It’s better if we don’t talk.

I sit in a perfumed cloud of semen and spicy sports deodorant; my hands are mine again.

After a brutal week at work our meeting was spur of the moment, motivated by watching him in a porno gangbang with two women who didn’t look unlike me.

He picked me up in the hallway and carried me into my room.  His skin was damp from the rain.

“You just need someone to fuck you, don’t you?” he growled in my ear.  “To make no decisions, to just be taken.”  It was almost a hiss.

I only barely nodded as his mouth crushed mine and his hands gripped my breasts.

I had on boots and a blazer over my sundress; when he got up to kick the dog out I peeled off the coat and sat nervously on the edge of the bed.  He turned to me and wrapped his hand in my hair and tilted my head back.  “You don’t have to say anything,” he said and bent down and kissed me again.

David is a punishing lover, a Romanian coach of sorts.  Brutal, demanding, and then filled with pride and kindness when I comply.  I find myself wanting to comply.  A lot.

His lips were soft, his five o’clock shadow gruff, his hands hot and seeking.  He stroked and pet my pussy and bit my flesh; his clothes melted away and I reveled in the cloth that covered mine, but not his.

He jammed his fat cock down my throat and crooned to me as he went balls deep, his hand hooked into me and began to slap at me.  I suckled on a ripe testicle, arched my back, moaned, breathed in his soapy skin and filled his cupped hand with ejaculate.

He moaned and quivered above me and kept at me.  Cock swollen and banging against my cheek, my pussy throbbing, my chest heaving.

Clothes had to come off now, boots unzipped.  I must be unfettered.

He climbed up onto the bed and slid his cock between my breasts and squeezed them together, his balls on my chin and perineum soft against my nose and lips.   I felt exposed, humiliated, then empowered as he gently turned my face towards his sweet, puckered ass.

“Lick it, you dirty girl,” he panted as he stroked his cock between the mounds of my breasts.

I flicked my tongue, afraid, yet curious.  The giant man straddling my face tensed and froze as I fluttered my wet tongue around his anus.

His fingers hooked back into me and began to jerk me up to orgasm.  The pressure built and I bit his cheek as I came again and created a puddle between us.  He laughed almost maniacally and climbed off of me and rolled me over to my side and helped me up to my knees.

He told me to put my head down on the bed and to spread my cheeks for him.  I felt shame and a thrill, a duality I am not familiar with.  He grunted approval and slipped a finger into my cunt, then another, and maybe another.

My shoulders went numb and a hand dropped away as his arm pistoned into me.

He slipped a finger into my ass and my other hand dropped away as I gripped the bedding for purchase and leaned back against him.

“Please,” I panted, my face pressed into the mattress.  “Please, please fuck me.”  It was a whimper now.

There was a pause while he rolled on a condom and I felt his hands back on my hips as he gently pushed me onto my back, spread my knees and pushed into me as his mouth met mine.

I don’t know how long it’d been since we’d coupled, but as the rain pattered on the window feet from my head I thought about what a gift my body was, his body, everyone’s body.  That we are capable of such existential bliss through a physical act is nothing short of magic, a breach across divides.

He slammed into me and held my wrists.  He pinned my arms, he bit my nipples, he spanked my flanks with bruising blows.  He went wild on me and I met his crashing waves with my sea wall, unbroken, yet drowned in his needs to push me under the surface of my sanity.

When he pushed my legs together and held my wrists behind my back I began to sob as the orgasm seeped into me.  I imagined the other blonde, buxom women he’d pounded in the video and how they had become flushed and breathless.  How their hips and bellies and breasts had rippled with each passionate thrust of his hips.  How they had loved his cock — marveled over it — and here it was in me.  It was mine.

I came harder then and cried out that I was cumming and with my cries I heard him lose it.  He roared his climax, pulled out and ripped off the condom; I began to sob with release as hot ropes of his cum crisscrossed my back and landed in my hair.

I lay prostrate and jerked with sobs and laughter.  He stroked my temple and asked if I was ok.  I nodded that I was and he kissed my head.

“I hate to leave, but I was supposed to head out to the campground when you texted me an hour and a half ago, but I couldn’t miss out on this.”  I understood.  David and I aren’t so great at talking anyway.  His “no guts, no glory” approach to life is too harsh for someone as sensitive as me and I am often left scratching my head and feeling oddly defensive and misunderstood.  We do much better when all we do is fuck.

