Sunday, October 13, 2013

No spark

In my dream I was moving away, not to leave him, but to pursue other parts of my life. I thought sadly of the lover I'd also be abandoning.

In daily life, I'm trying not to move away. I keep searching for the spark. It could still be there somewhere. I try to maintain hope.

Despite my lack of attraction to my husband, we still used to have great sex. I'd go to sleep thinking, that was the best ever. And then, another night, it would be even better. So any excuses I have (and I have many) are invalid.

I do think he's lost the spark some, too. He's told me that his drive is much less than it used to be. We have sex because we ought to, maybe. We have sex because we need to, because it is an essential tie of our marriage. But half hearted sex does not fill the need, not really.

At the same time, I feel as close to him as I ever have. I've been emotionally needy, and he's been there for me. There's a depth to our connection I feel w/no one else. So maybe I worry about the sex aspect too much.

I know this is kind of a lame post. Probably that's all I'm up to these days. My spark has gone, after all.

Friday, August 23, 2013

Echos of Love Lost

I saw the love of my life last week on my vacation. Though that's not really what he is anymore, I guess.

He's the one I fell in love with so hard I nearly broke every bone in my body when I landed.

He helped me end my first marriage, and then nearly ended my second one.

I have a tattoo on my wrist inspired by him, and many more on my heart.

His is the cock to which I compare all others. He's the first man to make my knees weak, to make me crave his smell, to make me want to kneel and worship.

He was not subject to one of the many blowjobs described in my previous post. I didn't even kiss him. We held hands. I listened hard for the tiniest echo of the desire that once rang so loudly I could hear nothing else.


The second night we hung out, I leaned on him. He slapped my knee when I made a joke. When it was time to say goodnight we stood by the side of his truck and hemmed and hawed. "Go home," I said, a hand on his chest pushing him away, but also, I knew, keeping him there. He bent his tallness over me. I could feel his breath on my forehead. If I looked up, he'd kiss me. I didn't look up. "Go home," I repeated, a hand on his wrist, pulling him closer. But then I stepped away. "Good night," I said, and walked away.

I was trying to feel something. I wanted to revisit the inescapable magnetic force field that once surrounded us. It wasn't there. As soon as I walked away I was glad. He loves the woman he's with and would have felt guilty about betraying her. I'm committed to never falling in love again with anyone but my husband.

The fact that I even risked renewing our obsession shows that the echo of  it still wields some dangerous power.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Blow Jobs Great and Small

I've sucked a lot of cock in the past few weeks. Far more than usual for me. I'm losing count, thinking it over.

The queer boy. I didn't ask for hir story. Maybe ze is post-op? Whatever. No matter. There was a cock, somewhat small and inclined to floppiness, and I sucked it to the sound of moans and commendation and the taste of my stale spit.

The Craig's List couple. I wanted to watch, first. She went down on him and I found her clit with a finger, marveling narcissistically that even though it felt like I was touching myself, I couldn't feel it.  Their mouths were sticky sweet from diet coke and chewing gum, but when it was my turn, his magnificent dick tasted of warm flesh only and slid clean down my throat while she fondled my breasts and he fingered me to orgasm.

Complicated Lover, who has my favorite dick ever. Everything about him in bed is right. Why do I fuck anyone else when there's this? When I give him head I drool and slobber and lose my rhythm and probably bite. I mean, I've got no technique. He's too thick to swallow and besides the concentration that takes is impossible.

My husband. He'd just showered. I forgave a taste of salt and notched the tip of his cock into that spot in my throat that makes him groan He likes to keep his cock there, sometimes shoving my head down so I take it deeper but never slipping into my mouth to be sucked or stroked with my tongue. When we fuck, it's the same, he likes me to grind against him, and it's good, it makes me come. Giving head can make me come, too, with a little help, but instead he pushed his balls against my cheek and they were like used saran wrap, sticky and slick, and my desire died.

The Quiet Man, whom I've come to love. I enjoy the curve of his dick, which seems to send it exactly where we both need it to go. Sometimes the more I give him head, the softer he gets. I feel guilty. Not that I can't please him, because I know I do. I think he'll keep a hard on when he's with someone he can really open his heart to. He's waiting for true love, and I wish I could give it to him. Instead I give him tenderness and the best blow job I know how to muster.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013


I should have known it was over when they refused to move the meeting later so I could attend. When I called in at 8 everything had already been decided. All of my suggestions were shot down. "I don't know what you want from me," I said.

"We want you to think about whether this is really want to do anymore."

In other words, leave.

So I did, with minimal fuss. Because I could have fought but what would be the percentage? Revenge might have been nice, but I have no desire to destroy what I helped create.

I might even forgive them. Someday.

Monday, June 10, 2013

"I like you too much," I said.

He laughed. "I think you like me just the right amount."

Did I detect a note of triumph in his voice? A bit of gloating? Finally, a woman likes him uncontrollably, could even be falling in love with him. Finally a woman wants him more (maybe) than he wants her. The power dynamic is in his favor at long last.

I'm not frightened off by this. QP does not hate women, despite a lifetime of fearing their rejection. I'm happy for him to have this victory. I'm happy to be the one to give it to him. I believe he won't turn it against me.

And though I do like him more than is safe for me, I've grown adept at the balance of friendship and love. I'm keeping my footing.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Imaginary Infidelity

I know a lot of people do it. I know it's ok to think about whatever you want during sex. It's just, I've never done it before, and it felt very different than I'd imagined.

My husband G and I were making out. He pulled me over so my nipple dangled in his mouth. He nuzzled and made that little snuffling moan I usually find so seductive. That night it just wasn't working for me. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want it to be him. So I imagined someone else.

I imagined it was Quiet Person, whose mouth I have yet to feel in such an intimate location. A tingle went through me. I closed my eyes and focused on QP's face looking up at me, QP's hands pushing my breasts together, QP's tongue making circles on first one nipple and then the other.

The tingle came again, more intensely.

G and I started fucking, and I pictured exactly how it would be if QP were underneath me. I imagined the sounds he might make, and my pussy quaked with desire. G was right there, but I was blocking him out of my concious mind so I could ride QP, slow and hard and on and on.

My orgasm was tremendous. I toppled forward and G held my head against his chest. I didn't want him there.

This infidelity feels worse than the ones where I actually AM with someone else. Kicking G out of his own bed -- out of his own fuck -- seems like a terrible offense.

