Torturing Myself

W always says submissives shouldn’t be allowed to torture themselves. In fact he never (or seldom) gives me tasks that involves causing myself pain, because he knows that I’ll probably hurt myself more than he intended.  And the weird thing is, it’s true, though I’ve no idea why.  Not that I hurt myself more than he does–he hurts me like fuck sometimes. But on the occasions when I have to complete a task that involves some sort of physical discomfort, yeah, I tend to take it to the maximum, not necessarily because I want to hurt myself excessively or prove something, but because I want to be sure I am completing whatever task he has given me to his specifications.

I don’t wanna be no wimp, see?

So when he tells me to put on my tit collars, I tighten them down until I wince.  When he tells me to put in my buttplug, I shove it into place.  But that’s about all he’ll let me do to myself.

But then there’s times when I just go ahead and torture myself.  You know, cuz why not?

I’m not talking about causing myself pain. I just had a conversation with someone that asked if I ever do that.  You know, pinch my nipples or use clothespins, smack myself while I masturbate, like that.  As I have said before, I don’t like pain for pain itself.  Even though I really enjoy impact scenes for the pain and sensation, it is still because someone else causes me that sensation, because they have the control and can make me accept it, either by physical means or by compelling me by my need to submit to him or her.

But I’m not talking about torturing myself that way anyway.  I’m talking about deciding to make myself wait for something I really wanted the other day: an orgasm.

After the scene in the basement, I wanted an orgasm so bad I literally throbbed with the need of it.  Ached.  And I denied myself.  At first not as torture, but just because…it seemed like the thing to do. I wanted to ache, I wanted to wait, I wanted to feel on that edge of desire and need until, finally, I would be allowed to crest, to orgasm, to be released from the exquisite edge of torture.

It was easy to deny myself because I knew I’d get what I wanted, what I needed, and soon.  An hour or two, at most.

But then I didn’t. Life intervened, and I got sent home without having an orgasm.  That was Thursday.


I got home and hung out here with kids and Ad, and it wasn’t sexy, it was just, you know, normal life and family time.  All good, but…not quite how I had expected to spend my evening.   If I had asked, or suggested it, I probably could have gotten laid by Ad, and had an orgasm. But…it wasn’t just an orgasm I wanted. Everything that I was feeling had been generated by the day and night and next day I had spent with W, culminating in the scene in the basement earlier that day.  I wanted my release to come from him, with him.  Still, by the time Thursday night came I was so aroused I almost gave in.  Ad went to bed early, as usual, and I stayed up for a short time more before finally heading into the bedroom.  I looked at Ad, sleeping so peacefully next to me, and thought about accosting him.

I looked at Baldy, my hitachi, and thought about the quick fix.

Then I thought about waiting, about holding on to this throbbing sensitivity, this desire, just one more day. I’d see W the next day, which was my short day at work. I’d have four hours after work to beg him to make me come, to maybe even have it exactly the way I’d asked him for it, that afternoon just after he’d finished with me in the basement.

So I turned over and squeezed my legs tight together to accentuate the ache, and fell into a fitful sleep.

A sleep in which I was fucked over and over in my dreams, but was never quite able to come before I woke, turned over, and went back into sleep and into another lust-filled dream.

The next morning I emailed W:

I’m still heartbroke that I didn’t get my orgasm.  I was savoring it…anticipating it…dreaming of it. That made me crazy hot what you did…taking me down in the basement, your hand in my hair…fucking me like that…cumming in my ass. GOD. You make me such a hot horny damned SLUT.  I wanted you to shove THINGS into my cunt and fuck me with them, letting me fuck myself til I came, screaming into my gag. 

Oh wait, you probably didn’t know I was gagged.

And that my legs were tied up in a V.

Of course he didn’t know, since it was all in my head. That’s right–I was torturing myself. Completely unassisted by him.  It was all me, all in my own mind.  He didn’t do a thing to fuel those fires.  He didn’t even reply back to me.

