At last! Fucked and fucked good and proper. Last night I asked him if we could have some kind of sex today. He says "Yeeeesss" with the mock-irritated tone of a henpecked husband being nagged to mow the lawn. I asked if he realised that it had been three weeks since we'd been intimate in any way. He had no idea.
This morning, we cuddled together with coffee. He laid his head next to my breast in the crook of my arm and body. I whispered in his ear that I had felt him up in the night, one hand in my own knickers, one hand stroking his growing cock as he slept oblivious. Aroused, I began to toy with my own nipple, and soon he followed suit and joined me, stroking it and pulling, pinching, watching it harden and soften as we varied our touches.
He hauled himself over me, pinning me down, straddling my hips. Through the material of his pyjamas and my knickers I could feel his hardening cock resting between my pussy lips, and I wriggled against it, moaning. He kneaded both my tits firmly, and when my hands went above my head to grip the headboard, he slapped them both at once, full on the nipple, and I screamed.
Then things got a bit crazy - hair-pulling, face-fucking crazy, the best kind of crazy there is. Damn, the man can be good when he wants to be. He stood and pulled off his clothes, grabbed me by the hair as I knelt on all fours on the bed, offered up his cock in his other hand to my open mouth, then jolted my head towards it, giving me no choice. Flashbacks of our first few BDSM-tinged months together... ahhh, memories. We've never again quite reached those intense, uninhibited, lusty heights, but I'm thankful these days when he loses control for just a few seconds and slips briefly back into the master role. Or maybe it's more that he gains control and forces himself to do what he really wants, but feels he can't, not to the woman he loves, no matter how much she wants him to?
Fuck the psychoanalysis, right now I don't care. Whenever there's a semi-spontaneous fuck even half as good as this morning's, I luxuriate in relief. I feel like I've been through a series of expensive spa treatments, my body steamed, scrubbed, stretched and rubbed with precious oils. My mind feels reset - ten years of therapy might last longer but the glow of serotonin that flooded my body today could light up a room and should have me ticking over nicely for a few days.
Oh, the sweet relief! Thank God!
Saturday 25 April 2009
Wednesday 22 April 2009
Hah! Hormones.
Having just read my last post, from just a minute ago, I can't help but wonder - how likely is it that starting my period just a few hours ago has had some effect on how I feel?
I don't really think of myself as a slave to my hormones. I don't really get PMT... at least not like my mum, who once threw a toaster at my dad in a hormonal tizzy. Perhaps my concept of what constitutes "affected by my hormones" is a little higher than most people's.
I'm not pregnant. That sucks.
But... a fresh, clean womb, a fresh, clean start. Mm-hm. Interesting.
I don't really think of myself as a slave to my hormones. I don't really get PMT... at least not like my mum, who once threw a toaster at my dad in a hormonal tizzy. Perhaps my concept of what constitutes "affected by my hormones" is a little higher than most people's.
I'm not pregnant. That sucks.
But... a fresh, clean womb, a fresh, clean start. Mm-hm. Interesting.
I love him, I love him, I love him.
When he comes through the door, my heart leaps and my face splits with an uncontrollable smile. When he kisses me on the top of my head as I tap away at the computer, my insides dissolve. He enfolds me in his arms and I feel like a child, in the nicest way. He is the funniest, smartest, most interesting man I've ever met. I am happy and grateful that he is mine, that he loves me.
He's the only man I've ever loved.
To wish all that away, for the sake of my fractious, greedy, needy cunt and my broken and bruised self-image, is ridiculous.
I should be healing myself. It's not his job.
He's the only man I've ever loved.
To wish all that away, for the sake of my fractious, greedy, needy cunt and my broken and bruised self-image, is ridiculous.
I should be healing myself. It's not his job.
Tuesday 21 April 2009
I dream of cheating.
Last night, my dreams gave me what my real life will not.