He got a towel and gently wiped my back clean and sat beside me.  I hooked an arm over his thigh and hiccupped receding sobs.  “See,” he said, “I knew this is just what you needed.  You seem much calmer now.”  He chuckled.

“You’re right.  This is just what I needed,” I agreed.

I got up and had to steady myself, my head was light, my limbs heavy, my hands numb.  I pulled on a sundress and we kissed by the front door.  I wished him a good time camping and thanked him for the good time.

“Bye,” I said as I was closing the door.

The last thing I heard him say was to chuckle and make fun of how I’d said it.

It really is better if all we do is fuck.

 

 

e[lust] #70

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Photo courtesy of Exposing 40

Welcome to Elust #70

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #71? Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Exposed! My Mom Knows!

Flash Fiction: “A Taste”

I am a Sex Blogger & I Reject Pseudonymity

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

‘X’ is for X…
Give my guilt an erotic payoff? Tell me more.

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Dis-moi…

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7

days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Blogging

Hidden

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

The Great Outdoors (Or Why I Trust Him)
I’m Reminded You Can’t Force an Orgasm
Yes I am Sexy
Why Choose Monogamy When You Can Choose Every
Would you? Could you?
On Being Haunted

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

A Horse Among Unicorns: Embracing my Straight
Being a Disabled Top in Kink Community
And here I thought kink was all about consent
10 Signs You Don’t Understand Submission
The Answer

Writing About Writing

Sex in Real Life vs Fiction
Terms of Use

Poetry

Six Nine – A Happy Horny Haiku

Erotic Fiction

One Saturday Evening
Cerulean
Stolen Minutes
Taste
Haunting you
Woken
Q is for Quenched
A schoolgirl spanking story 10
Sit Here Please
My Prize

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Fat-Shaming
Spanking, Brits, and what if we didn’t?
“V” is for Virgin

Erotic Non-Fiction

My first date with Lexy – Part 2
Goodnight kiss
How To Kiss Me Like You Mean It
running cold and hot
His cum came out my nose.
Going Down. Honey, Coconut Oil and Cum.

 

 

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I am going through the motions.

I’m on my way to another date I don’t care about.

I have a lump in my throat, a heavy heart.  All I see is a saggy, fat, reject.

I don’t know who has crawled into my skin; I’m hoping a glass of wine and a charming man will snap me out of it.

I am so ugly.  It’s like a stench I can’t get out of my nostrils.

I’ve been doing everything wrong.  I should do a cleanse, no drinking or smoking, no men.  But they are my nectar and I am their fucked up bee.

Bzz.

I know how to fix a texting mistake.

I’ve gone on 3 dates with a man I really dig, but who is a shit texter.

Earlier today Troy and I were chatting about my dating life and I told him about this guy.  Troy wasn’t sure what a “shit texter” meant, so I hopped over to check our thread and typed back a reply regarding the frequency of texts.

Except I forgot to return to my thread with Troy.

It was on the Shit Texter’s thread.

My stomach dropped, my heart stopped, I clapped my hand over my mouth.  I might have yelled at the phone in a long, drawn out, “Nooooooooooooo!”

I hadn’t texted him since after our quick coffee date yesterday where we sat snuggled up together on a couch for about an hour before we both had to run.  He walked me to my car and we kissed sweetly; I wished we could have done more, but the clock was against us.  I really like this lughead.

An hour or two later I texted him a smiley face and note that he didn’t need to respond.  It’s an open, running joke that he sucks at texting.  He proudly owns it and this early in our dating I feel weird to demand any changes.

He replied with a laugh and a note that it was nice to see me that day.

I told him I’d had a nice time, too, and would like to see him when he returns from his 10-day vacation which starts today.

I hadn’t heard from him in 18 hours when I sent him that mistext.

Dating is difficult and strange; we try to become mind readers.  I’m done with trying to interpret people, so while his texting habits drive me fucking crazy I truly enjoy myself when we spend time together.  The odd thing is, he’s easier to hang out with than just about any other man I’ve met.  He’s on time, funny, affectionate, open.  He’s also sweetly nervous.