I was a wet, horny mess all day at work, watching the clock, anticipating the moment I was sprung free of work responsibilities and could head over to his house.

I was desperate.

And again, life intervened.

He had something come up with his business and I couldn’t come over until he got back, which didn’t turn out to be until 3pm. Still, if we were quick (and fuck yeah, I would be!) it could still work out…

Until life intervened–again.  Mother Nature, that bitch, decided to mess with me.

When I got to W’s he pointed upstairs. “There’s a wooden toy waiting for you,” he said.  I sighed. “I can’t,” I replied. “Got my period.”

“The toy doesn’t care,” he said.

As you all know, I have issues with sex and blood.  You’d think that I’d be okay with it, you know, “done it once, no big deal” and all. But it’s still not something I can treat lightly, or would choose to do. Still, I was worked up enough that I actually considered it for half a second.  But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  If he’d told me to, I could have–and probably would have gotten off on it, too–but I’m still not quite able to go there on my own.

So.  Here I am. It’s Sunday night. Ad’s asleep next to me. I slept with the two of them here last night, because W spent Saturday and Sunday here, hanging out being vanilla.  And I still haven’t had an orgasm.

I’m ready to gnaw a paw off.  Or hump the dog. Something.  It’s torture!

And yet…

It is sweet torture.

And Christ, when I finally do get to come?  God help the man, toy or machine that makes it happen.

Thank god for small favors

Lunchtime. The park.

I have a sandwich, a book, an ice tea and a blanket. The heat curls around my hips and torso sluggishly, drawing me down onto the blanket into its stifling embrace like an overeager lover.

Stretching out onto the blanket I am suddenly reminded of another hot summer day, another park, another lover.  So long ago…six, seven years? Before W, certainly, although it seems that W knew of him, that I spoke of him to W…

Maybe I only shared memories with W.  Memories of a hand on my hip as we lay in the grass, a mouth, close to my ear, a voice whispering all the things he’d do to me if we were some place more private.  A memory of drawing my body close to his, pressing my hips against his, of sliding my hand down between our bodies to feel his cock where it strains against his jeans. “Is this private enough?” I ask. “No one can see what I’m doing…” The sound of his breath leaving his body in a sighing moan as I unzip his fly and slide my hand inside the opening and grasp him firmly, pulling him toward me by his hard, hard cock as I press our bodies closer together, shielding what I’m doing from casual passers-by.

I sigh and close my mind to the memory, take a sip of my tea and settle back against the blanket, book in hand. The book is a spare from the trunk–I have forgotten my Kindle.  It’s one of my copies of Orgasmic, an erotica anthology I was published in.  Funny thing: I’ve never read all the stories.  But I’m desperate.  I can’t spend my lunchtime without reading.

I open it to the first story and my name jumps out at me-not as an author, but as a character in the story.  Even better, it’s a story with an element of power exchange.  It’s a neat, sexy little story about orgasm control, and I find myself daydreaming as I read it, roleplaying in my mind, wishing that W liked to play such games, remembering one time when we did–and he did.  Hmmm.

I should read this to W on our drive to Dark Odyssey, I think.

I imagine him playing just such a game as we drive, making me bring myself to the brink of an orgasm and then denying me, making me stop, over and over, until all I can think about is my cunt, and getting fucked, and feeling his fingers inside me or pinching my clit or slapping it, of him using that wooden toy that he used this weekend, pushing it inside me, or other things, nastier things, spreading me open and filling me up, over and over…

I realize I have stopped reading and am simply staring off into space, the story in my head far hotter than anything I could read.  My mouth is parted and I wriggle a bit on my blanket, wishing for little snippets of real play to make my day more interesting.  As I do, I glance up over the top of my book–and see the occupant of the truck that is parked just behind my car in the shade staring at me.