Friday, April 26, 2013

Negotiations and Consent

Handsome Quiet Person was not put off by my cheating ways, or not entirely. He wanted to see me.

Is there really any denying the ravening howl of new-lover lust? Not for me.

I resisted through one long afternoon walk but at some point we found a secluded spot and our lips met and pretty much all was lost.

Except that what was turning me on wasn't him. He doesn't smell amazing. He's not a bold kisser. He's new, and he really really likes me, and that's all it takes, apparently, to captivate me.

I suggested we go back to his place. "I guess you thought over what I told you," I said.

"I have, and I haven't figured out how I feel about it. We could go back to my house, but I don't want to do anything more than what we have already," he said. I agreed, and he went on, "I know, it's strange, a guy setting a limit like that."

I wish I hadn't interrupted. I wonder where he would have gone with that. But I was eager to reassure him. "I appreciate knowing your limits. I don't think it's strange."

So we went back to his house, and in moments we were on the bed kissing intensely, and his smell and taste and timidity were not slowing down my heart rate at all. He pulled off my pants and I asked permission before stripping off his shirt. "Is this ok," I asked, biting his nipple. "Is this ok," I asked, squeezing his ass.

"I'm sorry for being inconsistent," he said, as we stripped off the last of our clothes.

"That's what consent is all about," I said. I sat up an admired his handsomely furred body, his cock  curving over his flat belly, thick and mouthwatering. "I want your cock in my mouth," I told him, "But I've started using condoms even for blow jobs these days." He passed me a condom, but he wilted right away.

"I have performance anxiety," he told me. I knew why. I knew more than I should about him, and that's one reason I was being so careful. It was obvious I wasn't going to be getting a condom on him. And besides... when it comes to consent ... I try to be extra careful.

"Let's take a break," I suggested.

When I was younger I used to say what I wanted, the same as I do today. The thing is, I wouldn't live up to it. I'd get caught up in the moment, and if the guy I was with bothered to take the time to check in again I was sure to just moan and rub his cock in a way that made my intentions clear. No condom? No problem. Got a boyfriend? Already forgot about him. Not sure I like you? So what.

I know all too well that considered consent doesn't happen on the fly. These days I stick to my limits or know in advance if I'm likely not to. I don't count on anyone else to respect my no if I don't respect it even more. What did QP know about consent? I had a feeling not much. So I gave him time to collect himself and consider what he wanted without the distraction of my naked body up against his.

We ended up kissing some more and taking a nap. It was intensely sweet.

I need to be careful with that man. I have a feeling I've already gone to far, for both of us. When it comes to consent, love and friendship are a lot harder to navigate than sex.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Type Three Orgasms

I spent a large part of Sunday with Quiet Man, and Monday I took the day off from work to spend it with Complicate Lover. It was extreme indulgence. I feel sated and fat, like I ought to fast for a few days.

CL pushed me hard. He gave me orgasms until I was satisfied, then forced more on me until I begged and fought, then held me down and growled, which made me come some more.

I used my safe word when I started to feel like I'd be too sore to fuck if he didn't stop.

The orgasms were good. I arched my back and clenched my pussy at each peak. They hurt a little, from g-spot stimulation, if his fingers were inside me. They felt a little hollow if his fingers weren't inside me.

"Type one orgasms," I said to CL. "I figured out why I only have type three when I'm alone."

"Wait, what's type two?" he asked. "Is type one good or bad?"

So I had to go back and explain.

Of course orgasms vary widely. Different women experience them differently, and while some have just one set way of coming, many have a range. My range is wider than three, but I can generally class any orgasm I have as one, two, or three.

One - g-spot or external stimulation. Mildly pleasurable and spasmodic. Leave me wanting more.

Two - AKA why I'm primarily straight. I only have these from fucking. Not from finger fucking and not generally a dildo. either. Mostly only cock can give me this level of out-of-control pleasure. Loudness, full body spasms, and major enjoyment.

Three - The best possible feeling ever exploding my entire body. This orgasm can go on and on, if pushed, or end and leave me completely satisfied. If I'm alone, it's loud and messy and involves thrashing around a lot. If I'm masturbating after sex and my partner is sleeping, it's just a quick full body clenching and a near-painful peak of concentrated pleasure. Like swigging a shot of whisky, it burns and elates and leaves me relaxed.

Type three orgasms are fueled by fantasies. Generally degrading fantasies, where I'm being forced to do something repellent, or punished for being an out-of-control slut. I can't get lost in fantasy when I'm with a partner, so I only have these when I'm alone. Or on the phone, that seems to work, if my caller wants to call me names and tell me how he'd use me.

"You need to distance yourself from that extreme pleasure," CL ventured.

I used to only have type 3 orgasms. Back when I was young and disgusted by sex. When my stepfather licked me to orgasm and slid a finger into my too-tight pussy. Back then I had blinding orgasms even though they were the last thing I wanted.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Another Conversation

I don't want you to watch me come.
When I come, I want you to feel it
In your spine. In
the back of your skull.

I want you to feel my cum searing into your insides.

when I pull out of you,
you can see it
mixed with your cuntwine
slickening my cock shaft.

Then you can taste it . . . us, blended.

Think of it this way: My cum, not
running down your hand, but
through your veins.

[words by him, conversion to blog post by me. Used with permission.]

Friday, April 12, 2013

Masturbation Fantasy Fancy Cake Fun Time

I've been a bad girl. I know that's why he's making me lay like this, tummy propped on a pillow so my ass is raised and my cunt exposed, arms stretched up over my head. (Except, of course, one of my hands is actually between my legs. But let's not let that spoil the fantasy.)


It's the one day a week I'm allowed to have an orgasm. I've got five minutes to come as much as I like. If I can't come in five minutes, I'll have to wait until next week. I'm so close but I can't get over the edge. I've been holding back too hard, too long, and I can't reach my release that quickly anymore. Five minutes passes. This has just been another tormenting denial.


I'm tied spread eagle. Chained, actually. Cold metal on my wrists makes me shiver. My nipples harden and ache. There will be a man in to fuck me soon. I'm just a hole to him, a hot, wet hole. Or am I? If that were all I were, why would he bother hurting me?


