We ended up on my sofa and I pulled out his big hard cock. I could tell he was already close to coming...
Read more at my new Fellatrix post.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
'No falling in love': In praise of the transitional relationship
He had an old apartment lined with books, with a bay window showing the thick snow falling outside, and a fireplace that provided the only light in the room. We were both naked. I sat astride him on the sofa, feeling his cock push against me as we kissed in every possible permutation of mouth on mouth, tongue on tongue. He licked and nibbled and sucked my nipples until I was moaning. I wanted him inside me.
He caressed my face with his warm, large hand. "No falling in love," he said.
To you that might seem like a hell of a cheeky remark. But it was just the right thing to say. I nodded slowly and lowered myself onto his penis. I let him fill me up as we rocked together. I put my head on his shoulder, reveled in the way he pumped into me while fondling my ass, and let my mind fly away as I lost myself in a good fucking.
I needed all that. He was my first transitional man.
One of my readers mentioned T-Men. They are under-appreciated forces in the love that makes the world go round, the lovers who come after Big Deal relationships, the ones that have no future but help you move on.
This is not a revenge fuck, or merely a revenge fuck. It's a safe harbor. It's the great sex, combined with chemistry and companionship, and most of all the freedom of no pressure to commit, that makes the whole thing work. Later, again in "committed relationships," many women will never even admit they had T-Men, even though they nurture those hot memories.
My two T-Men knew that's what they were doing. They knew I was a wreck of heartbreak/anger/guilt and not ready for anything heavy. And they knew that the woman I would emerge as, after the journey of rebuilding my heart, wouldn't be the one they met. We might not connect in any other situation. They knew this. They were also worldly, funny and sensual and further opened the world to me beyond my repressed suburban upbringing.
Some T-Men don't realize it. And some women with T-Men don't realize they are just in a transitional relationship. They face heartbreak, disappointment, or, if they're lucky, the realization of what a gift they received. The ideal T-Man knows who he is and what he wants, i.e., not to be married that very minute. He realizes the fragile state of his lover, but also knows she will grow stronger as he fucks her well and lets her work out her old issues. There will come a time when she is ready to move on. He has the grace to let her go.
It works the other way. I have been a transitional woman at least a couple of times. Once I even used the old line, as he hovered over me, desperate to be inside me with my legs wrapped around him. To let that coupling wash away the past. I said, "no falling in love." He blinked eyes with lust and tears and slowly nodded his head, as I guided his cock head into my wet tight pussy.
He caressed my face with his warm, large hand. "No falling in love," he said.
To you that might seem like a hell of a cheeky remark. But it was just the right thing to say. I nodded slowly and lowered myself onto his penis. I let him fill me up as we rocked together. I put my head on his shoulder, reveled in the way he pumped into me while fondling my ass, and let my mind fly away as I lost myself in a good fucking.
I needed all that. He was my first transitional man.
One of my readers mentioned T-Men. They are under-appreciated forces in the love that makes the world go round, the lovers who come after Big Deal relationships, the ones that have no future but help you move on.
This is not a revenge fuck, or merely a revenge fuck. It's a safe harbor. It's the great sex, combined with chemistry and companionship, and most of all the freedom of no pressure to commit, that makes the whole thing work. Later, again in "committed relationships," many women will never even admit they had T-Men, even though they nurture those hot memories.
My two T-Men knew that's what they were doing. They knew I was a wreck of heartbreak/anger/guilt and not ready for anything heavy. And they knew that the woman I would emerge as, after the journey of rebuilding my heart, wouldn't be the one they met. We might not connect in any other situation. They knew this. They were also worldly, funny and sensual and further opened the world to me beyond my repressed suburban upbringing.
Some T-Men don't realize it. And some women with T-Men don't realize they are just in a transitional relationship. They face heartbreak, disappointment, or, if they're lucky, the realization of what a gift they received. The ideal T-Man knows who he is and what he wants, i.e., not to be married that very minute. He realizes the fragile state of his lover, but also knows she will grow stronger as he fucks her well and lets her work out her old issues. There will come a time when she is ready to move on. He has the grace to let her go.