I glance down.  I have one knee raised and have been unconsciously rocking it back and forth, making my skirt–a perfectly professional, just-above-the-knees-length black skirt–fall back to my thighs. I am certain that, from his angle, he can see my black panties edged with white lace; perhaps even the dark V they make between my legs.  If he has good vision he can also see the picture of the woman on the front cover of the book, head back and mouth open in orgasmic bliss, and perhaps make out the title.

I imagine what might happen if W texted. I’d reach over casually and text him a message:

Laying on a blanket in the park reading smut while some guy in a truck ogles my panties, I’d type. What should I do?

Give him a better look, he’d text back.

I’d look back down at my book, turning pink at the thought, but I’d do as I was told, pretending to be absorbed in my book again as I let my leg fall open wider, and continue to bounce it so that my skirt rides higher.

I do so now, pretending not to realize what I’m doing even as I feel my stomach clench in excitement, wondering if Mr. Trucker is still watching.

My phone would buzz again. Find a way to touch yourself, I would read.  

As my fantasy takes hold in my mind, my breath catches in my throat.  I sit up and cross my legs, seemingly to straighten my skirt–but as I pull my skirt down over my thighs I brush my fingers over my mound, and then, pretending to tuck my skirt down, I risk a more direct touch, pushing the cloth of the skirt against my cunt as I “tuck it” under my legs.

A soft pant escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I am terrified to look up and meet Mr. Trucker’s eyes, afraid that they will be boring into me, afraid that they will know what I am doing.

In my fantasy, my phone buzzes again. Find an excuse to talk to him, it says.

And that, thank goodness, is where fantasy and reality STOP.

Thank God W is a Luddite.


In my fantasy, I am on my elbows and knees, ass lifted, legs spread to give the man behind me better access. He pumps into me steadily, almost mechanically, and really is mostly an afterthought, something I am barely paying attention to.

It is the man in front of me that has my attention.

He is holding my head up by the hair, arching my neck back painfully as he slides his cock in and out of my mouth.  When I purse my lips, attempting to suckle him, to pleasure him, he pulls out and slaps my face sharply. “Did I tell you to do that?” he says. “Just open your mouth. Yes, like that.  Let it hang open, cunt.  Go on, let your tongue hang out.  You’re just a hole for me to fuck, nothing more.”

And I do, making of my mouth an open, gaping hole for him to fuck himself into, which he does, fucking my mouth, fucking my throat, while spit drips down my chin and I gag every time he hits the back of my throat.  I don’t resist, I don’t try to close my mouth around his cock, I leave my tongue and mouth loose like he’s told me to. “You’re a hole,” he says as he does. “Just a hole to be fucked.”

And I am.

In reality W and I lay in bed, the thick, damp heat the only blanket covering our naked bodies. Idly, almost unconsciously, I stroke the sensitive, swollen lips between my legs. We just had the hottest scene downstairs. It had happened completely unexpectedly, arising accidentally out of a simple picture-taking request by a friend: he wanted to see pictures of me in my glasses, hopefully “messy” ones.  We didn’t really plan on the “messy” part, that’s not something that W would normally do, although we had enlisted Ad’s assistance and we were going to try later in the week for that.  One thing led to another though, and by the end W had sprayed my face  and glasses with semen as I lay, bound and helpless, on his desk.

That’s the first time anyone has ever done that to me. And holyfuckinggod it was HOT. So hot that I fucked myself into three more orgasms after he was done, whimpering and thrusting myself blindly at him as he struggled to keep me from wriggling off his desk in my gyrations.

And so hot that hours later I was still revved up, and couldn’t keep my hands from my pussy lips as we lay in bed.

My so-very-tender, battered-and-bruised, pussy lips.

Did I mention that the night before he had put an impossibly tight cuntrope on me? And that it squeezed my clit in between the two pieces of rope that he strung from my wrists behind my back to a bolt in the ceiling? And that I was on tippy-toes in five-and-a-half inch heels with my ankles secured to a spreader bar?  No? Ah, well, I was. When I say my pussy was bruised and battered, I mean it.