I'm back in the first scene, exposed and guilty and fearful. He's spanking me, and I'm wriggling more and more frantically. Am I trying to avoid the burning blows or to more effectively hump the pillow? Either way, he decides enough is enough and holds my back down with his knee. He keeps on spanking me, telling me all the reasons I deserve it. (My orgasm tears out of me with a wail like a subway car on a curve. I'm flopping around the bed panting when I hear footsteps approaching the door. Time to pull down my skirt and act composed.)

Thursday, April 11, 2013

One More Breath of Magnetic Air

Last night was a strange one. Complicated Lover was there with the woman he likes and the woman who wants him. I stood around with them for a while but then I started feeling like a harem member and wandered off. Besides, the man I was thinking about was in another part of the club.

He's shy, or so i'd thought a week ago. He's got blue eyes. (I don't remember faces, or eyes, particularly well, but I seem to have a subconscious thing for blue eyes nonetheless.) I know more than I should about him. Let's call him Quiet Person..

QP likes me and I like him back and yes, I do mean like like. He's innocent seeming, though, and I worry about that. "Why?" CL asked me when I called him for a consult. "Most men like being corrupted."

"I've got no problem with the corrupting aspect," I said. "It's more... the cheating. And the not-falling-in-love."

So after we left the club I pulled QP into the alley. "Listen," I said. "I want to say something probably premature and totally inappropriate. Is that ok?"

"Sure," he said.

"I like you, and I'm definitely attracted to you ..." I could feel him waiting for the brush off. I hesitated. I wanted another moment of the mutual attraction. One more breath of magnetic air. "I'm attracted to you and I think it's mutual ..." He smiled at me. If I'd leaned in he'd of kissed me, but I didn't. Instead I finished up with the truth. "I'm not in an open marriage. Sometimes I cheat. I thought you should know."

QP nodded. "I was going to ask you about your situation," he said. He didn't say more. We hugged goodnight.

Today he texted me a random "How's your day?" so I don't know how he took it.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

What He Said

"You want me to fuck you? Why should I care what you want? I want you to make me come."

"By fucking," I said. "Don't you want to?"

"Maybe I do. But I'm not going to."

He likes to watch me suffer.

Dirty Pictures, Anyone?

I know some of you've been waiting for this moment, my friends. Enjoy. Then tell me about it.

My doctor has recommended more baths. I admit, I enjoy them.

Monday, March 18, 2013


Nobody this handsome has ever been in my bedroom before.

He gives me a show. Not a pretty-boy stripper show. He gives me an "I know you're watching and I'm going to let you enjoy it" show.

He undoes each shirt button deliberately, almost fiercely. The revelation of his flat stomach, his golden skin--I'm rapt.

His eyes are fixed on mine as he unhooks his belt buckle. I can see the bulge under his blue jeans. Is he hurrying as he pulls down his pants? But he hesitates before removing his boxer briefs. They're tented out by his erection. I'm sure he can tell my mouth is watering. I know he's making me wait.

When he does maneuver his shorts down, it's an awkward move. His cock gets caught in the elastic, forced down and then freed to spring back up again.

My whole body is trembling with longing. Lay down with me, you extraordinary being. Lay down, you radiant beast.

He doesn't.
Clearly there's more to this story, but it's bedtime. Maybe another night.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Tsk Tsk

I had the hotel pool and hot tub to myself when I got there. I hit the button for bubbles and floated around daydreaming about the perfect hook-up. What would my ad specify? Pussy eating, definitely. And a hot tub like this one would be nice....

Someone at the glass pool door broke my reverie. From the distance of the hot tub, I could see a person trying to insert their card in the lock repeatedly. Then dropping their card. Then trying again, more slowly, but with no more luck. I hopped out of the tub and let the person in. The young woman. No, the long-haired young man. He didn't meet my eyes, and I hurried back to the warm water.

From the comfort of the hot tub, I watched him take off his shirt and get in the cold pool. He had good looking shoulders and inoffensive black trunks. It was strange that he hadn't thanked me. I decided to give him a hard time about it if he came in conversation-distance. Maybe he could find a way to make it up to me.

It wasn't long before he got in the hot tub. "People usually say thank you," I said.

He looked a bit frightened. Young, completely thrown off guard. He didn't answer.

"When someone gets out of the hot tub for them, people usually say thanks," I repeated, smiling to show I meant no harm.

"Thank you," he said. "I - I guess I said it too quietly." He looked away from me quickly. The bubbles stopped.

"Well, one of us is going to have to get out again," I said. "I think it's your turn."

"Why?" He looked confused, but willing.

"To turn the bubbles back on. Press that button." I pointed. He clambered out and pressed it and got back in. I noticed his calves. Bicyclist, I decided.

We sat quietly in the bubbles, me glancing at him, him as far away from me as possible. "What are you in town for?" I asked.

"I'm on college visits," he told me. Oh crap. Seventeen. He was seventeen! I considered if he could mean grad school. No. 'College visits' are what high-school students go on. Grad students are 'looking at schools'. I asked him what other schools he was looking at and he told me why he wanted to get so far away from Memphis. He relaxed and smiled. He really was adorable.

He was afraid to look at me when I got out of the water. When I dried my hair I let the towel cover my face, thinking he could get in a good glance or two. But when I moved to drying my back, he was still staring straight ahead painfully. I imagined he was hoping the hot tub bubbles would conceal his erection. Poor kid. It was just as well I hadn't invited him up to my room. I had thought about it, when we were talking. Blowing his mind with a Mrs. Robinson offer. And then I thought it would be selfish of me. Because for an 18 year old boy, going up to a grown woman's hotel room is a big deal. He might even be a virgin. He might never have seen a fully naked woman in person in decent lighting. I might have made his night or ruined his year. No way to know. It wouldn't be right to risk it.

And besides, I didn't have any condoms and I was pretty sure he didn't have any in his trunks.

I wished him luck, and resisted telling him he was adorable.


PS I know this sounds a bit egotistical. It's what I was thinking at the time. Feeling confident, I guess. I considered that he might have been totally repulsed and rejected me. The idea didn't bother me. Don't waste an expensive bottle on someone who prefers light beer, right? Is there anything wrong w/being confident?

Wednesday, February 27, 2013


Cliff did kiss her when she came in. He kissed her and smiled and she could feel his love around her as warm and real as his arms. Now, in the bedroom, everything is different.