It works the other way. I have been a transitional woman at least a couple of times. Once I even used the old line, as he hovered over me, desperate to be inside me with my legs wrapped around him. To let that coupling wash away the past. I said, "no falling in love." He blinked eyes with lust and tears and slowly nodded his head, as I guided his cock head into my wet tight pussy.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
A brief history of my orgasms
It makes me sad when I hear about a woman who can't or won't come. A few may have good reasons. Once a woman told me how she had been abused by her father starting at age 11, until she moved out at age 18. She had a lot of lovers, saying "I like to get the sex out of the way so a man will talk to me." But she had never had an orgasm.
I've told you about a friend who didn't want to let a man lick her pussy because she was afraid of losing control. And I've talked to a few women who seemed to hold varying degrees of this view. I guess most men are crappy at fucking, i.e. fucking so a woman really loves it. So these women don't have to worry about a good ride bringing them off. Pump, pump, snore, watch NASCAR. Finally, I know of a few who just can't come, although most of these just fake it.
I've never faked an orgasm. Maybe it helps that I have always been hopelessly horny. I started playing with myself when I was about 11, and had my first "orgasm" a year later. I put it in quotes, because although it was an orgasm, a revelation and a release, better was to, er, come.
My first lover slipped his cock inside me effortlessly. It felt nothing but good. He didn't last long, but it didn't matter because I was so overheated from him sucking my nipples and finger-fucking me, from weeks of build-up to the big night, and that we were doing it in my parents' bed (!) -- all made me come. I soon realized how I could really have an orgasm, when my college roomie Pam gave me a real pussy licking, and I ended up screaming, coming three times one right after another, and collapsing in a heap.
Oh, so that's what they've been talking about!
As I look back, I also realize I was always curious about sex, was easily aroused thinking about scenarios or appreciating them when they came true, and, to the distraction of my mother, was very uninhibited about my body. I always felt all the connections -- between my pussy and nipples, backs of my knees, toes, wrists, fingers, ears, the inside of my thighs...brain. I learned to make myself come even if a lover was not so skilled. I am a great cowgirl and can grind against him and get off.
I know I'm lucky. Some women, maybe most, can't come from fucking alone. But it helps to be fucked well. Over time I learned to tell the difference. My first older man, a professor, really knew how to take his time, heat me up, and then fuck me on top in a way that still rubbed against my clit. One good orgasm just taught me how to have another, and it became easier and easier.
I also know I am unusual in being both a "multiple" girl and a screamer. I can't help it.
When I turned 30, my lover at the time gave me a present. He fucked me into a couple of baby orgasms. Then he slipped down between my legs and tongue-worshipped me into 28 more huge and small orgasms and aftershocks. Thirty orgasms in all. I couldn't even move when it was done.
Maybe it won't be so bad turning 40, after all.
I've told you about a friend who didn't want to let a man lick her pussy because she was afraid of losing control. And I've talked to a few women who seemed to hold varying degrees of this view. I guess most men are crappy at fucking, i.e. fucking so a woman really loves it. So these women don't have to worry about a good ride bringing them off. Pump, pump, snore, watch NASCAR. Finally, I know of a few who just can't come, although most of these just fake it.
I've never faked an orgasm. Maybe it helps that I have always been hopelessly horny. I started playing with myself when I was about 11, and had my first "orgasm" a year later. I put it in quotes, because although it was an orgasm, a revelation and a release, better was to, er, come.
My first lover slipped his cock inside me effortlessly. It felt nothing but good. He didn't last long, but it didn't matter because I was so overheated from him sucking my nipples and finger-fucking me, from weeks of build-up to the big night, and that we were doing it in my parents' bed (!) -- all made me come. I soon realized how I could really have an orgasm, when my college roomie Pam gave me a real pussy licking, and I ended up screaming, coming three times one right after another, and collapsing in a heap.
Oh, so that's what they've been talking about!
As I look back, I also realize I was always curious about sex, was easily aroused thinking about scenarios or appreciating them when they came true, and, to the distraction of my mother, was very uninhibited about my body. I always felt all the connections -- between my pussy and nipples, backs of my knees, toes, wrists, fingers, ears, the inside of my thighs...brain. I learned to make myself come even if a lover was not so skilled. I am a great cowgirl and can grind against him and get off.
I know I'm lucky. Some women, maybe most, can't come from fucking alone. But it helps to be fucked well. Over time I learned to tell the difference. My first older man, a professor, really knew how to take his time, heat me up, and then fuck me on top in a way that still rubbed against my clit. One good orgasm just taught me how to have another, and it became easier and easier.
