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.

The thought of you is distracting me from everything I should be doing. As a result, everything I do is involving you in some way or another. My cooking especially. My chicken soup was made with desire for you. The garlic roasted potatoes are full of lust for you. Even the roast chicken is sighing over you in the oven.

I tell you, it’s food porn central, chez Juno this evening.

The anticipation is utterly exquisite. Like an amuse bouche before a meal, I want more and more. Having been awarded the delicate morsel you afforded me yesterday, I’m now slavering for more, the juices inside me flowing fast and furious, the swirl of excitement threatening to distract me from every purpose to which I set my mind, until we meet again.

You mentioned an element of fear at how all-consuming your ravenous hunger is, and the temptation it brings. I know that fear — I’ve felt it too. But the more I think about it, the more it seems like an exquisite excitement at what lies ahead, a deliciously tempting dish still covered over, awaiting the moment when the lid is lifted and all is revealed.

My imagination is running riot with all the how and what and when… how will your lips feel against mine… what will i do first — stroke the side of your cheek, or brush my hand through your hair… when will your hand touch my bare, quivering skin first — and how will I stop my legs from buckling and collapsing under me from sheer adrenaline?

To want someone badly is not new to me. But this is taking things to another level. And so to pass the time, I’ll continue cooking with unbridled passion — food porn is as good a substitute as any…

}{

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 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.