I got my pussy filled twice in quick succession by two different men. The first was nameless, faceless, and he fucked me hard from behind, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back. I sent him out the back door as I saw the second coming down the street. Number two was almost a decade younger than I, a well-hung, boyish-faced and hot-bodied graduate I had a BDSM-tinged one night stand with four years ago. He threw me down on the edge of the bed, held my feet over his shoulders and pumped his cock into my cunt, sloppy with the first man's come. He put his hand round my throat and bit his lip, watching his cock disappear and reappear. He slapped my tit and called me a delicious little slut as he shot his come into me. I smiled, delirious with being desired. V was due home at 5.15pm - I remember very precisely - and the danger of discovery added a frisson. I jettisoned my second into the street a few seconds before V put his key in the lock. I welcomed him, flushed and smug, half-hoping for discovery and a realisation that his neglected woman was indeed wanton and wanted by someone, if not by him.
Next, a public toilet somewhere, kissing a petite woman with short blonde hair. She perched on the lid and I straddled her awkwardly, scooching her body forwards till our pussies could meet. I ground my pussy down on hers till my legs ached and I felt like I was going to fall over. Her trimmed pubic hair felt rough and rubbed delightfully against my open, delicate skin, but neither of us could get enough purchase to send us over the falls.
Then, briefly in the moments before waking, another woman, lying on her back. I did not see her face, I only saw the pussy open before my face. It looked red, inflamed and almost angry, not at all similar to mine in tone or texture. Shiny wetness spread over it and onto the tops of her thighs. I was excited and nervous, anxious to please, but confused as to what to do. I flattened my tongue and worked it on her clit like an eraser. She seemed quiet, still and bored, though she was very wet and her clit was hard. A lightbulb moment! I slid two fingers into her, pads up, and beckoned "come hither", hoping to find her G-spot. She squirmed and yelped, jumping her hips upwards. I wondered how I would know if she'd come, or if she was about to. My tongue ached, but so did my pussy.
I was already semi-awake when my alarm sounded midway through the scene. V having left already, I reached for a trusty toy to make the most of those precious few minutes when you're half awake, half asleep, and dreams feel real. I hadn't come in any of my dream encounters. I did shortly afterwards. So did my lady friend.
I'm in a state of constant arousal at the moment. I am masturbating three or four times a day, minimum. I need to go again, just writing this. No matter how much I wash my hands, they still have that distinctive musky scent. Out, damned spot! I can smell my own cunt through my jeans, out in public. I am sure others can tell.
V is not relenting. It's been almost three weeks. Last night, half asleep and sick, he grudgingly agreed to a quickie, but I'd rather have nothing than his charity fuck. What am I to do? My need to be the object of real lust is becoming ever stronger.
I have been sniffing around the "casual relationships" section of our local Craigslist equivalent, mainly checking out girls - for some reason this seems physically safer, less like cheating, and less risky in terms of meeting someone who'll judge my body negatively or to whom I won't be attracted.
I have clicked "reply" then panicked and closed the browser many times. I know that once I pop, I can't stop, and I'll get addicted to the thrill. But oh, I want that thrill.
I am a disgrace for even considering peeling the lid off this Pandora's box.
I got my pussy filled twice in quick succession by two different men. The first was nameless, faceless, and he fucked me hard from behind, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back. I sent him out the back door as I saw the second coming down the street. Number two was almost a decade younger than I, a well-hung, boyish-faced and hot-bodied graduate I had a BDSM-tinged one night stand with four years ago. He threw me down on the edge of the bed, held my feet over his shoulders and pumped his cock into my cunt, sloppy with the first man's come. He put his hand round my throat and bit his lip, watching his cock disappear and reappear. He slapped my tit and called me a delicious little slut as he shot his come into me. I smiled, delirious with being desired. V was due home at 5.15pm - I remember very precisely - and the danger of discovery added a frisson. I jettisoned my second into the street a few seconds before V put his key in the lock. I welcomed him, flushed and smug, half-hoping for discovery and a realisation that his neglected woman was indeed wanton and wanted by someone, if not by him.