And yet I still couldn’t keep my hands off it.

“Please,” I said as we lay there, “can I make myself come?”

He chuckled. I think he knew the pleasure/pain I was causing myself, and that I just couldn’t help myself.

“Yes,” he said, “but suck my cock while you do it. I want your mouth around my cock when you come.”

Obediently I slid down his body and, laying my head on his belly, drew his half-hard cock into my mouth, while trying to find the right angle to touch myself. For a few minutes, he let me simply hold him in my mouth.  He knows how hard it is for me to concentrate on more than one thing.  But soon I felt his hand on the back of my head, in my hair, and he began thrusting his cock into my mouth. Oddly, though, he didn’t push me down on his cock, but rather held my head still and fucked himself into my mouth. In and out he slid, while I simply held my mouth open…

…and was transported into my fantasy.

My mouth was so wet, his cock so long and hard and slick, slipping in and out of my mouth.  Within moments I was convulsing in an orgasm, all the while holding my mouth open, a wet, open hole for him–the him that was fucking my mouth in reality, and the “him” of my fantasy. A two-fer!

*Edit: If you are on Fetlife, you can see this story with pictures here:

10 x 10 + 1 (or 2, or 3, but who’s counting?)

It started with a task that I was sure I wouldn’t be able to complete:

Task 20: Multiple O – Have ten orgasms in one hour. Each orgasm must be separate. There must be at least a three minute non-orgasmic separation between each orgasm.  If you fail, repeat the task the next day. If still a fail, repeat the third day. If not completed after three days incur penalty.

I’m a pretty orgasmic girl. And once you get me started, multiple orgasms are not unusual. But to have to stop and start, with at least 3 minutes in between? I just didn’t see any way that I could accomplish it. In fact I was so sure that I sort of gave up before I even tried.

Then I got this task:

Task 21: Ten Things – Insert ten things from around the house in your hole.

Hmm…ten things…ten orgasms…coincidence? Serendipity? The world giving me a smack with the clue x 4 to give it a try?

It was Saturday morning. I told Ad about the “1o Things” task. Without me even suggesting it, he started gathering the items that I would insert. Oh yeah, this was a task he could get behind.

Then I reminded him of the other “10” task. He knew that I had already decided it couldn’t be done. “Do you think…?” I began.  “You know…maybe if I combined the two…”

He was certainly up for the challenge.

Here are all the items he gathered together.

Out came Baldy, my Hitachi. I knew it couldn’t possibly happen without him, but I was still quite dubious about it happening even with him.

Ad kept time.

Orgasms with Items 1 & 2, a candle and the working end of a swiffer duster, happened pretty quickly, in spite of the pokiness of the swiffer.  In fact they were so quick that the time in between them was the only time that I didn’t make the “3 minutes between” rule.

The orgasm from Item 3, a monkeywrench, took a little longer, as the wrench didn’t lend itself well to “in and out” action. I knew the image was one that W would love though.  It’s just so…wrong.

Next up was the hammer. I actually kind of like this image. And I think it’s funny that of all the things Ad chose, two of them were tools.

It was in the aftermath of that orgasm (delightfully instigated by the amazing fucking action Ad used on me with the handle of the hammer) that I looked at the growing pile of toys and panted, “Is that only four?”  Orgasm are hard work.  At least ones where you come down entirely before starting another.

Item 5 was perhaps the most perverse.

Yes, that’s a rubber chicken, and yes, it’s a dog toy, and YES that’s my dog looking on very worried.  I don’t know how I managed to come with that thing in my cunt–close my eyes and think of…anything but what was really going on.

Items 6 & 8, a tube of hair product & an electric shaver, were related, but Ad swears they were not commentary on my unshaven cooch (letting it grow out so that I can get it waxed just before the cruise.)