She's disheveled. He's been playing rough, pushing her down on the bed, squeezing her breasts hard, pulling her shirt open and her panties down. She's panting and flushed. He's smiling a friendly smile, but his eyes are cold.

"Your pussy is soaking, Penny. You like be thrown on the bed and used, don't you." His fingers moved caressingly over her aching cunt. She nodded her agreement. Yes, she did like it.

His thumb found her clit and pressed. Pleasure burned through her, melting and inflaming in equal measure.  "You're a little slut, Penny. You know that, don't you? Tell me what you are."

The cruel intensity of his voice scared her. She fixed her eyes on his. "I'm a little slut. I'm your little slut." His thumb began making small circles. Her body shook. "Please fuck me," she said. Fuck me, she thought. Love me. Come back to me. But she loved his harshness. She loved that he could transform his tenderness into such fury. "I need you to fuck me!" she cried, arching against his hand.

"Fuck you? I don't think so," he said. He slid one finger into her, making her gasp. "I don't want to get myself that dirty." His hand left her pussy to rub her wetness on her lips. She opened her mouth, wanting to suck his fingers, but he pulled them away and slapped her face instead. Her face stung with shame and impact.

"I Don't Fuck Whores," he said, enunciating every word. Tears came to her eyes. Was he truly mad at her? What had she done? "I Don't Fuck Whores, and you, my dear, are a whore."

He let his words sink in for a moment. "Not one of those high class courtesans you fawn over on Twitter. They make an honest living. You're the kind of whore that will sell herself for a cocktail and a smile. You're the kind of slut that will get in anybody's car if they promise you a hard cock. Won't you, Penny." All this time he was stroking and teasing her. She wiggled and whined and fought back tears.

"Please," she begged, "Please. Cliff, I only want you. I only want you to fuck me."

He slapped her again. "I already told you I'm not fucking your filthy little cunt. I've got other people to do that." She couldn't quite choke back a sob. Cliff lowered his voice. "I've got all the men in the neighborhood lined up in the hallway, waiting to fuck you, Penny. Won't you like that?"

"No! No, Cliff, I want you!" She tried to wrap her arms around him, but he peeled them off of himself as if her touch was distasteful.

"But they've been wanting you, Penny. Every time you go outside they can smell you. They can smell your dripping, horny cunt every time you walk by. They know what kind of slut you are."

His words were horrible. His eyes were terribly cold. He held her thrashing wrists down on the bed as if it were effortless. She didn't know if it was true, if there really were men in the hallway. It seemed possible. But her neighbors?

"Please don't make me," she begged, hoping to placate him. "Please don't, I'll do anything!"

Cliff laughed. "I already know that. You will do anything, won't you, pretty bird." Penny sobbed again. "Alright," Cliff said. "You don't have to be fucked by them if you are very, very good."

Penny nodded violently. "I'll be good!"

"I told them - I told Bart, he's first in line - " Penny pictured her next-door neighbor Bart: retired, diffident, devoted to his lawn. It was impossible that he might be in the hallway waiting to have his way with her. She started to relax a little. "I told Bart that when he hears you crying out in orgasm and begging to be fucked, he could come on in and have you. And then the rest of them, whenever they were ready."

"So I have to be quiet?" she asked. She knew this game. They'd played it before. Be Quiet When You Come Or.... She'd always lost.

Cliff smiled at her again. This time there was almost affection in his eyes. "Don't bother trying," he said. "We both know you can't." He shook his head as if bemused. "And Bart is sooo eager."

Penny laughed. It felt like play again, between them. Cliff grabbed her underwear and pulled them the rest of the way off with a flourish. She lifted her legs and he pulled her down to the end of the bed. He knelt on the floor. She closed her eyes. He buried his face in her folds.

Penny forgot everything but pleasure. She grunted when he thrust his fingers into her, keened when his teeth and tongue converged on her clit. Her hips found a desperate rhythm and soon she was wailing, as they'd both known she would, "Fuck me, oh please, fuck me, fuck me, fuck meeeeee!"

She didn't hear the door open, but Cliff's abrupt pulling away from her body made her open her eyes. There was Bart, in the doorway, grinning at her, his pants already unzipped and his cock in his hand.

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Stereotypical Avoidance Behavior.

I was going to try and go to bed at 10:30 every night so I could post here. But I ended up staying up later, as always. And oddly, G has started going to bed earlier. Which makes it hard to write. I prefer to be alone. strongly prefer. I won't say I HAVE to be alone - that would be silly, right? False?  But yeah, I won't write with company.

I don't like that he comes to bed early. It means it's my fault if we don't have sex, not his for staying up ridiculously late.

It's not that I don't want to ha have sex. Just not with him. Argh.

I belive this is a state of mind more than an absolute. I tell myself I'll overcome it. I have before. WE HAVE GOOD SEX. Sometimes.

I'm so fucking ambivalent. Like, I wish he'd go down on me more often. But I don't like him to unless I've just had a shower. And I tend to shower at odd hours, not before bed. So I never let him and then I complain that he doesn't really like to. Yeah, I know.

When CL goes down on me, I know it's for him as much as me. I know he likes the way I taste and smell. I say, "I just came from the gym, I'm stinky!" and he says, "I LOVE that."

I wish it were easy. I wish I could let it be easy.

Thursday, February 14, 2013


I've been blindsided. I'm feeling horribly, utterly betrayed. I didn't know real people actually acted like this. It's like I landed in a reality show instead of my life.

Here's where it all first went wrong: When I decided, a couple years ago, to try and fit in. I meant it as a growth opportunity. Accepting people with different values and priorities. Getting past that stuff, you know? But also being more like them. Letting their values influence mind. Making choices to let things go that might keep us from being friends.

We've never been friends. People who are friends don't treat each other like that. I should have seen it a long time ago. I'm blindsided because I let myself be blind.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Decision Point

I guess Complicated Lover was sick that night. Otherwise, would he really have gone home early, leaving me alone with the Beautiful Swinger? I imagine not.

I imagine him not leaving. "I've had enough games," I'd have said, as I did say. "Let's sit in the living room and have one more drink."

The Beautiful Swinger is easy to kiss. it happens naturally. You know how sometimes, the first time with someone new, there's escalating tension and indecision and you wonder whether now is the right moment, or now, or maybe now? There's none of that with BS. He's a pro at setting things in motion. His hugs always include a hand on your ass. Or my ass, anyway.