Next, a public toilet somewhere, kissing a petite woman with short blonde hair. She perched on the lid and I straddled her awkwardly, scooching her body forwards till our pussies could meet. I ground my pussy down on hers till my legs ached and I felt like I was going to fall over. Her trimmed pubic hair felt rough and rubbed delightfully against my open, delicate skin, but neither of us could get enough purchase to send us over the falls.
Then, briefly in the moments before waking, another woman, lying on her back. I did not see her face, I only saw the pussy open before my face. It looked red, inflamed and almost angry, not at all similar to mine in tone or texture. Shiny wetness spread over it and onto the tops of her thighs. I was excited and nervous, anxious to please, but confused as to what to do. I flattened my tongue and worked it on her clit like an eraser. She seemed quiet, still and bored, though she was very wet and her clit was hard. A lightbulb moment! I slid two fingers into her, pads up, and beckoned "come hither", hoping to find her G-spot. She squirmed and yelped, jumping her hips upwards. I wondered how I would know if she'd come, or if she was about to. My tongue ached, but so did my pussy.
I was already semi-awake when my alarm sounded midway through the scene. V having left already, I reached for a trusty toy to make the most of those precious few minutes when you're half awake, half asleep, and dreams feel real. I hadn't come in any of my dream encounters. I did shortly afterwards. So did my lady friend.
I'm in a state of constant arousal at the moment. I am masturbating three or four times a day, minimum. I need to go again, just writing this. No matter how much I wash my hands, they still have that distinctive musky scent. Out, damned spot! I can smell my own cunt through my jeans, out in public. I am sure others can tell.
V is not relenting. It's been almost three weeks. Last night, half asleep and sick, he grudgingly agreed to a quickie, but I'd rather have nothing than his charity fuck. What am I to do? My need to be the object of real lust is becoming ever stronger.
I have been sniffing around the "casual relationships" section of our local Craigslist equivalent, mainly checking out girls - for some reason this seems physically safer, less like cheating, and less risky in terms of meeting someone who'll judge my body negatively or to whom I won't be attracted.
I have clicked "reply" then panicked and closed the browser many times. I know that once I pop, I can't stop, and I'll get addicted to the thrill. But oh, I want that thrill.
I am a disgrace for even considering peeling the lid off this Pandora's box.
Sunday 19 April 2009
I am rarely attracted to anyone these days.
The cod-psychologist in me tells me it's my brain's way of acknowledging the futility of the situation - stuck in a sexless relationship with someone you love and don't want to leave, there's nothing more frustrating and dangerous than taking a fancy to someone who's definitely out of bounds.
Weirdly, when I masturbate, I rarely think of V, or even of men. I think about girls. My experience with women is limited to a one-shot deal - an ill-advised guest role in a threesome with a couple I wasn't remotely attracted to and didn't even like. But still, girls feature heavily in my fantasies. More cod-psychology - it's so painful and alien to me to imagine V, or any man, being attracted to me, so far removed from real life, that I focus my attentions on something so unlikely to become reality that it's actually less threatening and more believable. I know, I know, I'm full of psychobabble bullshit. Dan Savage believes in a kind of in vino veritas (in masturbato veritas?) - the gender you wank to is the one you really want. But for once I disagree with him. In fact, I've rarely been attracted to women in real life past the point of "Ooh, she's nice/pretty."
But yesterday, out at a little music event in town, I spotted a girl who turned my crank so far it nearly broke right off.