I also know I am unusual in being both a "multiple" girl and a screamer. I can't help it.
When I turned 30, my lover at the time gave me a present. He fucked me into a couple of baby orgasms. Then he slipped down between my legs and tongue-worshipped me into 28 more huge and small orgasms and aftershocks. Thirty orgasms in all. I couldn't even move when it was done.
Maybe it won't be so bad turning 40, after all.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Don't just vote...tell me more
I'm fascinated by the responses to the poll. Early on, nobody was voting that their hottest sexual experience was after several years of marriage. I almost wonder if the pro-marriage lobby rushed in to add a few votes, whether it actually reflects what they're getting in the bedroom.
But I'm open to anything. I'd love to get your comments on this post, or emailed to me (of course your identity will be kept confidential). Tell me about the sexual experience that caused you to cast your vote one way or the other.
I'm waiting, baby...
But I'm open to anything. I'd love to get your comments on this post, or emailed to me (of course your identity will be kept confidential). Tell me about the sexual experience that caused you to cast your vote one way or the other.
I'm waiting, baby...
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The fluent cunnilinguist
If you want to make love to me, be willing to take your time with my pussy. Can you kiss me, I mean really kiss me? Light brushes on my lips, deep, passionate tongue kisses. Then kiss and nibble my ears…I’m already getting wet...
Read more in my latest Fellatrix post.
Read more in my latest Fellatrix post.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
And when she was bad, she was delightful
Some women spend years married to the same man, maybe even their high-school sweetheart, happily or not. The Fates decided I would live many lives. So I've been happily married, for awhile, and that safe cocoon can contain much joy. And I have lived lives of passionate wildness.
Yes, I have been fucking several men at once. No, sorry, gentlemen, I don't mean an orgy. I mean balancing several intimate relationships at once. Call me a slut if you wish, but many women do it. You just don't know it. My sexy friend Mary Beth -- more about her someday -- is doing it right now, with a long-time boyfriend and a hot new love that has appeared. And I have known many men who do it, but they consider themselves studs, not sluts.
I went through a phase a few years ago when I had five lovers at once for several years. Only one of them knew about the others, a longtime FWB, and he was okay with it. One was out of town but would sometimes visit. Two dropped out, replaced by another. I decided five was manageable (tried six and was exhausted)
Life was always exciting. In at least three separate weeks, I fucked each one of them on a different night. Many times I would fuck two in a day, say, a nooner with one and spend the night with the other. I think my record was three in a day. Only once or twice was I in danger of being caught.
I loved every man I ever slept with, after my fashion. So don't think I am being cold or clinical about this. In most cases, we were all getting what we wanted, and more of a relationship would have been fruitless. In a couple, I wonder what might have been. But I try not to mix love and pleasure, and everything has a price.
Yes, I have been fucking several men at once. No, sorry, gentlemen, I don't mean an orgy. I mean balancing several intimate relationships at once. Call me a slut if you wish, but many women do it. You just don't know it. My sexy friend Mary Beth -- more about her someday -- is doing it right now, with a long-time boyfriend and a hot new love that has appeared. And I have known many men who do it, but they consider themselves studs, not sluts.
I went through a phase a few years ago when I had five lovers at once for several years. Only one of them knew about the others, a longtime FWB, and he was okay with it. One was out of town but would sometimes visit. Two dropped out, replaced by another. I decided five was manageable (tried six and was exhausted)
Life was always exciting. In at least three separate weeks, I fucked each one of them on a different night. Many times I would fuck two in a day, say, a nooner with one and spend the night with the other. I think my record was three in a day. Only once or twice was I in danger of being caught.
I loved every man I ever slept with, after my fashion. So don't think I am being cold or clinical about this. In most cases, we were all getting what we wanted, and more of a relationship would have been fruitless. In a couple, I wonder what might have been. But I try not to mix love and pleasure, and everything has a price.
Friday, January 18, 2008
LA Story: the night I learned to f-u-c-k
The average hetereosexual man doesn't know what it's like to be fucked. Just parse the words slowly: g-e-t f-u-c-k-e-d. Even the words convey some of the vulnerability, uncertainty and, honestly, powerlessness a woman can feel when she is on the receiving end of a penis attached to this larger, stronger creature who is suddenly inside her, a part of her, and yet not equally physically vulnerable.