We also don’t “date.”  He doesn’t, I don’t, we don’t, but we kinda are.  I haven’t been as nervous to see anyone as I have been him and there’s something between us that draws me in.  I’m intrigued.  He can also eat pussy like a champ.

All this from a shit texter.

So how does one fix a faux pas such as revealing that you’re talking about his bad texting habits to someone else?

I did the only thing I could think of:  I sent boobs.

 

Hy text oops!

Within a minute or two he responded with “Well played.”

I texted back, “Thanks.”

Of course I didn’t hear anything else from him and now he’s on a plane to London.  It remains to be seen what the fall out from my texting seizure will be.  It also remains to be seen what the fall out will be from his horrendously bad texting habits.

I take two steps forward and one step back.

I wrote last night’s post before bed, after The Neighbor swung by for a few minutes to help me move a heavy potted plant up to my apartment.  He looked good, clean, freshly groomed.  His energy was weird and so I asked him if he was ok.  He said he was fine, he was just a little stressed due to work which was waiting for him back at home, but I didn’t believe him.

Naturally, I didn’t press — it’s none of my business — but I wish he’d lie better.  This morning at 7:30 his car was no where to be found.  It’s possible I missed it, but on my way out to take Peyton to school I didn’t see it or on my way back in.

One step back…

I think about what it means to me, the possibility that he stayed with a woman last night and I feel deprived.  Not only do I have no one in my life with whom I’d invite to have an overnight, but I also feel the void which defined my relationship with The Neighbor: always wanting more, never getting my needs met.

Of course it’s silly to say I’m being deprived of anything just because he might stay the night with some woman — it has nothing to do with me, technically — but because I am still wounded by him, by us, I am unable to see a missing car before 8 am and think, “Good for him.”  Instead I think, “I’m missing something he’s giving to someone else.”

It grinds me down to think he’d be willing to give it away to someone else, but of course he will.  Look at me, I’m giving it away left and right.  My charm, my pussy, my time, my attention.  Lots of men are getting a little piece of me and it’s been uplifting.  He certainly has every right to do the same.  I just wish I didn’t know when it was happening.

I’m here, just quiet.

Hy in a hoodie

The waters are still now, nothing like those first few weeks of frenzied hunting when I gorged myself on men, on endless flavors of masculinity which paraded through my bedroom and skipped across my tongue like so many brightly colored jelly beans.

I had great sex with nice men and these days I’m venturing into what can only be called The World of Normal People: I had two dates with a guy, didn’t fuck him, and might actually still be interested.  I’m sorting out my feelings for him while mostly under other men.  I’m fickle like that.  I like the sour flavors the best.

Hy in a hoodie

The Neighbor and I are mending fences; I’ve let him go.  The ache in my gut is a faint shout, gone is the keening.  I miss him, I love him, I’m moving on.  It fucking sucks.

Time heals all wounds, it’s true, but I continue to search for my favorite bean somewhere in the pile of men.  I still think it’s him; I can’t seem to stop myself.

It really is quiet here.

Hy in a hoodie

It’s hard to be hard all the time.

I am much softer than I may appear.  Not only is my physique nothing like what I share with you all here, my psyche is also not what you read here.  I am soft, loose, out of shape.  My heart bleeds for approval, even now so many years of anguish later learning that others simply cannot prop me up by response only.

Yet, I trudge on my old familiar path of feminine wiles and slights of hand.

I had a bad date last night.

And the date itself doesn’t upset me, but my reaction to it: I thought I was the cause.

Not the man who only spoke of himself and who disclosed things that had I known them prior I never would have been sitting with him in an obnoxiously loud sports bar playing Cinco De Mayo Bingo Trivia.  It wasn’t he who struggled to take the perfect picture of his bingo prize for Facebook who ruined the night.  It wasn’t he who had no interest in asking me questions.  It wasn’t he who thought he might throw up from chugging a beer.  It was me: I was fat, I was unappealing, I was a let down.

And those traitorous thoughts to basic feminism and all the years of hard work I’ve done to believe I am valuable are what made the date utterly miserable.  I was back to square one.

Forget that the very night before a lovely man with a silky sensuality had let my vulva slip between his hands in a rhythmic massage and peered down intently at me arching my back against his hand and purred, “I love learning new people.”

Forget that we had leaned into one another at the coffee-house with eyes alight with curiosity and interest and desire.