I'd be the first to admit she wasn't your classic beauty. A good 40lbs overweight, her yellow t-shirt clung to her belly tightly enough to see the dint of her tummy button, and her jeans were a bit too small and low cut for her wide hips. She had long, auburn, centre-parted wavy hair, pale skin, and a little rosebud mouth which frequently spread into an apple-cheeked smile. She was manning a table full of leaflets, bands playing on a little stage next to her, and she danced behind it with a complete lack of self-consciousness.. It was the way she moved her hips that did it for me - she shook them left and right, occasionally grinding out a full circle and hip-drop like a belly-dancer, but not for sexual effect, just for the joy of moving her body. She was having fun, smiling, laughing, chatting. I just couldn't take my eyes off her. Once I'm sure she smiled in my direction - she probably thought she knew me, I was staring so much - but I was with friends and didn't dare go over, although my pussy was throbbing with attraction and I could feel my nipples poking through my bra. I felt embarrassingly obvious, like there was a huge sign over my head - "Bea has a lady-crush!"
V's away for the weekend, visiting family. For once, the whole flat is my playground - no quiet, subtle, two-digit masturbation under the duvet once he's asleep. As soon as I got home, I stripped and flung myself into relieving the tension. Kneeling up, knees apart on the bed, I pushed a pillow between my legs, imagining the girl's plump body beneath me. I kneaded and stroked my own breasts and her imaginary ones. I visualised her legs around my hips, and as I rocked my hips back and forth, drawing my pussy across the pillow over and over, it became her own pussy, wet and open with a fine covering of soft red hair, mashing up against my cunt, her clit rubbing against the rough lace of my underwear and teasing me until I couldn't take it any more. I pulled off my knickers and dove my left hand deep into my cunt, covering it in my juices, then fell forwards onto my elbows, licking and lapping at the pussy-scented wetness on my hand, imagining us a 69 position, her clit hard against my tongue. I slurped and drank at her juices. My right hand became her tongue lashing into my own slit and over my clit. When my shoulders began to ache, I lay back to grab my big yellow dildo and work it into my pussy with one hand while I circled my clit with the other. In my mind's eye her hands controlled the toy and rubbed me, and she was squatted above my face, legs apart and her pussy inches from my lips. My tongue flickered out of my mouth and I imagined darting it over her clit, then pushing her gently forwards, parting her magnificent ass cheeks with both my hands and swirling my tongue over her asshole as two of my fingers screwed with determination into her cunt, hooking forwards to find her G-spot, and my thumb rested on the nub of her clit, holding firmly as she bucked and rolled her hips against it. When my imagination conjured up her orgasm, and her asshole and cunt throbbed on my tongue and fingers, my own orgasm contracted my body, jerking me almost into a V-shape and pushing the dildo right out onto the bed.
I am supposed to have been doing homework this afternoon, but this experience - the attraction and the subsequent vivid fantasy - were just too earth-shattering not to document. I still haven't got it out of my system - I've been thinking about her all weekend, and have masturbated several times, even while writing this. I doubt I'll do anything more about it - I have no idea who she is, no way to find out and, frankly, wouldn't want to risk the reality not living up to the fantasy. But in a way, while I feel mildly disloyal for fixating on a real person rather than a kind of faceless generic woman, it might be quite nice to be able to masturbate visualising a real person, with an aura and an "imperfect" body. And it's quite reassuring to experience strong physical attraction to someone so far removed from society's ideal - it gives me hope that someone, somewhere, might feel the same way about my imperfect form.
Weirdly, when I masturbate, I rarely think of V, or even of men. I think about girls. My experience with women is limited to a one-shot deal - an ill-advised guest role in a threesome with a couple I wasn't remotely attracted to and didn't even like. But still, girls feature heavily in my fantasies. More cod-psychology - it's so painful and alien to me to imagine V, or any man, being attracted to me, so far removed from real life, that I focus my attentions on something so unlikely to become reality that it's actually less threatening and more believable. I know, I know, I'm full of psychobabble bullshit. Dan Savage believes in a kind of in vino veritas (in masturbato veritas?) - the gender you wank to is the one you really want. But for once I disagree with him. In fact, I've rarely been attracted to women in real life past the point of "Ooh, she's nice/pretty."
But yesterday, out at a little music event in town, I spotted a girl who turned my crank so far it nearly broke right off.