I came hard and fast, almost painfully, with the shaver inserted. Ad turned it on, and the combination of Baldy vibrating on my clit and the shaver vibrating against my g-spot was a mixture of pleasure and pain that had me coming, hard, within minutes, but then I was begging for a break afterward.  Ad got me some water and a cookie, and I lay back and thought about whether my clit was going to be able to stand up to it all.

Then it was back to the salt mines.

Even with the break we were doing pretty good on time, until we ran into technical difficulties with the flashlight.  Condoms just aren’t made for stretching over a flashlight.  Soon, though, he had  Item 7 inserted and thoughtfully turned on, so there was “light at the end of the tunnel.”

Orgasm 7 was a long time coming (pun intended) as well, for whatever reason. But then when I did, I ended up coming again almost immediately, in my classic multiple style.  “No no no!” I said, curling away from Ad’s hand. “It doesn’t count! No fair!”

By Item 9, the remote control (of COURSE he would include that!) we were getting close on time. “Hurry,” I said, “shove that remote in there!”  I was glad to see a remote control being used for something other than flipping channels.

And then came the wine bottle.  “A fine dessert wine,” Ad said, smirking.

And I knew that I needed to give W a bonus.

I inserted the wide end of the bottle first into my cunt.  Then I had Ad turn it around and push the neck into my ass.

I came, explosively, in just under the 1 hour time limit. And then had another one right on top of it for good measure. Me, sleepily, exhausted, afterwards: “Rats, that one doesn’t count.”

And then, because apparently fucking his girlfriend with random objects makes him hot, Ad had to shove one more not-so-random object inside of me.

“Thirteen!” I yelled as I came with him thrusting inside of me.

“Yeah, he said, “but it doesn’t count. Your hour is up.”

Task 15 – Public O – Car

I should title this one “Memory Lane.”

As part of  the continuation of my Public O Tasks, I offer you a trip down that Memory Lane…

Ad and I had a date night the other night. We went to a restaurant that is right around the corner from my old office in Clayton. Yummm…good food, good wine, good conversation.

And me with a task to perform.

There were two possibilities for while we were there: public restroom and (of course) at a restaurant.  I just didn’t see how I could do it right there at the table.  When I lamented that fact, Ad teased that I could diddle myself under the big pasha pillow they had placed in our booth (it was a lovely round booth and we sat side-by-side, with the pillow between us.) But…hark back to my earlier entry on this task…I just knew I wouldn’t be able to do that, even with the pillow covering me. Now if he’d done it to me, given me no choice…that would be another story.  But that always is.  It always always always works better that way for me.

Anyway, I also didn’t want to do this task all alone in the restaurant bathroom. I had this handsome dinner partner sitting next me, I was feeling warm and happy and sexy, and I wanted to both share it with him and do it in front of him, I wanted to engage him in W’s and my play, and I wanted to show off for him.  Unlike with W, who I still feel a certain shyness with about masturbating in front of (and which gives it an entirely different hotness), I am perfectly comfortable fucking myself in front of Ad.  It helps that I know it really turns him on (and oftentimes leads to me getting fucked, lol.)

About halfway thru dinner I realized a solution was right around the corner–in the parking garage of my old office.  And it had the added pleasure of being someplace that Ad and I had fooled around before, all those years ago, when we were just starting out.

In the car, on the rooftop, with the lights of the office building next door looking down at us. And maybe a cleaning lady or two.

Oh, and it did lend itself to some hot sex, later, when we got home. In case you were wondering.

Task 15 – Public O – At Work

My fingers smell like pussy.  Ripe, hot, pungent.  The smell makes me smile, warms me with a feeling of satisfaction, of having done well.

He had written:

Task 15 – Due to popular demand.  Have an orgasm in the following places: car, restaurant, public restroom, public sidewalk, store of your choice.  Penalty assessed for each omission.

Addendum: You may replace one of the above for an orgasm at your place of work.