Point being, he's not surprised or uncomfortable when I kiss him as soon as he's sipped from his aforementioned last drink.  Complicated Lover, though, a few feet away on the other side of the L shaped couch, certainly is. He doesn't say anything as I lean over and kiss BS. He doesn't say anything as BS's hand comes up to cup my breast. (Another one of those moves that could be awkward but just seems sweetly natural from BS.) It's not until I straddle BS's lap that CL reacts. "Whoa, there," CL says, hopping up from his seat and steadying my hand. "You're going to lose your drink."

CL's hand is on my hand. He's standing behind me while I grind my body against BS, still kissing him. I feel the moment lengthen as CL realizes the position he's in, the choice he's made. And then he's down on his knees behind me, hands under my shirt, pulling me back against him and biting my neck, making me shiver and squirm and grin.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

What is a blog hop? Basically, it’s a way for readers to discover authors new to them. We hope you’ll find new-to-you authors whose works you enjoy. This hop-stop will show you a bit about me (Penny) and one of my work-in-progress book and links to some other authors you can explore.

Thanks to fellow author Raziel Moore, AKA Monocle, for inviting me to participate in this event. You can click the following link to learn more about his work:

In this hop, I and my fellow authors, in their respective blogs, have answered ten questions about our book or work-in–progress, giving you a sneak peek. There’s also some behind-the-scenes information about how and why we write what we write–the characters, inspirations, plotting and other choices we make.

Please feel free to comment and share your thoughts and questions. Here is my Next Big Thing!

1: What is the working title of your book?

Well, so, the funny thing is, I have a book in the works but it's not one I can share here. Or vs vs. I mean, I won't be sharing about this site as part of that book's publicity.

This blog is intended to be the "no self criticism, no hiding" place for me to write, generally shielded from the people who have some emotional investment in what I say and do. So when Raz invited me to participate, I was extremely flattered, but not at all sure how it might work.

I thought, though, I'd just imagine what kind of book it would be if I did write one here. I think I'd just call it: A Nest Made of Spittle.

2: Where did the idea come from for the book?
My mom called me. "Honey, I was cleaning out the basement, and I found a big box full of your diaries from high school. What do you want me to do with them?" Holy crap. I forgot about those. See, I have a long shelf or two here at my house already full of old journals. I used to number them, so they are shelved in chronological order. It's been so long since I looked at them - I forgot I was missing numbers 12 through 43.

Journaling was central to my life, as a teenager and into my 20s. Then I started blogging, and that filled the space. I went from filling a paper journal every few months to one every few years. More recently, I made my blogging public. Friends and family began reading my public blog, and when I write there I try to keep a high standard of a) craft and b) discretion. For the past couple of years, I've had no journal. And it was killing my writing.

So, here I am, hiding in the shadows again. Since I've started this blog, I've written more than I have in a long, long time - both here and in my regular writing spaces. My mind is free again and my excitement is back!

3. What genre does your book come under?

4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Camilla the Chicken and The Monkees.

5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Sex-addled bird builds elaborate constructions to cope with her basic domesticity and nesting instinct.

6: Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an agency? 
No, no, no, and no.

7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
25 years.

8: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Colette's younger sister's teenage diary.

9: Who or what inspired you to write this book?
Clearly, inspiration is not the right word. Narcissistic drive, perhaps.

10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
I apologize in advance for everything I might write here. I plan to be very, very bad.

Here are the next authors on the Hop, joining me by blogging next Wednesday. Be sure to bookmark and add them to your calendars for updates on Works in Progress and New Releases! Happy Writing and Reading!

Shon Richards, Don't let his relentless humor fool you into thinking his writing isn't hot, hot, hot.

Guy New York, His most recent release is The Island on the Edge of Normal. Strong stuff.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

A Message

It's thick, and a little too long. It hurts me, sometimes, when my cervix is low. I don't care. I've been deprived too long. Please fuck me with that incredible dick.

Never Test Someone.

Never test someone. This is a rule. You might wonder how long he will wait to call you if you don't call him first. You may wonder if she'll remember your birthday without a reminder. Don't fail to mention your new haircut and then wait for him to notice.

Don't test your romantic someone for evidence of interest. I tell myself this frequently.

You might find out he never calls at all. Better just... call him before you're so angry and anxious your next conversation turns into an explosion.

That's one reason.

The reason I focus on, though, is that these tests are not a good indicator of affection. There are people I mean to call every day but don't. I'm terrible at birthdays and haircuts. I forget to ask after sick pets and family members. Why would I expect anyone else to do better?

Thursday, January 31, 2013

BOSS-Y Store 1111

1.Super-elastic material, can be arbitrarily adjust the tightness, allowing you to quickly focus on sweating!

I knew I was supposed to shower first, but I couldn't resist peeking in His bedroom, first. There they were laid out on the bed, as he'd said they would be. Three pairs of panties, in three colors. "Put on your favorite," he'd said. The panties looked normal enough. Maybe a bit smaller than the underwear I would normally choose for myself. But that was to be expected when a man bought one underwear! I picked the white ones up and examined the back. Oho! That's what was so special about them! The lower half of the panties' rear was sheer fabric. The fabric above had cheerful red polka dots on the white fabric, and at the center back was a large, white, bow. Definitely Lolita-wear. I loved them. 

2.Can be used with essential oil, SPA salt, massage cream to massage and other commodities, the effect doubled.

I picked the pink ones (with white polka dots on the backside) as the best match for my fitted white tee shirt, and headed to the bathroom for my shower. I moisturized with the jasmine scented oil he'd complimented. The scent was subtle, but it left my skin silky smooth. I slipped the new panties on in front of the mirror. They fit perfectly. The front was smooth, slightly puffed by the curl of my pubic hair.  I turned around and twisted to see the back. He'd made a good choice. My ass cheeks looked pale and round and full below the sweet little ribbon of pink. The ribbon sat just below the dimple at the base of my spine. And in between, the fabric cupped me lightly. Teasingly. As if he were here, trailing His fingers ever so lightly over my labia.

If only he Were here. But in His absence, he'd given me tasks to do, and I was quivering to continue through them. Into the living room, then. There was the toy he'd promised on the glass coffee table, as arranged. 

 I placed my phone camera-lens down on the transparent table top and arranged myself underneath so the camera would capture my underwear. I was buzzing with anticipation. I could feel that I was already getting damp. The underwear was sticking to me a little at the crotch. I could feel it as I shifted on the carpet, trying to make sure I was in the right position.