Forget that his cock had touched my core just so and I had cum and sprayed us both with the juices of my sex while he growled into my ear how surprised he was he was doing this.  That he was even capable after already disclaiming that he didn’t need another play partner, yet somehow, here we were naked and clawing at each other’s bodies.

All that shamefully became background noise as my super power to make every man I meet fall in lust with me fell from my grip because — I don’t know why.

The truth is, he was attractive, this misfire date with a lisp and loopy, toothsome gestures.  But from the second he opened his mouth I knew it was a mistake.  I tested him surreptitiously to see if my assessment was wrong and he failed each time.  No, he had no questions for me.  Let’s talk about hashtags on Facebook and Instagram for 10 minutes instead.

I grit my teeth against the anguish of my impotence and ground against the shame I felt at the realization I was experiencing a sense of failure.  Where was my sense of value now?

It seemed to have abandoned me, much like everything else in my life lately: it had better, bigger things to attend to rather than sit with me and remind me that sometimes, I have no effect on a man.  Sometimes, I don’t want to have an effect on a man.  And that doesn’t mean I’m suddenly not valuable, potent, or relevant.

The idea that someone wouldn’t want me makes me itch, but it’s an even more foreign concept to not want someone.  I am simply not allowed to have such a feeling; I am to make everyone else ok, you see?

Mother, father, selfish friends and boyfriends and husbands.  I say, “I really hate how this thing that you do makes me feel, but it’s important to you to feel ok, so I will swallow it and live with the lump in my throat.  I am expendable, you are not.”

I am frustrated and embarrassed at this little break down, especially in light of my high from yesterday.

I suppose it’s not unheard of to have a dip after such an exalted shout from the mountain that is more like dress-up some days than it is my real skin, but I’m trying — God, how I’m trying to make it my own skin.

I’ve been nursing a bottle of wine tonight and I ate half a calzone and some salad.  I feel like a rotund version of myself; unfit for public consumption.

I have been fighting tears for half the day because my mother has decided to abandon me on Mother’s Day.  You see, I made plans for breakfast and an afternoon with my own baby before I go see her.  She is no longer available to me now, she says.   Also, I reorganized this writing space and was thus faced with the reorganization of The Neighbor himself.  I miss him; I still love him; I still want him to come around and be the partner I need and want, but he is forever lost to me.  I ache with that knowledge.

With all those sad and unrequited needs of both my mother and The Neighbor I am therefore faced with the unapologetic truth that neither of them will be there for me in the ways in which I need them most.  I must let them go and thereby free myself in the process.  They have their own paths to strut and I mine.

I have curled up away from the world today.  I canceled a date and I have been reluctant to return texts, though there have been virtually – and thankfully — practically none.  I am focused on my sweet sissy’s pictures of my newest, weeks old niece humorously apologizing for my mother’s erratic, shit-colored behavior towards me.  The stain on my heart as I mourn the bond I felt towards my ill-suited boyfriend of 3 years throbs unattractively beneath my ribs.  It’s like tar on my carcass.

I can’t ignore that I have other shit going on besides trying to get laid.  I’m a hurtin’ unit, as they say.

A good friend called me a “turbo-slut” today and I laughed.  “You have sex with more men in one month than I do with women in an entire year,” he observed.  “I don’t know how you do it.  I get sex hangovers because I’m emotionally involved and I believe I leave more behind than just semen.  Maybe that’s why you’re feeling so down.”

I think there’s something to that.  Though I am more measured than the young Hyacinth, I am forgetting the psychic repair I require after sharing myself with someone.  I must be careful in this post-TN era, more discerning, lest I end up nothing but hungover from my hedonistic pursuits.  And lets not forget the other psychic things I juggle such as a supremely complicated relationship with my mother and a pulverized heart.

Deep in my grey matter I believe I am more than the sum of my parts, but my heart is still wrestling for purchase on that summit and I blame myself.  It’s just so easy to get the quick fix of a fuck that I struggle against the temptation and when I feel like saying No to an opportunity — or the potential of one — I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Fuck.  I still think of it in terms of my failings.

I think I need another glass of wine.  This is much too much for a Wednesday.

I am very, very dissolute and dick is abundant and low value

I am bathing in cum and cocks and quickly established rapport.  Arms entwine, I writhe and buck, I swallow jizz like it’s water from The Fountain of Youth.