I'd be the first to admit she wasn't your classic beauty. A good 40lbs overweight, her yellow t-shirt clung to her belly tightly enough to see the dint of her tummy button, and her jeans were a bit too small and low cut for her wide hips. She had long, auburn, centre-parted wavy hair, pale skin, and a little rosebud mouth which frequently spread into an apple-cheeked smile. She was manning a table full of leaflets, bands playing on a little stage next to her, and she danced behind it with a complete lack of self-consciousness.. It was the way she moved her hips that did it for me - she shook them left and right, occasionally grinding out a full circle and hip-drop like a belly-dancer, but not for sexual effect, just for the joy of moving her body. She was having fun, smiling, laughing, chatting. I just couldn't take my eyes off her. Once I'm sure she smiled in my direction - she probably thought she knew me, I was staring so much - but I was with friends and didn't dare go over, although my pussy was throbbing with attraction and I could feel my nipples poking through my bra. I felt embarrassingly obvious, like there was a huge sign over my head - "Bea has a lady-crush!"
V's away for the weekend, visiting family. For once, the whole flat is my playground - no quiet, subtle, two-digit masturbation under the duvet once he's asleep. As soon as I got home, I stripped and flung myself into relieving the tension. Kneeling up, knees apart on the bed, I pushed a pillow between my legs, imagining the girl's plump body beneath me. I kneaded and stroked my own breasts and her imaginary ones. I visualised her legs around my hips, and as I rocked my hips back and forth, drawing my pussy across the pillow over and over, it became her own pussy, wet and open with a fine covering of soft red hair, mashing up against my cunt, her clit rubbing against the rough lace of my underwear and teasing me until I couldn't take it any more. I pulled off my knickers and dove my left hand deep into my cunt, covering it in my juices, then fell forwards onto my elbows, licking and lapping at the pussy-scented wetness on my hand, imagining us a 69 position, her clit hard against my tongue. I slurped and drank at her juices. My right hand became her tongue lashing into my own slit and over my clit. When my shoulders began to ache, I lay back to grab my big yellow dildo and work it into my pussy with one hand while I circled my clit with the other. In my mind's eye her hands controlled the toy and rubbed me, and she was squatted above my face, legs apart and her pussy inches from my lips. My tongue flickered out of my mouth and I imagined darting it over her clit, then pushing her gently forwards, parting her magnificent ass cheeks with both my hands and swirling my tongue over her asshole as two of my fingers screwed with determination into her cunt, hooking forwards to find her G-spot, and my thumb rested on the nub of her clit, holding firmly as she bucked and rolled her hips against it. When my imagination conjured up her orgasm, and her asshole and cunt throbbed on my tongue and fingers, my own orgasm contracted my body, jerking me almost into a V-shape and pushing the dildo right out onto the bed.
I am supposed to have been doing homework this afternoon, but this experience - the attraction and the subsequent vivid fantasy - were just too earth-shattering not to document. I still haven't got it out of my system - I've been thinking about her all weekend, and have masturbated several times, even while writing this. I doubt I'll do anything more about it - I have no idea who she is, no way to find out and, frankly, wouldn't want to risk the reality not living up to the fantasy. But in a way, while I feel mildly disloyal for fixating on a real person rather than a kind of faceless generic woman, it might be quite nice to be able to masturbate visualising a real person, with an aura and an "imperfect" body. And it's quite reassuring to experience strong physical attraction to someone so far removed from society's ideal - it gives me hope that someone, somewhere, might feel the same way about my imperfect form.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Another door slams shut.
Since my last post we have had sex exactly six times - an average of about ten days between each awkward, embarrassing fuck. I guess I got a little overexcited thinking that a new motivation might actually be motivating.