3.The patch contains the elastic material with excellent adhesion specially to meet the movement will not come off using the shift, you can complete coating, immediately sculpture of your waist.

I reached up for the toy he'd left me. It was a small curve of soft plastic, designed to nestle on the pubis with its rounded tip against the clitoris. I turned it on to the lowest setting, as I'd been instructed, and place it inside my underwear. It was harder than I'd expected to get it under the elastic fabric. It felt like I'd been sweating, and the fabric was slightly stuck against me.

The toy's vibration was extremely low. I had to lay still to feel its soft throbbing. Fair enough - he'd told me to lay still. "Turn on the camera and then lay still with your hands at your sides. I want to see your arousal, not your masturbation." 

He would see my arousal. I was soaking the underwear, I felt sure. The fabric was tight against my skin, much tighter than it had seemed earlier. The constriction felt good, like hands holding my hips, tight and controlling. The ache in my pussy was intense. The fabric (could it be shrinking from getting wet?) squeezed the little vibrator against my clit. The slow, quiet thrums of vibration were tantalizing. Torturous. Where a higher setting might have numbed me, this subtle sensation drew me into its slow rhythm  My hips rose and fell in time with its humming. And the panties seemed to grow tighter still. They didn't pinch, like a new bra. They squeezed, like a corset, only oddly positioned, somewhere between a girdle and a belt. My breathing felt constricted. 

Time passed in that delirious timelessness of helpless desire. I squirmed and moaned. I wanted to push the vibrator into me, I wanted a mouth on my breasts, I wanted him here, fucking me hard, over and over. I gave up trying to lay still, but when I tried to shove my hand inside my panties, it didn't work. They'd molded to me like a second skin. Unlike a second skin, I could feel nothing through them. I tried the press the vibrator harder into my clit, but the underwear fabric was unyielding. I rolled over, desperate, thrusting my pelvis against the floor. Nothing. 

My breath was coming hard and fast. I felt as if I couldn't get enough air. Though I could have sworn the panties only went to the top of my hips, I felt them tightly wrapped around my waist up to my ribs. I shifted and struggled, for air and for satisfaction. Nothing made any sense but how could it when I was so dizzy and desperate? I'm sure I shrieked and moaned and cried. I know I had bruises from where my legs banged against the table leg (that table leg which, when clenched between my thighs, had also failed to stimulate me through my underwear).

At last, vision darkening, a kind of peace came over me. I felt my orgasm near, though unreachable. I imagined Him watching me through the camera lens. I lay still. For a moment I felt as if I might be fading away. Then, molecule by molecule, I came to life again. Pleasure spread from my center, taking the form of tiny lights, awakening my skin. Overwhelming, arcing orgasm raced through my body, bright as lightening. I fell apart and came together again.

4.To wear off easily, easy to use and can be cleaned reused

In time, I regained a sense of place and self and ordinariness. I loosened my fingers from gripping the carpet. I removed the still-thrumming vibrator from my perfectly ordinary underwear. I extracted myself from under the coffee table and turned off the camera. And then, per His instructions, I went to bed. The other two pairs of panties would be waiting for me tomorrow.

5.Posted a sense of floating ultra-thin material, at any time can be used.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

I Like Kink

So let's see... so far I've confessed to an interest in forced lactation, a tentacle fetish, and liking to hear about my lovers fucking other women. I think I'll brainstorm a list of other things that fascinate/delight/totally turn me on.

Hair pulling melts me. Just a confident hand grasping my hair can make me lose track of what I'm talking about. Even in the most mundane circumstances, pull my hair and all I can think about is spreading my legs for you.

Spanking. It's obvious, I imagine. I also find a fierce spanking ameliorates anxiety attacks.

I'm terrified of electricity, and anything that scares me horribly can also turn me on. I have an odd relationship with electricity. I'm not sure if I have higher impedance or lower than average, but things that work via capacitive touch often won't work for me. On the other hand, I've been shocked more frequently than most anyone I know.

I'm a voyuer. In particular I adore watching other women orgasm. My ideal threesome leaves me out of the action except as assistant.

I haven't had much experience of orgies, but there are few things I love more than being in a tangle of limbs, cuddle puddle or otherwise. More bodies, please!

There's more, I'm sure. It will come to the surface, as I write.

I apologize for typos. I can't actually read the screen, right now. Contact lenses out, you know.


Tuesday, January 22, 2013

The Darkest Deja Vu - 2

Part 1 is here.

Every night, this dream. Maybe I'm ill, maybe my dream, and my sweat, and my lassitude are caused by fever. But I dream of cold, not heat.

The nerves of my legs can't distinguish what is touching me. Movement and temperature are clear. Size. Something cold and thick as my wrist, coiling around my legs, first the left and then the right. I shiver with the chill. Both legs have been wrapped with several loops, from ankle to thigh. Another cold appendage snakes around my waist.

The lifting and spreading of my legs feels inevitable. Yes, I knew this would happen. If only I could remember what happens next. If only I could open my eyes, I could see what's holding me. If only I could open my mouth, I could scream.

For a moment, nothing happens. I'm held, knees apart, feet high. I'm shivering. Involuntary movement is the only movement I'm capable of. Then something presses against my lips. My mouth opens (did I just wish for my mouth to open?) and is immediately filled. My tongue feels scales, smoothly tessellated  My teeth feel unyielding flesh. The back of my throat is touched, and I gag. The invader draws back, then moves forward again into my throat. I struggle for air. Except, since I'm paralyzed by sleep, there's not much in the way of fight in me. I hope for air. My lungs contract and release spasmodically. My body tingles with heat and cold. I wonder if I'm dying. The Thing makes way for a gasping breath.

I've decided to call it the Thing. Though there's really no reason to assume it's all one being. It could be a dozen snake-like creatures, or several squid. But this level of thought is beyond me. It's a thing, The Thing, and I am utterly at its mercy.

As my lungs pull in a blessed breath, I feel another tentacle-arm between my legs. A pressure, and it's inside me. It fills me deeply and completely. It's cold as ice against my warm insides, an agonizing cold I can do nothing to resist. 

