sex


Dare to breathe. Dare to feel. Dare to let your guard down.

Dare to acknowledge the difference between a one-off fuck, and real feelings.

Dare to believe that such a thing can happen.

Dare to have your head turned by compliments.

Then you dare to screw me over.

How dare you.

500_F_86357475_jCYa3rwPcMW2ofERnURDVzuqRHbwnfYN

Originally written and published several years ago. Republished today just because.

It’s been over a year since Henry and I broke up, and I’ve said very little about the relationship that was, since that happened.

This is not me breaking my silence. Not exactly. But i feel moved to write, which happens less and less frequently these days, as I feel my world slowly crumble before my eyes — so I let the muse speak from within me, and I lay myself bare before you.

The nature of the connection between Henry and myself was incredibly real and intense, and the break-up shook me to my core. Having now — finally — achieved closure, due in no small part to him, I believe I can start moving on emotionally, and mentally.

Physically was never really an issue. Which is odd, and yet unsurprising. The physical aspects of sex, while utterly fabulous while they last, have a habit of being short-lived and fading to the level of distant if fond memory, causing a mysterious smile to play about the lips of the one remembering, and a knowing glint to sparkle in their eye. It’s the mental shit that screws you over. Yes, indeed.

Henry was my muse. My soul mate. He understood what I was thinking before I’d had the chance to articulate it to him. He knew how I worked, how I ticked, how I’d react to any given situation. He cared for me very much, in a manner that I was both unused to and blown away by… he loved me so much! He wanted to protect me from any and all harm, which, of course, he couldn’t do, but it was his wish that I should be happy. More than anything else, he wanted that.

At one point there were nasty horrible people who wanted to harm me. Henry wanted to banish them and all memories of them from my life. He was the Walter Raleigh to my Queen Elizabeth, as he gallantly, if metaphorically, laid his cloak over the shit-strewn puddles of the blogosphere so that I might walk without soiling my dainty feet. (And considering the size and heft of my ass, my feet are comparatively pretty damn dainty.)

He was the John to my Yoko. We were constantly together, always thinking each of the other, living only until we could be together again when separated. He would be with me at work, in the bottom corner of my screen and I frankly wonder how it was that I ever managed to achieve anything at work, since talking to him was infinitely preferable.

I missed him. Over the last year I used my experimentation to block out the searing pain of missing him. I met others, some who may even one day take his place in my heart. But no one replaced him because he’d not gone anywhere. I was angrier with him than I think I’d ever been at anyone before in my life — besides myself, against whom I had an ongoing viciously rude dialogue for many years, until therapy helped me work out that particular kink in my system. He had betrayed me in the worst way precisely because I relied on him more than I’d ever allowed myself to rely on another.

He hurt me more deeply than anyone else ever has — because he loved me more than anyone else ever has. As I loved him. As clichéd a qualification as it is, I loved him. Truly. Madly. Deeply. With all my heart and soul… with every creamy-skinned centimeter of my body and mind.

I loved him but I had to let him go. The reality was too much for him, the fantasy not enough. It took me a good year to get over him, and now, thanks to him and the honesty that always prevails with him (if occasionally somewhat tardily), he stepped up and took responsibility for what he had done, thus quieting my rage and soothing my deep hurt.

I miss him. I always will. I was June to his Henry Miller — yes, that is the source of our names. And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely. I owe him so much; were it not for him and his fabulously perverted mind I would never have been able to melt down the final barriers of my repressed upbringing; nor conduct such a carefully constructed sexual experiment.

I thank him publicly for everything, and acknowledge equally publicly that he will always own a corner of my bruised and battered heart.

Goodbye, my darling. I will only ever wish you well.

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.

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.

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.)

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

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.

Next Page »