Her legs trembled and quivered as she held her hips above my lap in a deep squat, knees bent and arms held out for balance. Turning her head to look at me with pleading eyes, she shook even more, the stress on her back and thighs wearing her patience thin.

I made her shed the sweaty gym clothes in a crumpled heap by the couch— the yoga pants that were so tight on her ass rolling off her legs, the bulky and shapeless sweatshirt unzipped and slid off her shoulders and arms, and the sports-bra-tank peeled up and over her body. The tight clothing left lines on her skin, and she smelled of fading deodorant and sweat. And then, I put her in position hovering over my lap.

My pants were undone and around my ankles with my cock standing stiff through the fly of my boxers. Any movement caused it to brush against her suspended pussy and she only sighed louder and shook with strain. I bet the tops of her thighs burned with lactic acid, and her back ached with stiffness. She wore sweat on her back like dew and her hair was already matted down from her workout at the gym.

Continue reading…

over the wire

“I miss the feeling of you next to me,” the tinny voice says, the sound coming to me faster than the image can catch up.

She is in bed, I can tell by the pillows and headrest behind her, and the time difference is like that, because I just grabbed food on the way home from work. I’m hoping the bags under my eyes don’t show. I’m hoping the weary misery of her absence isn’t picked up by the tiny camera and shot over the wires and reformed on her screen for her eyes to see.

“Do you remember that time,” I say slowly, hoping so much that the movement of my lips isn’t too far behind the sound, “we got stuck in the rain over on the West Side?” She nodded.

We’d gone to an Indo-Chinese fusion restaurant that got some review on Yelp, and the food was terrible, over-spiced, and over-priced. The waiter kept looking down her shirt, my napkin was dirty, and we vowed never to trust online reviews again. And after leaving no tip (the first time I think I’ve ever done that), we stepped out to a miserable cold rain that soaked our jackets and seemed to dribble through her umbrella.

“We got home,” I retold the story, “and the first thing we did was peel off all our clothes and climb into bed.” She smiled and interrupted.

“You were an ice cube!”

“Hey, I think I was the one who warmed you up though,” I reminded her.

I smiled and our hearts ached and I’m sure we thought a little about fucking and a lot about how far we were, and just talked a little bit more and both decided it was time for bed, since neither of us was a fan of phone or video sex. Those alternatives would be pale and shallow, and in no way adequate enough.

portraits of kink

I adore Remittance Girl for her dedication to the craft:

A while back, I proposed a project and asked people who saw themselves as non-vanilla if they’d be willing to answer some questions about themselves in the interest of providing greater insight and some reality-based templates for erotica authors to work from.

Her questionnaire was thorough, thought-provoking, and self-reflective. I am ashamed to say that I don’t fit far enough down the spectrum— that is, I’m actually a little too vanilla, I think.

(Others may disagree?)

Ultimately I decided that there really was no like-with-like or opposites. These people all represent points on a very complex continuum. They all deserved to stand on the page individually. So I’ve decided to post one profile a day to avoid the propensity we all have for making comparisons or for perceiving of something as having less value because it comes in an abundance. All of these people are unique. And all have been gracious participants.

Her portraits are a delightful read.

(Update: These portraits are now available at their own site: Portraits of Kink and Remittance Girl continues to serve as curator.)

Portraits of Kink @ Remittance Girl

a happy birthday

Time does fly. It’s been quite a few years that I’ve known and corresponded with Camille, and I’m very happy for her and that it was just her birthday:

Well, it’s my birthday today. I’m 36 years old. It’s amazing how time flies, but I feel like things just get better and better! I’m like a fine wine… Speaking of fine wine, I’ll be having some of that tonight! Going out for a nice meal, indulging in a tasty dessert and spending the day with some people I love… I’m very lucky!

Things get better with time like experience, satisfaction, and intimacy.

Happy Birthday to Me! @ Camille Crimson

on the other side of the fence

I’ve had very frank conversations with gay men that sound very much like this:

But here’s some real talk for you. Anal sex is kind of the biggest deal ever. When my friends tell me stories about doing it with some random they met at a bar, I’m completely stunned. The act is so intense and delicate that I could never give my asshole to just anybody. Entrance is only granted to V.I.P.‘s—Very Important Penises. But this is something the gay community doesn’t always see ass-to-ass on. Some only have anal sex in monogamous relationships and consider oral sex to be intercourse. With others, however, it’s like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Anal is like the oxygen they need to breathe.

And I’ve heard the “hot dog down a hallway” bit too, but I still laugh every time I see or hear it.

It’s impossible for me not to feel close to someone when all of this happening. There’s a bond that develops that makes it impossible for it to happen with men who don’t mean a thing to me. Anal sex is a special thing. I’m unwilling to perceive it as casual. I feel like putting someone’s P in a V is more manageable and impersonal, but what do I know? I just know that it feels crazy to get fucked in the ass. It hurts, it feels good, it feels wrong, it feels right. It’s a dick going deep into your ass. It’s a connection. I recommend it to all.

I don’t ever take putting a “P” in someone’s “V” lightly— but I can see where he’s going with this. I don’t have to agree with it entirely.

What It Feels Like to Get F*cked in the Ass @ Thought Catalog

the rains

It’s sometimes the end of a drought that defines it.

I had pressed dildos and vibrators inside during the past weeks. But there’s nothing like a cock.

No argument from me, although from an entirely different perspective.

The muscles inside stretched to oblige the circumference of his erection, then collapsed themselves against it. It was a snug fit, and I compressed the vagina to make myself even tighter inside. Fingers spidered over his pectorals. The tops of my boots flush with his flank, I held him by the hip. He pushed the cock in until the balls slapped below my cunt and withdrew until just the glans was seated between the lips. The motion was slow and deliberate. I felt the inch by inch slide. I felt the lubrication spilling over from the walls to facilitate the movements within. He fondled my tits while he fucked me. I concentrated on the ticking of the clock in the room, the noises of the birds outside, the exquisite reach of the penis, how thick it was, the fullness within. A cock completed my pussy. He didn’t last long, that first time, in the narrowness of my cunt. A horizontal dance marked the end of the dry season. The semen fell like rain.

It is very nice to have her back and writing.

End of the Drought @ Leah Lays London