I admit I'd been using Project Knock Me Up as an excuse to badger him into sex, or at least a new reason to bring it into our sphere of reference. What could turn a man on more than "We need to have sex, I have egg white mucus and I think I'm ovulating"? Yeah, I know. Not the sexiest. But if all the usual reasons to fuck - bonding, attraction, wanting to help your partner feel happy and desired and loved, wanting to feel happy and desired and loved in return, blah blah blah - aren't enough, if both my caresses and my plaintiff and blunt "When can we have sex?" are met with blank indifference, then surely he can't argue with science? He's a man, for fuck's sake, men love science. So I've been all about the luteinizing hormone surge and the cervical mucous, and boy doesn't he know it. I'm a trying-to-conceive junkie, a babyvangelist.
But it would appear that this, too, is an unwelcome approach. The night of my ovulation, I got a blunt rebuffal (I can't remember if it was "too tired" or "sore throat") and a ticking off. Apparently, all this sexy medical talk is offputting. And yeah, I can see that might be the case. But, I explained, it's important that he understands what is happening to me so he knows when and why it's important to fuck. And while trying to be seductive and sexy, you know, kissing him and trying to turn him, on has zero effect, talking to him about fertility matters is a way for me to segue the subject of sex into our conversations.
He said he just didn't want me to talk about it right before sex, and that I should carry on trying to be seductive and sexy, it isn't pointless. Yes, I said, it is, and constantly getting knocked back is horrible. Embarassing, awkward, demeaning and depressing. How, I asked him, does one arouse the unarousable man? At which point he went stony-faced and silent, and I went off to the bathroom to cry.
So I'm back to blatantly asking, because I don't know what else to do, and I feel more anxious than ever about it. I've been promised (and denied) sex "tomorrow" every day for the past eight days. Every single day he's found an excuse. And just when I thought I'd found a new way to gently trick him into talking about, or even having, sex, a portal through which I could ask him to address this issue without putting my self-esteem on the chopping block, he's taken it away from me. Time to find another door, and hope he has the strength to hold it open.
I admit I'd been using Project Knock Me Up as an excuse to badger him into sex, or at least a new reason to bring it into our sphere of reference. What could turn a man on more than "We need to have sex, I have egg white mucus and I think I'm ovulating"? Yeah, I know. Not the sexiest. But if all the usual reasons to fuck - bonding, attraction, wanting to help your partner feel happy and desired and loved, wanting to feel happy and desired and loved in return, blah blah blah - aren't enough, if both my caresses and my plaintiff and blunt "When can we have sex?" are met with blank indifference, then surely he can't argue with science? He's a man, for fuck's sake, men love science. So I've been all about the luteinizing hormone surge and the cervical mucous, and boy doesn't he know it. I'm a trying-to-conceive junkie, a babyvangelist.
But it would appear that this, too, is an unwelcome approach. The night of my ovulation, I got a blunt rebuffal (I can't remember if it was "too tired" or "sore throat") and a ticking off. Apparently, all this sexy medical talk is offputting. And yeah, I can see that might be the case. But, I explained, it's important that he understands what is happening to me so he knows when and why it's important to fuck. And while trying to be seductive and sexy, you know, kissing him and trying to turn him, on has zero effect, talking to him about fertility matters is a way for me to segue the subject of sex into our conversations.
He said he just didn't want me to talk about it right before sex, and that I should carry on trying to be seductive and sexy, it isn't pointless. Yes, I said, it is, and constantly getting knocked back is horrible. Embarassing, awkward, demeaning and depressing. How, I asked him, does one arouse the unarousable man? At which point he went stony-faced and silent, and I went off to the bathroom to cry.
So I'm back to blatantly asking, because I don't know what else to do, and I feel more anxious than ever about it. I've been promised (and denied) sex "tomorrow" every day for the past eight days. Every single day he's found an excuse. And just when I thought I'd found a new way to gently trick him into talking about, or even having, sex, a portal through which I could ask him to address this issue without putting my self-esteem on the chopping block, he's taken it away from me. Time to find another door, and hope he has the strength to hold it open.
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