Happy Endings

I’m really working hard on getting my new domain up (and DAMN it takes a lot of work!) and dammit if I don’t just want to work and work and work on that until it’s done…but I also want to write. I want to write smut, I want to write about sex, I want to write about kink. I know I should concentrate the new site…and part of me wants to until it’s done…but fuck it.
Fuck me. Please.
Yeah, that’s kind of how I feel.  I am worked up, and the fact that W fucked me soundly–or had me fuck him–the other night, and then again Saturday morning for three hours straight, and then I came home and finally (after a week of no-sex) got Ad to let me fuck him…
Just works me up more.
I’ve masturbated three times today, and I am sitting here squirming in my chair, wanting more.  More more more!
Fuck I am a horny insatiable slut.
It started with a massage. Both times.  I’ve done something to my upper back/scapula area, and woke at W’s hardly able to move without pain.  He had rubbed it the night before, but by morning time I was stiff and miserable again.  He started off slow and gentle, with me laying on my side, facing him, snuggled against him as he pressed and stroked and kneaded the sore spot.  With a happy groan, I turned over after a few minutes onto my stomach to give him better access.
He continued to press the heels of his palms into me, and then his forearms…and then…somehow…a trigger was switched, and suddenly he was mauling my body…pushing, pressing, kneading in a way that wasn’t about massage anymore.  And yet, it was doing exactly what I needed.  I groaned and moaned as he manhandled every part of my body–but individually, each part, each muscle, still in this pseudo-massage-mode. His weight was heavy on me, his overnight beard scraping my skin as he used every part of his own body on mine. Even his cock, nudging against first one hole and then another, was a part of it, pressing, releasing, pushing, backing off.
Oh wait, did I mention that at some point he tied my wrists to the ropes hanging above his bed?  And one ankle?  Yeah, he did.  It was forced-massage; massage-as-subjugation. And all I could do was push back against his cock, opening myself like the slut I am, wanting him to fuck me in the ass, to force his way inside…
Instead…somehow…I ended up on top of him. Fucking myself on him.  And that was good…I came…and came again…and came really hard when he grabbed my ass cheeks after I thought I was done, spreading them open, and the images that filled my mind…the fantasy…of being just that way with him sometime, and having him do that to me, but instead of it being just us, he would be opening me up, opening my ass up, to someone else…and he would be telling me to take it, because he wants me to, that I was going to get fucked in the ass by this other man…whomever he was…and I wouldn’t know who it was. It would just be some random somebody that he was allowing to use my body.  And he was holding me open for him, and making me accept it, because, for him, I would.
Just the feel of his hands on my ass, the feel of being opened and exposed and the thought of being offered that way, almost tipped me over into an orgasm without any further stimulation.
This is an especially interesting fantasy (from an intellectual standpoint) because I specifically told him I didn’t want anal sex to be on the menu in the kidnapping fantasy that he is writing up for me for Dark Odyssey. He told me when I mentioned that that was a “no” that he was glad I’d said something, because that would have been something he’d have included. Which is hot, certainly, but scary to me. Anal is still something that is difficult emotionally for me…and the thought of more than one man…maybe three or four…doing that…scares the shit out of me.  But I guess that is what makes it so hot. It scares me.  It still feels taboo.  And it still feels like, even after all this time, the ultimate subjugation.
(Putting on my “clinical objective” thinking cap now and trying to decide if pissing on me or making me drink his piss has more of an emotional punch than ass-fucking.  Hmm.  I don’t know.  {Oh shit–an aside within an aside-I just accidentally typed “pissing IN me” instead of ON me…and jesusfuckingchrist my cunt just twitched like it had a mind of its own.  Whew–think I’ll leave THAT thought for another day.}  Even wanting it Saturday morning, pushing against him, desiring it, feels dirty and bad to me. And he’s been my lover, my Owner, for almost three years, and has been fucking my ass for just about that whole time. What is it about that one act that makes it so very taboo to me? That twists me up inside and in my head–and yet, for that very reason, is such a fucking turn-on?)
Anyway…later…as I was laying against him, spent, sleepy, relaxed…he pushed me onto my back and spread my legs, and gave my cunt another kind of “massage”…pushing, probing, pinching and pulling…making me gasp and squirm and protest as he pinched the delicate skin of my inner labia.  And then he fucked me, long deep thrusts that told me he was finally going to let himself come inside me…and he did…shuddering, groaning, as I spread myself open beneath him and listened to him tell me that every man I fucked, I was fucking him.
Fuck yes. Oh holy fuck–YES.
I didn’t come then…although I could have easily. I just wanted to feel him in me, to feel and experience his pleasure, without eclipsing it with my own.
Later…much later…I am home with Ad. We had talked the night before about why he hasn’t wanted sex for the past week. He goes through low libido periods, as we all do, but usually his are the result of something specific getting to him.  And this was no different. I have learned not to push…and yet…for me sex is the physical embodiment of our connection. I needed it, yes…but something in me told me he needed it more. Not to satisfy me, but because I wanted him to feel loved. Cared for.
He’s a massage therapist, and he laid me down and worked over my muscles and sore places with skilled, if impersonal, hands. Not impersonal because he feels that way about me, but because massage is a job to him, not a sexual act.  He has had to train himself out of feeling sexual about massage.  I don’t want to mess that up for him…but the feel of his hands, so firm and warm on my body…it was hard not to react.  Still, I stayed still until he was done, and then, as he turned away to clean up, I called to him.
“Wait,” I said. “come here.” He looked at me curiously, but came over the side of the bed.  “Lay down,” I said. “It’s my turn.”  And though he protested (a bit) he finally did, and I lay my body over his, and touched him with all the love I have for him, everywhere, every piece of his body with my hands and mouth.  Until, finally, he was hard in my hand, and in my mouth.  And then, slowly, I lowered myself onto him, pulling him into me, enveloping him, swallowing him with my body.
We both sighed as I came down on him fully, and opened our eyes at the same moment to laugh a little breathlessly. It had been a long week.  And slowly, with deliberation, I began to move against him, feeling his excitement rise and fall, rise and fall as he moved inexorably towards his orgasm. I held myself back this time, much as I have witnessed W do with me, wanting this to be purely for Ad, about Ad. But as he finally cried out, arching up into me, spilling himself in me, and as his pleasure mixed in my head with W’s from earlier, I came…sweetly, quietly…in an orgasm that washed over me like a gentle rain.  Cleansing, quenching…but only for a time.
Soon…I’ll need a good thunderstorm again.