I knew right away that I was not going to be able to do at least one of them.  I come easily, and I come a lot, but I can’t come without some form of stimulation, and a small vibe does nothing but frustrate me.  So no “egg in the panties” while I am walking down the street for me.

Unless I could find an alley…

But honestly? I am not that kind of exhibitionist. While I was intrigued by Jess’s idea, and by the fact that W has never played that way with me, the sad reality is that I am probably not the best candidate for the orgasm in public game.  I need to concentrate, and I have almost a phobia of exposing vanillas to my personal kink.  The discomfort and embarrassment I feel in those situations is generally not the good kind, and being able to orgasm thru those feelings would probably never happen.

Still, there are ways that this can work for me. A public bathroom is a prime example. My office, or an office building, when no one is around is another. My car, given that I don’t think people can actually see what I’m doing, could be another. Possibly a darkened movie theater.

Honestly, though, I’m just  not that kind of girl.  The embarrassed-in-public or public-sex kind of girl, unless it is in front of fellow kinksters. Then there is still keen embarrassment, and even humiliation, and a lot of discomfort, but in that case, it’s a turn on.

Go figure that I’d make it complicated.

But I want to do the best I can, and if I can find ways to make this work for W, I will.  It may not be quite as public as he might have imagined or desired, and I may take a penalty for that, but I will do what I can do, because I love that feeling of accomplishment when I’ve done so. Of knowing I’ve made him laugh or smile or made his cock hard.

Tonight I was the last one in my office.  I’ve been working til 9pm each night, because my son has drama practice til then, but usually there is another girl here whose job is even more overwhelming than mine. Today she left on vacation.  And I was alone.

I wanted to close the blinds over my window.  My window looks over at a gas station, but because it’s high up, it is possible to be somewhat hidden down here on my office chair. Still, it’s a busy gas station, and people walk down the alley that separates our office from them all the time.  If someone looked in at just the right time, with the lights on in here, and dusk falling out there…

No, damn it, I wasn’t going to weasel out.  I left the blinds just the way they were.  But I needed something really nasty to get my mind off anxieties about being seen. I needed W’s hands on me, his voice in my ear…

That wasn’t going to happen, though.  So I settled for porn on my laptop.

I don’t watch a lot of porn.  And surprisingly, when I do, it’s not BDSM porn (think that does it for me.  As I was telling W the other day: pure BDSM torture scenes don’t do it for me, and while sex and S/M might, that’s not really what gets me where I live. Usually it is totally pedestrian: a cock in a hole. But sometimes, if I see a good short clip of some real-seeming rough sex, that will do it. Mostly what’s in my head is much much worse than what I like to watch if I am looking for porn to get off to.  It’s pretty nasty in there, perverted and filled with images of sucking, fucking, choking, slapping, whipping, name-calling and all kinds of non-consensual sexual antics.

But today my own thoughts were just not going to cut it.  I needed something way on the fringe, something visual, something that took my mind off that damn window, leering at me like a giant, unblinking eye.

And in fact, what I did watch was so nasty that I am not even going to confess to it here. So there.

But boy howdy did it work. I undid my slacks, pulled them down around my hips, leaned back in my chair and spread my legs.  Within about two minutes of stroking my clit, I was shuddering in a powerful–but silent–orgasm.

I couldn’t quite let myself go that much.

One down. Four to go.

A Different Kind of Masturbation

I reach down between our sweat-slickened bodies and grasp his cock; the shaft warm, wet and thick in my hand.  He’s been fucking me all morning, and was just about to pull away, but I’m not ready yet.  I pull him closer by his cock, until he is nestled again in the V between my legs.  It’s been so long since I’ve been fucked, almost all month while he’s been gone, and I feel like I can’t get enough of him inside of me.  But I pause a moment in the act of pulling him to me, of opening my legs and pulling him inside, which is what I had originally wanted to do.

