wrote, “you needn’t worry. The key is to relax. And you are under no obligation to do anything — if you’re not happy, it just won’t happen. You have to trust me – which I know you do. But i will not — would not — ever force you to endure anything that you have no desire to do. Know that, and relax.”

Reading those words did relax her. Immediately.

“Thank you,” she typed in, gratefully.

He continued.

“It is all about technique. And arousal. And trust. Don’t worry, baby, it will be fine.”

And then he had to go. Much relieved, and feeling unburdened, she breathed easily, and ceased worrying.

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

As they’d entered the room it had been how it always was with them. Drawn together as if magnetic, she’d reveled in his touch, so strong and sensual and familiar. The expression “melting into his arms” wafted through her head, and she dismissed it as too trite, but it still resonated. It was, after all, exactly how she felt.

The urge to control manifested itself almost immediately. As they kissed, he tugged at her hair and she weakened.

“Get naked, baby. Now. And hop onto the bed.”

She did as she was told.

“Good girl. Lie next to me.”

Again, she did as she was bid. She truly trusted him, which was why she’d allowed him to take control ever since their first meeting. He embraced her, and then shifted himself so that he was lying on top of her, as she lay on her stomach. His arms encircled her and she could feel their strength. He whispered to her, and she could feel his lips move against her ear, which excited her all the more.

“I’m going to fuck you so good. So. Damn. Good. Such a good girl you are, baby. And so wet and ready for me. ”

He slid himself inside her cunt from behind, and held himself there, impassive. She pushed herself back onto him, and he started to pump into her, slowly. Deliberately.

“That’s it, baby. Give me that pussy.”

The fingers of his left hand found their way into her mouth where she sucked, teased and licked them lovingly. Her hips were angled upwards, giving his right hand access to the entrance to her cunt, where his fingers stroked her slowly, bringing her to a thundering clitoral climax.

As she shuddered beneath him, she felt his right hand move from her cunt to the side of her body. Moments later, she felt a dribble of deliciously cold lube trickle between her cheeks, and his hand begin to play around her tight little anus. A finger slid in, and she gasped. Was she ready? She wasn’t sure.

“Relax, baby. I want you to relax your muscles. All of them. Will you do that for me?”

“I’ll try,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“What was that?”

He pulled her head up by the hair, to improve the acoustics. She repeated herself, only more coherently.

“Good girl. My good girl.”

She felt one finger slide inside her, and then two. His thumb massaged the anus, and she succumbed to the sensation.

Suddenly, sharp pain, and she yelped.

“Ow, fuck!”

“You’re not relaxed enough, baby,” the sensuous voice murmured. “Trust me. Yes?”

She nodded, and made a conscious effort to do just that. The massaging resumed, which felt great. Then she felt him slide into her, and absolutely no pain at all… only the mild discomfort that goes hand-in-hand with that great feeling of having one’s ass ploughed.

It was fabulous. His voice in her ear once more, delighting her.

“You like that? My cock is all the way inside your ass. Do you like it like that?”

Oh god, did she ever.

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