In another moment, and my anus is similarly invaded. The Thing's progress inside me is swift. I am afraid it will not stop, that it will freeze and break my intestines. It does stop, though. I can feel it behind my belly. My body quivers with cold. My jaw aches, and I know my teeth would be chattering if there weren't a tentacle in their way. 

I almost laugh. It's ridiculous. I'm going to freeze to death in my sleep, penetrated by some kind of alien octopus. This dream, this hallucination--it's going to kill me. Then it begins. The tentacles inside me throb and twist and pulsate. My legs are forced further apart, and I feel a second tentacle attempting to join the first inside my cunt. My ass is being stretched further, too, and the appendage in my throat is intermittently cutting off my breath again. 

It comes to my attention that I'm incredibly aroused. I'm drooling and gagging and choking. I'm utterly immobilized  Some alien creature has me completely in its power. And I'm hopelessly turned on. 

It doesn't help that the tentacles seem to be vibrating, now, too. Twisting and turning, expanding and contracting, hitting nerves I never knew I had. I can't tell anymore if it's cold or heat that I feel. It burns and I burn around it. I'm thankful for the way the Thing is pumping my legs up and apart, a substitute for the thrusting my body aches to participate in. I'm being squeezed tightly, as if by a boa constrictor. Pleasure explodes through me, racing from the base of my spine to my fingertips. My womb convulses and my feet cramp. The tentacle in my mouth disengages but I still can't scream. I grunt, over and over, as my orgasm goes on and on and on. 

And then, nothing. Sleep? Some blank darkness without thought, brought to an end by the shrill of my alarm clock.

Like every morning lately, the sheets are soaked. My hair sticks to my forehead. I move groggily towards the shower. 


This story inspired by Tentacle: A Definition by Will Crimson

Monday, January 21, 2013

The Darkest Deja Vu

It's been a long day. I'm feeling inadequate, as usual. If only I didn't have to sleep.

My sleep is not restful. I have dreams - such vivid dreams. If my husband didn't sleep next to me, undisturbed, I'd swear they were real.

And yet, how could they be real?

It begins as soon as I close my eyes. My body sinks into the memory-foam mattress more deeply than it used to. Is it getting old? I add this to my list of worries: mattress needs replacement. I adjust my position and, as if I were in quicksand, sink even deeper. The paralysis of sleep comes over me. Am I on the bed (really in the bed, now) or floating in water? Either way, my limbs are heavy and helpless. I try to wiggle an ankle, just to see if I can. The message never seems to make it down to my leg.

Then I feel it. A chill against my leg, like a patch of colder water in a warm pool. The sensation is intimately familiar, as if I've experienced it a thousand times before. Familiar, yes, and weighted with dread. Like the darkest deja vu, I can't remember what happens next, but I'm certain it's loathsome.

The chill comes again, and resolves into a cold pressure against my ankle. Something smooth is sliding over my skin. I can tell without knowing how that it is alive.


Saturday, January 19, 2013


Looking at photographs. I love photography. G and I have spent long hours at museums discussing photographs. We have stacks of beautiful photography books. I've learned from him, about composition and how the history of art both changes and does not change the soul of the image. I've learned from practice at looking, how to see what's hidden in the dark places, or revealed.

I'm not a very good photographer. I don't tend to see the background or the light until later. My perfectly framed shot too often turns out to be a muddle of textures and shadow.

L and I looked at photos today, both of us sitting at computers, phones tucked against our ears. What page are you on? Scroll down! I was scouting erotic pictures for a project. We compared notes.

It's something I've only done with L, the easy discussion of what turns us on in images, flipping through them, arguing, dissecting, more interested in our conversation than pursuit of arousal. We weren't getting off. Or not sexually. Though I'll be thinking about some of those pictures again later.


L confessed he finds pregnant women sexy. He wants to nurse, he told me. I didn't tell him my side of that fantasy. I'm compelled by the idea of forced lactation. I've done image searches for women in bondage with breast pumps on. They horrify me. The whole idea, a man or a baby using my body that way horrifies me. Of course, that kind of disquiet turns me on, so....

Apparently it's a whole genre on Amazon, with titles like "The Billionaire's Milkmaid", "Touring the Lactation Lab", "Alice's Private Milking: A Medical Lactation Story", and the no-surprises, what you see is what you get, "Abducted and Forced to Give Milk".

Here's an excerpt from that last:

Now that he called attention to it, I realized just how soaking wet my breasts were. It was like someone had poured an entire glass of milk over my breasts, letting it trickle down my sides and stain the mattress. I knew I produced a lot of milk, but this was definitely much... MUCH more than usual. Was it because I was so aroused right now?
"You're milking so much. It's crazy. I can't believe you were hiding something this lewd."
Blushing furiously, I turned my head away, closing my eyes as if to escape the situation. At least when I thought it was someone else milking me, I could believe it wasn't anyone connected to my regular life. I know I had wanted it to be Aaron doing all of this to me. But now that I've confirmed that it's really him, I'm paradoxically wishing that it was anyone but him. Because now he knows how abnormally my breasts are, how they lactated so ridiculously much.
"P-Please don't look..!"
"Oh don't worry, I'm going to do more than just look. Much more..."
Suddenly, I felt something warm engulfing one of my tits. My eyes opened wide when I realized that he had taken my milk-soiled nipple in-between his lips, and was suckling furiously!
What I notice about this (besides some terrible editing and a disappointing lack of any actual "forcing") is the idea that breast milk is lewd. The author refers to her "milk-soiled nipple". Since when is milk dirty?  Since it became a marker for vaginal exudate, and therefor female desire. Female desire, of course, is shameful.

Why do I get off on this? I have no freaking clue. Let's just agree, as we have many times before, that no one should be judged by what turns them on.

Thursday, January 17, 2013


In the morning, yes, your leg over me, pressing and grinding against each other because we have night clothes on and the door's open and the child is humming in the next room but I groan anyway, because I do.

We lock the door and the child is alarmed and we send her off to watch tv. Someday she;ll figure out that tv time = parents having sex. Not yet.

Sunday, January 13, 2013


I'm so wet it's dripped down my thighs. As if he'd been a tease, playing my edge, keeping me overwhelmed and eager.

It's possible that's what he was trying to do, but I doubt it. I think he wanted to fuck me, and the rest was only mildly interesting. He could have taken me to orgasm, but it wasn't on his mind. Then again, my evaluation could be completely unfair. He's hard to read. When I meet his eyes, he smiles a closed-mouth smile that seems reflexive. It doesn't reach his eyes. What goes on in there? Anything?