And women don't know what it's like to fuck someone: to have that power, that tool that can give so much pleasure, that is the source of such independent power, iconography -- an amoral, unstoppable will of it own!! -- and yet insecurity (is it big enough? can I keep this erection?).
Once when I was visiting my lover Ron in Los Angeles, I made a detour to a wonderful shop called the Pleasure Chest, in one of the Russian sections near Hollywood. It was the kind of place a woman could shop unmolested by creeps. I bought some items. I had a plan.
At his place, we went through some hot preliminaries, but I soon took charge. I put him in a hot tub and lovingly bathed him, soaping his cock and rubbing it with a face cloth, washing his balls and anus. Once he was dry, I put him in bed and blindfolded him.
First, I kissed and tongued his entire front, from his ears and neck to his toes, then worked my way up each leg. His beautiful cock looked almost painfully erect, but I cruelly only gave it passing attention, a light kiss here, a brief slip into my warm, wet mouth. Then I made him turn over and get on his knees.
"Bend your head down and raise your ass, baby," I commanded, remembering all the times men had told me the same thing. I caressed the insides of his thighs, his balls and hips, ran my hands strongly up and down his back. Then the KY was on my finger and I eased it into his anus. It was very tight and warm inside. I finger fucked him with one hand as I used the other to tease his balls and cock. Then I slipped in two fingers and he winced, then moaned.
It took me a minute to navigate the contraption. No talking. Just lie there, baby. Soon I had a cock. I would be gentle; it was only a six-inch strap-on, as thick as my first boyfriend's real dick. I lay it at the edge of his anus and he instinctively lurched forward, but I grabbed his hips and made him stay.
(Let me add right now that Ron is one of the most macho guys I've been with: athlete, former Marine vet of Gulf War I, and as a sports writer was always around the heavy duty male culture. He's a big guy, too. But he was willing to play, so...)
Suddenly I was seized by a primal lust and I drove my "cock" straight in. I don't think I was too rough, just going steady and slow but without stopping. I wanted to fuck this man. I was going to fuck this man, and even an atomic bomb going off out the window wouldn't stop me. Then I was in to the hilt and he groaned loudly, "Linda, you're fucking me!"
Indeed I was. I played this way for some time, entranced by being on the other end of the cock, as it were. I imagined so many times I had been fucked and how the boys and men just seemed to lose themselves to the stronger, insatiable will of the penis. True, I didn't have that urge to come, but I had great imagination. I thrust in and out, holding tightly to his ass, aroused by the sight of his body below me. As I fucked him, I tightened and eased my legs and hips, did some kegels, and had my own baby orgasms.
When I was done, I left the dildo in his ass and came around underneath, sucking his cock while I held the toy in one hand and fucked his ass. He lasted about 30 seconds before giving me two huge spurts of semen, then more. I swallowed as fast as I could -- I was on my back -- so I didn't drown in all the tasty man-goo. We both collapsed in a heap of sweaty flesh, the sounds of LA seeping in the windows, my store-bought dick still hard and ready on the bed.
And women don't know what it's like to fuck someone: to have that power, that tool that can give so much pleasure, that is the source of such independent power, iconography -- an amoral, unstoppable will of it own!! -- and yet insecurity (is it big enough? can I keep this erection?).
Once when I was visiting my lover Ron in Los Angeles, I made a detour to a wonderful shop called the Pleasure Chest, in one of the Russian sections near Hollywood. It was the kind of place a woman could shop unmolested by creeps. I bought some items. I had a plan.
At his place, we went through some hot preliminaries, but I soon took charge. I put him in a hot tub and lovingly bathed him, soaping his cock and rubbing it with a face cloth, washing his balls and anus. Once he was dry, I put him in bed and blindfolded him.
First, I kissed and tongued his entire front, from his ears and neck to his toes, then worked my way up each leg. His beautiful cock looked almost painfully erect, but I cruelly only gave it passing attention, a light kiss here, a brief slip into my warm, wet mouth. Then I made him turn over and get on his knees.
"Bend your head down and raise your ass, baby," I commanded, remembering all the times men had told me the same thing. I caressed the insides of his thighs, his balls and hips, ran my hands strongly up and down his back. Then the KY was on my finger and I eased it into his anus. It was very tight and warm inside. I finger fucked him with one hand as I used the other to tease his balls and cock. Then I slipped in two fingers and he winced, then moaned.