Some men I’ve written about I have left behind.  Some are still orbiting.  I am in a holding pattern of desire and the knowledge that I have something they all want: Me.  A sexy, forthright, intelligent, kind woman with an insatiable appetite for men and sex and all things hedonistic.  I am of high value; dick is abundant and low value.

I wish I can say I coined that phrase, but it was Madeline Holden who did, not me, and Alana Massey wrote a detailed piece about the “Dickonomics of Tinder,” a razor-sharp look into the changes in dating economics in the 20-teens based on that idea: Dick is abundant and low value.

This is not to be confused with men as abundant and low value, because of course men have value, but their need to stick it in, to share it, to wave it in front of my face has very low value.  I walk on a ground paved in dicks and have bouquets of them on my bedside table.  I’m drowing in dick.

Dating isn’t unlike a very long afternoon spent at the mall dodging the obnoxious foreign men stumping skin care at the kiosks and occasionally climbing a broken escalator; passing the temptation of the grease-infused fare at the Food Court and relentlessly hunting for the pair of jeans that fit just right.

Unlike a day at the mall, however, dating is a lonely affair.  No girlfriend can come along to boost your sagging resolve to only buy the pair that fits  and not compromise.  You must be your own best friend and repeat Dick is abundant and low value and keep looking.

These days I have developed a three-pronged approach to dating and every man I speak with knows it before we ever agree to meet.  It goes like this:

I am looking for a kind, intelligent, and well-hung man.

It’s simple and men are blown away. Is it so rare to own such simple needs?

Of course dick size has no correlation to a man’s character, that’s not up for debate, but I refuse to bite if less than all three are in play in one male body.  Of course every man seems to think he’s well-hung, but I’m one of those who has actual measurements in mind so I have run into some disappointment there.  But because he has also been kind and intelligent I have enjoyed my time with him anyway.  It’s almost like getting the wrong order at a 4-star restaurant.  I’m still on the winning end of that shit stick.

I also say that in no way does my agreeing to meet up mean that I am meeting for a sexual encounter with a man.  The men who come at me with the attitude that I am a prize, something to be earned, will win a chance at speaking with me face to face.

Recently something interesting happened on Tinder.  A man said that the picture I had that framed my breasts as the focal point meant (meant!) that I wanted sex.

I asked him if he were serious, explained that it was actually unfortunate cropping and that the picture was really there to illustrate my figure, not my breasts.  He confirmed he was completely serious.

I wrote this in response:

Even though I say in my profile it’s not code for anything?  So are you saying that had you seen me on the trail that day [in my workout clothes] you’d have thought, “That woman wants sex [because she has breasts and she’s – gasp – not hiding them]”?  I understand that a lot of men get confused about when women want to have sex, but don’t confuse consent or intentions with the way her body looks or how you respond to it.  I’d also like to add that there’s nothing wrong with looking for sex if that’s what I wanted to do, but there sure is a lot of judgment there if I were, isn’t there?

He un-matched me, but not before I took screen shots of our chat.

I posted the conversation to my Moments (a mechanism through which I can share an image with everyone I’ve matched with for 24-hours) and the Likes began pouring in.  Seventy-one in all and I had less than 200 matches at the time, so over a third of the men got what I was saying.  In addition to the Likes, lots of thoughtful conversations were had with dozens of men over it.  A couple of men said something like, “I didn’t think you were looking for sex.  I thought ‘If she ever lets me touch them, I’d like it a lot!'” and others apologized on the man’s behalf.

I was encouraged by the number of feminist responses and the general attitude that they also believed I was allowed to express myself in a way in which might indeed be provocative (it totally was) without being an advertisement for hooking up (it really wasn’t).

Which brings me to my dissoluteness.  I am absolutely looking for sex, but not through a single image on Tinder.  I reserve the right to use my words and in-person actions to communicate that.  It’s somehow unsettling to think that a man would make such a direct connection to an image of my body, a connection that could lead to a very dangerous miscommunication.

Besides, we are all “looking for sex” on some level or another be it tender love-making with The One or a debauched night on someone else’s memory foam bed.

It’s a “wax on, wax off” approach.  You come at a sexual, sentient being in an “I will only take what you’re willing to share” kind of way and she will very likely stick around and let you touch her boobs.  You come at her like she owes you something because you have dick and she has tits and she will tell you you’re a dipshit and then post your idiocy for all to see.