Earlier in the evening we played a card game involving bluffing. The cards were different verminous creatures: rats, stink bugs, warty toads. "This is an angry cockroach," one might say, passing the next player a card face down. True or false? We tried to guess. I couldn't read him, but he saw through me a good percentage of the time. I haven't practiced bluffing.

I like to be approached with more than confidence. I want a man to be demanding. Tell me what you want from me, and if I agree, take it.

I liked tonight's sensual kisses and tentative caresses, I really did. Since I didn't want to risk fucking without privacy, there was no need for more intensity. I thought about asking for more - oh god I wanted fingers inside me if I couldn't have cock - but I didn't want to get more than I could return. If my orgasm wasn't paramount to him, if sex was to be an exchange of equal pleasures rather than a mutual enjoyment of everything... well, I'm not sure I care to rack up any debts.

And now I'm in bed, still aroused.... time to log off.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Who's who

"Can I tell you something? I mean, I know I can but I don't want you to think I..." His voice was pleading. "You already know all my secrets, anyway, it's not news..."

It's true I know a lot about him. All his weaknesses. His strengths, he still finds ways to surprise me with. One being, his ultimate honesty.

"I think she's in the mood and I'm in the mood and I really want to make it work, but sometimes I just can't get hard. I have to be Really turned on, and I can't fake it. Like, my brain plays tricks on me, and the more I worry about it the less it works and I can't just Not worry about it. And L's been having trouble having orgasms, too, so it's like both of us are stressing out on the rare occasion that we're not fighting." Longwindedness, another of his conversational characteristics.

I interrupted. "Have you tried a cock ring?" He had. It helped but not enough. "Do you want advice?" I asked. He did.

"Ok," I said. "I'm you now."

"You're me?"

"Yes. I'm feeling oddly tall. Where are my tits? Damn! I'm all flat chested! Being you sucks!"

He laughed. "Tell me about it."

"So you say to her, 'I want  you tonight. I want to go down on you and taste you and feel you and put my fingers inside you. If anything else happens, that's great, but I really just want to go down on you.'"

"Yeah," he said. "You're right. That's what I need to do."

"Damn. Me too. I really need to get laid now." The image of him, the memory of him between my legs had me all heated up.

"Wait," he said. "Are you still me? Or is that you?"

Thursday, January 10, 2013


My breasts feel large tonight. That bra is a kind of elastic fabric that squeezes the whole breast into a firm, high bundle. Now I've taken it off, I feel like I'm expanding, like that game where you press your arms upwards against a doorway, and when you step forward your arms float up as if moved by another will. My breasts are bouncing back to their true shape after a long day of pent up, boobalicious energy.

Usually I'm asleep before I could experience this.

It's a virtue I've savored, my ability to sleep. I sleep easily and deeply. Unfortunately, it's the main reason I don't get laid as much as I'd like. Well, one of. Or at least, that's the story I tell myself. I've told G it's ok to wake me for sex, but honestly, that's easier said than done. I don't like being woken up. He feels badly about disturbing me.

Honestly, I sometimes try to be asleep before he gets to bed.I want sex, but I don't. I fear not rested. I fear how sometimes things go wrong and our sex is unpleasant. I fear having to face my inner demons that say sex is disgusting.

Sex with other people does not bring up these feelings. I don't know, though, if it's purely my feelings about G, or if it's a result of being in a long-term relationship with him. I mean, would I feel this way with anyone once the newness wore off?

G's body turns me off, and his smell. His kisses turn me on, but he rarely initiates kisses, and doesn't seem to enjoy them like he used to. Sometimes he's dominant in a way that arouses me madly. Sometimes it just annoys. I can tell he doesn't like the way my pussy tastes. He kisses my thigh to get the taste off. I've done the same thing w/him, because he doesn't always wash well. Once he gets past the initial distaste, he does well enough. He can make me come hard and often and intensely.

I can get his whole cock down my throat, most times, and lick his balls at the same time. I love that. Of course, that means there's not much to him. It doesn't matter if I'm on top. He hits the right spots. Any other position is iffy or impossible. He can't stay in well from behind, and there's no chance of missionary. Sometimes I mind. Sometimes I think, so what? It's not like I'm bored of having great orgasms while riding him.

Sometimes I try to justify my wanderings by focusing on the negative.

I could talk with G but I don't think telling him his dick's too small and his body's too fat is going to be news or make any positive impact. Not much going to happen about either except he could be more ashamed and less connected.

He could talk to me but there's not much reassurance I can give for any of his fears. Except that I'm still here, after going on 20 years. I wish that were enough.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

The Theory

This is to be my after-dark blog. My write-in-bed blog. Don't expect literature.

I have a very nice daylight blog. I don't post much, but what I do post I work hard on. The thing is, I still have secrets. I hate secrets, but I have them. And the people in my daylight world, I don't want them to know about these things.

If you are part of my secret world, welcome. Don't get too close, please. Or I'll have to retreat further.
I met her tonight. I was stunned. I'd expected someone awkward, a little odd. Instead she seemed warm, open, and oh she's heart wrenchingly beautiful. Smaller than me, maybe. Dark haired and dark eyed. I could look at her all day.

I didn't think once, until just this moment, about the fact that she has perfectly smooth labia. And, um, now I can't stop thinking about it.
They left early. I hope it was because they couldn't wait to fuck again.

It makes me hurt, thinking that. It scares me and titillates me and hurts in a way that is enervating and horrible and happy. That's jealousy.

That's jealousy for me.
So, alright. I'm writing a journal and calling it a blog. I'm not going to go back and edit this and call it a story and put it in a book. I just need to tell my secrets. I need them out of my head and off of the page in out in the world where they will find others with the same secrets and whisper together, and let go of some of their loneliness.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013


"She was smooth as a baby." I was in bed, face down, phone balanced under my ear, hands in my pants. "She must have had laser hair removal. It was So.Smooth." He sighed in my ear. I imagined the feeling on my fingertips. I know he likes my hair. He likes pulling it, twisting it, making me squeal. I imagined his tongue against her smooth lips."We had hot sex but I still felt like she was putting on a show," he said. "Usually I count on finding some authenticity once we're in bed." I was jealous but it only made my heart pound and my panties drip.