It took me a minute to navigate the contraption. No talking. Just lie there, baby. Soon I had a cock. I would be gentle; it was only a six-inch strap-on, as thick as my first boyfriend's real dick. I lay it at the edge of his anus and he instinctively lurched forward, but I grabbed his hips and made him stay.
(Let me add right now that Ron is one of the most macho guys I've been with: athlete, former Marine vet of Gulf War I, and as a sports writer was always around the heavy duty male culture. He's a big guy, too. But he was willing to play, so...)
Suddenly I was seized by a primal lust and I drove my "cock" straight in. I don't think I was too rough, just going steady and slow but without stopping. I wanted to fuck this man. I was going to fuck this man, and even an atomic bomb going off out the window wouldn't stop me. Then I was in to the hilt and he groaned loudly, "Linda, you're fucking me!"
Indeed I was. I played this way for some time, entranced by being on the other end of the cock, as it were. I imagined so many times I had been fucked and how the boys and men just seemed to lose themselves to the stronger, insatiable will of the penis. True, I didn't have that urge to come, but I had great imagination. I thrust in and out, holding tightly to his ass, aroused by the sight of his body below me. As I fucked him, I tightened and eased my legs and hips, did some kegels, and had my own baby orgasms.
When I was done, I left the dildo in his ass and came around underneath, sucking his cock while I held the toy in one hand and fucked his ass. He lasted about 30 seconds before giving me two huge spurts of semen, then more. I swallowed as fast as I could -- I was on my back -- so I didn't drown in all the tasty man-goo. We both collapsed in a heap of sweaty flesh, the sounds of LA seeping in the windows, my store-bought dick still hard and ready on the bed.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
These boots are made for fucking
What are you wearing?
This morning I have on a knit blouse, wool skirt to the knees, and boots. Men seem to like this look. I write this as I sit in a boring meeting. I notice one of co-workers angled his chair so he can see my legs and boots.
My ex-husband had a major fetish for my feet, legs and anything I wore on them. Boots were a special favorite. He liked winter because it was more likely he would get fucked with me wearing my boots and nothing else. Or he would slowly strip off my suit, loving every part of me with his tongue...until we were fucking. I was always afraid of hurting him if I fucked him with shoes or boots on, but he liked it. "Dig those heels into my back, baby," he'd say, and his fucking rose in intensity as I pulled him into me with my legs and feet.
He was a masterful toe-sucker. I've been blessed with a few of those. Once I discovered this wonderful sexual side-dish, I knew there was a direct line between my feet and my clit, just like the ones between clit and nipples, clit and ears, clit and navel...
We would arrange dates around me dressing up to show off my legs and I would let him pick shoes for me. Later, he would lay me down on the bed and go to work on me. He'd kiss and lick the shoes, my ankles, the tops of my feet...then peel off each shoe and do my toes, as he worked north to ankles, calves, knees, thighs, insides of thighs. By this time I would be shaking.
Well, gotta take part in my meeting. I would hate to get the boot, so to speak.
This morning I have on a knit blouse, wool skirt to the knees, and boots. Men seem to like this look. I write this as I sit in a boring meeting. I notice one of co-workers angled his chair so he can see my legs and boots.
My ex-husband had a major fetish for my feet, legs and anything I wore on them. Boots were a special favorite. He liked winter because it was more likely he would get fucked with me wearing my boots and nothing else. Or he would slowly strip off my suit, loving every part of me with his tongue...until we were fucking. I was always afraid of hurting him if I fucked him with shoes or boots on, but he liked it. "Dig those heels into my back, baby," he'd say, and his fucking rose in intensity as I pulled him into me with my legs and feet.
He was a masterful toe-sucker. I've been blessed with a few of those. Once I discovered this wonderful sexual side-dish, I knew there was a direct line between my feet and my clit, just like the ones between clit and nipples, clit and ears, clit and navel...
We would arrange dates around me dressing up to show off my legs and I would let him pick shoes for me. Later, he would lay me down on the bed and go to work on me. He'd kiss and lick the shoes, my ankles, the tops of my feet...then peel off each shoe and do my toes, as he worked north to ankles, calves, knees, thighs, insides of thighs. By this time I would be shaking.
Well, gotta take part in my meeting. I would hate to get the boot, so to speak.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
I kissed a girl, for the first time
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