It’s how we date in the 20-teens.

I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to sustain the level of men I have today, but one thing’s for certain: My value is much higher than any dick and I won’t settle for less than agreement in this.  I won’t work to convince you I’m worthy.  My value is much too high to waste my time.

 

[Ed. Note: I realize that this post has pockets of ambiguity; it was hastily written.  To be clear (as I’ve addressed in a comment) I’m not at all angry with men; I like to think that I understand some of them, even. This post is about finally believing my value is higher than what I valued it before, that I’m allowed to have my needs, that I’m allowed to be discriminating. It’s not me vs. men. It’s me vs. me.]

 

I learned to masturbate in the shower.

I had my first orgasm on the back of a horse at around the age of 12 or 13, but I can’t claim to know at that moment what was happening to my body.  I only knew I was gripping the saddle with my thighs, my stirrups were long so I could sit deeply, and I was driving this giant animal forward into my hands in order for him to do an extended trot.

My hips began to tingle and then it spread lower.  My trainer was yelling at me with her megaphone because as I lost control the horse was, too, and I was failing at the exercise.  I had no idea the pommel being ground into my mound was the culprit.

Fast forward a year and I was surreptitiously perusing the bible of all women’s books, Our Bodies, Ourselves, and discovered a chapter which included a woman’s discovery of water as a sexual toy.  She was 9 and would use a faulty sink faucet.  I had a detachable shower head massager in my bath.  It was a Eureka! moment.

That first time I stood in the shower stall holding the head to my crotch.  I didn’t know what I had down there or even really where anything was, but the sensation was immediate and profound.

I pushed my hips forward and closed my eyes.  The build was swift and complete in a minute.  It stayed in my legs and hips only and I immediately recognized it as what had happened to me on the horse months earlier.

I became a showerhead aficionado that day.

A shower became so much more; I came in there every chance I could get.  I even boldly came with a young lover in there many years later.

When I left home, I also left my shower massager behind.  It was a sad day.  But I’d sneak into my roommate’s bathroom and use hers when she wasn’t around until a friend told me of an ex who’d lay on her back beneath the tub faucet.  That got me through for years until I bought my own massager again.

By now my orgasms were explosive and blew out the top of my head.  I no longer stood primly with my feet together like that first time, but with legs spread wide and my back against the cold wall.  I came with many eyes on me, sometimes hands, sometimes a mouth.  I hadn’t met the Hitachi, yet.  Water was my only toy.  And the occasional horse.

My senior year in college I joined the equestrian team and early one morning while training I was in a two-point position, stirrups short, but legs in a new style of riding.  I perched above the pommel again and as my trainer yelled, “Yes, Hy!  Like that!  GOOD!” I came and came as I cantered in a circle on a giant-barreled steed.

Later that season, while competing in an equitation class, I began to cum on the long side of an arena and nearly fell off.  I won the blue ribbon that day.  For me, doing it right equaled the reward of orgasm.

It wasn’t until I was 25 that I got my first vibrator and things have never been the same since.  In fact, I think I’m going to see my old friend now, before David comes over tries to murder me with his giant cock.  See ya on the flip side!

 

 

Welcome to Masturbation Monday and Masturbation Month! So the prompt isn’t super steamy this week, but I have no doubt the stories that bloggers and writers will share will be. Go show them some love and help spread the word about Masturbation Monday! You and I know that masturbation is wonderful and delicious, but too many people think it’s bad or shameful. Let’s show people just how yummy and hawt it can be.

Masturbation Monday

His cum came out my nose.

It was Monday and I was enjoying a quiet morning on the computer and Maintenance was puttering around my entryway when I got an unexpected text from David:

david text david text 2

He said he’d come over and wait for them to be gone and I all but leapt into the shower to wash off the 3-minute sex I’d had with The Ginger Viking the day before.  I told the maintenance guy I had to shower because a friend was coming over and to not be alarmed if a friend let himself in while I was in there.  He laughed and said something in broken English that I didn’t quite catch.  I laughed, too, because, whatever: I was about to get the shit fucked out of me.

With soap in my hair I heard a knock on the bathroom door then another followed by a muffled voice.  I shouted, “Ok!” to what, I don’t know, and continued washing up.  When I finished I noticed a thermometer sticking out of my bathroom vent above the door.  I laughed thinking about asking David to snag it for me.  It’d be easy for him.

I dried myself off, put on a strappy sundress and a little blush.  I skipped the mascara and the panties.

Butterflies swarmed in my belly as I patiently waited wondering what would happen between us.  Finally, I heard his knock.

He filled the doorway and I could see the bulge in his shorts.  “Good morning,” I said and stepped aside to let him in.

“Before you leave, could you do me a favor really fast?”  I showed him the thermometer in the vent.  He reached up and easily plucked it out and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said laughing.

“You’re very welcome,” he answered back and stooped to cup my face in his hands.

We kissed and he trembled beneath my roaming hands.  We buzzed together like that, with deepening kisses, for several seconds.    I rubbed the bulge as he pressed into my hand.  He lifted my dress and began to play with me.  I stopped his hand and whispered not to finger me.

He looked at me questioningly.  “I’m on my period,” I explained, “and I have a menstrual cup in.”  He looked at me with more questions. “Trust me, it’s less messy this way.  You won’t feel a thing.”  We laughed a little at the short stop at pragmatism and continued to kiss as his hands rubbed my lips gently, carefully avoiding my insides.

I moaned and pressed closer and then the nerves were gone.  I wanted him, he wanted me.  A lock was opened and I felt a rush of heat pass through me.

Suddenly he picked me up like I was nothing, all 165 pounds of me.  Something clicked over in my brain; I haven’t been picked up in years.  This man was strong, so much stronger and bigger than me.  Thoughts of gangbangs and spankings and bright red hand marks sped through my brain.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as he walked to my bed and gently laid me down.  I watched, already glassy-eyed, as he kicked the dog out and crawled back on top of me smiling.

We kissed and fondled each other.  He was doing his best to prep me, but I was excited that he wasn’t.  I wanted his huge fat cock in a dry pussy this time, not one so wet I couldn’t feel him.

He stood up then and I knelt on the bed as he pulled my dress off.  I unbuckled his pants and he peeled off his shirt.  His cock was fat and hard and beautifully uncut.  I bent over and took it in my mouth.  Immediately he began encouraging me as I explored how far I could take him.  The harder he got, the more he filled my mouth and I struggled to take him all in.

Then it was like a gun went off and I was done.  “I want you to fuck me now,” I said, my voice filled with desire.  Without a word he bent to get a condom, rolled it on and pushed me on my back.

This time he slowly pushed in, my favorite part.  Our mouths were locked together and I breathed him in as he began to pump.  I wrapped my legs around his waist again and held him in as far as he could go.  Eyes closed, nothing but this man existed for me.  His cock, his mouth, his scent, his warm skin, his straining muscles.

We fucked and kissed and he was brutal.  He tucked me up, split me wide and unabashedly watched our porno.  Bodies slammed together, my belly scrunched up like a Sharpei, my face red and contorted with passion as he pounded into me.

He kissed my neck and suckled my ear before growling into it and telling me what a bad girl I was.  I begged him to fuck my pussy and nearly began to cry when I began to cum around him.  His tempo increased, he pinned me, hit me, kissed me some more.

Rolled up on my side in a little ball he fucked me from the side and I felt every inch scrape inside and felt lucky that our paths crossed: this man knew how to fuck.

On my hands and knees I bent over, my ass spread for him as he stood comfortably on the floor.  His height made us a perfect fit.  I bounced on him and he gripped my hips not painlessly.  Then he pulled my wrist out from under me and my right shoulder hit the bed, then he grabbed my left.  He plowed me into the mattress.

He licked his finger and pressed it against my asshole.  I squirmed on him and moaned helplessly into the bedding.

He began to wail on my flanks with short, stinging smacks.  I let the heat roll up over me like a wave.

His filthy words filled the room as he pleasured the both of us then it stopped.  

“Fuck.” He pulled out and pointed at his thick, glistening cock.  At first I didn’t see it.  “The condom is a cock ring,” he pointed out.  His penis was naked all but save a little cream-colored ring at the base.

“I just got tested on Friday.  I’m clean,” I said.

“Me, too,” he answered as he rolled on another condom and shoved himself back inside.

A true athlete, he deftly moved us across the bed.  I matched him for every thrust, every movement.  I was in goddamned motherfucking heaven.

Finally, we rested.  I on my belly, he on his back.  He tenderly drew lines on my skin.  “My hands are numb,” I observed.

“You know why that is?”

“I have no idea.  I can barely form this sentence actually.”  I laughed into the sheets unable to lift my head.

“It’s lack of CO2.  You’re breathing very hard.”  I could hear the smile as he imparted his firefighter’s wisdom.

I considered napping then, but knew we had only minutes to spare.  I hauled myself up and crawled between his thighs.  The condom was gone, the boner remained.

I sucked and slobbered, tasted a slight hint of blood and condom and kept going.  My hand stroked, my tongue lapped, my mouth sucked.  He said kind and sexy things about being a good girl and taking all of his giant, fat cock.  I thought I was doing a miserable job, but every few strokes he’d go deep.  The first deep thrust worked, but those following caused me to gag.

My heart beat faster and my legs began to tremble.  His deep thrusts increased; I gagged and began to regurgitate my coffee.  Once I stopped and clapped my hand over my mouth and ran to the bathroom.  He called after me that it was ok, but it burned and tasted awful.  I couldn’t figure this out and I was frustrated.

“It’s ok, baby,” he said.  “I don’t care about the mess.  Please, don’t stop, just spit on top of me, just let go.”  He grabbed the towel we’d used to blot his forehead earlier and tucked it under his ass to catch the mess.

I nodded wordlessly and fell back down on the shaft.  My breathing was erratic and I struggled  figure to breathe, his cock stuffed me so full it was semi terrifying.  

Gag, spit, cough, fall back on it for 10 more thrusts.  His breathing became more labored and his thrusts even deeper.  I pulled off again and again and spit up on his cock.  It ran down the barrel and swung off his balls onto the towel.

He fucked my face then and I felt a release as I gagged and he hit my brain.  I squirted on his legs and threw up into the towel.  He begged me to take him back in my mouth, I was delirious with passion.  He took his shaft in one hand and put his hand on my head with the other and began to skull fuck me.

I gagged and squirted, gagged around the hot fatness jammed in my mouth, but didn’t leave him.  Tears poured from my face, slobber coated my lips and his groin.  He grew even larger in my mouth and I heard him gasp and begin to moan.  

I squirted again, popped off of him to tell him what was happening to me, what that wetness on his legs was, and he moaned loudly with pleasure.  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.  I smiled and resumed my work.

I couldn’t breathe, was horrified at the mess I was making, but trusted him completely to guide me through it.  I was in love with this experience.

“I’m going to cum,” I heard him say and I squirted again.  He began to tense and fuck my face like it was a pussy.  I let it all go then: my vanity, my pride, my self-consciousness.  All I wanted was to be this man’s receptacle.

He roared as he came, God how that man roared.  He shook and arched and bucked into me with absolutely no control.

I held on as his jizz hit the back of my throat and I began to choke.  He held me there briefly then pumped some more.  I hungrily swallowed down everything I could and pulled off of him.  Semen oozed out of my nose and mixed with my tears.

I wiped my face clean with the towel and laid down beside this giant, panting man, his arm my pillow.  He kissed the top of my head.  Then kept kissing it.  I panted too, more than pleased, goddamned elated.

Wearily, I rolled over and grabbed my Hitachi.  “While this is all fresh in my mind,” I explained for no reason.  He giggled and pulled me close.

I pressed the buzzing head to my clit and listened to him recount the blowjob.  “You like that?  That fat cock fucking your sweet little mouth?”  I came hard and strong with his voice in my ear and his gigantic hand clenching my breasts.

I finally laid limply in his arms.

Just then the alarm on my phone went off.

“Time to go?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said.

We got up and got dressed, thanked each other, kissed each other deeply and tenderly.  He played with the dog while I put on my makeup.  He came back into the bathroom and kissed me again.  I raised up on my tip toes.

“You know what I did on my way over here?” he asked as we separated.  “I stopped to get gas and was so distracted about coming over here that I drove off with the gas hose in the tank.” We laughed.  “Otherwise, I would’ve been here sooner.”

I laughed and told him that had happened to me once, too.  And I smiled because I liked knowing he’d been nervous.  Apparently he’s not just a good lay, but a little human, too.