Slowly, barely applying pressure, I stroke the head of his cock over my labia, the outer ones first and then, carefully, deliberately, the inner labia.  Holding his cock like a toy I use it to stroke myself, up and down along those tenderest of lips.  They are hypersensitive, these delicate, fragile-seeming and yet incredibly resilient inner lips, the skin like tissue paper that has been handled and fondled until it is almost transparent.

And, of course, my rings.

I get a distinctly physical pleasure from playing with my rings, from touching them, from having them pulled on and stroked. But more than that is the mental and emotional resonance my rings have for me. Having gotten them for W, they can be nothing less than a near-constant reminder of my relationship with him, of our connection, of the commitment I have made in my submission to him. I talked to him once about wanting to have some kind of symbol of our relationship, of his Ownership of me, of my submission to him, that I could wear to lifestyle events or when we are together in places where people that understand such things would recognize it for what it is. That hasn’t come about yet, but I keep in my mind those six rings in my cunt, knowing that they are that, exact, symbol to me. Too bad I can’t show them off at those events, in those places.

Now I use the soft, velvety head of his cock to touch each one of those six, tiny testaments to my relationship with him, reacquainting him with them.  Earlier he had pushed his way between them roughly, forcing them apart, but now, in my hand, his cock nuzzles and noses them each in turn.  And I am so sensitive, after the vigorous fucking he has given me, that just that barest touch is electric.

I moan, imagining the opening at the head of his cock as a tiny mouth, engulfing and sucking on each ring in turn, a bizarre sort of  cunnilingus that, instead of turning me off, as oral sex does at times, instead fuels a sudden resurgence of heat in me.  I am suddenly intensely focused on these sensations and this fantasy, and begin stroking myself faster, although the touch is still as feather-light as before.  My breath catches, then quickens, and I feel a change in W’s body where it is poised above mine as well, recognize a focused intensity in him, a concurrence of excitement as my own rises.

With an inward sighing, an opening both physical and mental, I pull him towards me and let the head of his cock slip past the sensitive opening of my vulva.  He rests there for a moment, just barely inside me, my cunt lips now the mouth, pursed around the ridge of his glans.  I imagine myself sucking him in by the cunt…

But he goes no further.  Instead he pulls back until his cock is once again only resting against my lips, brushing the sex-wet rings, before pushing back inside.

Still he only goes in as far as the head of his cock, before pulling back out again.  He does this, over and over, stroking, caressing and teasing me with his cock until I am hugely excited, panting, making little mewling sounds in my throat, begging him in my mind to please, please fuck me;  I want all of him inside me, buried as deep as he will go.  I am still grasping the shaft of his cock with one hand and I attempt to facilitate this, pulling him with one hand, the other on his ass, pushing.  I open my legs, twist and wriggle, trying to fool him into falling into me, but he’s playing a game with me now; I can almost feel him smiling at my consternation at his thwarting of my desire.  I think, at some point, I may actually beg him: “Please!” though I can’t be certain if the word actually leaves my mouth.

I know I won’t come this way, I can’t come this way, and all I want is to come, to throw myself over the edge into sexual bliss.  I grasp, I claw, I pull and strain and moan…and he resists and resists me, an especially perverted kind of sadism, the bastard.

But then, just when I am sure I will die if I don’t get there, suddenly I am there, rising rising rising into that sweet oblivion, my orgasm tipping and spreading through me, not as a wave crashes, but as honey pours, slow and sweet and thick.  And, as if in reward, he pushes at that moment into me, deeply, a breath coming from him to match my own outward exhalation.

He is home, at last, and so am I.


I’m in Dallas, up in my hotel room; alone. Everyone else is in a meeting, but I’ve been given a “pass” due to having to work on a project while I’m here at the conference.  So I came up here to work.


…I find myself pulling my skirt and panties off and laying down on the bed.

Such a wide, soft bed. The comforter is white white white, like the light here in Dallas. Blinding.  And yet, in the room, the white is cool and bright, not searing as it is outside.

I wish one of the guys were here. I can imagine W making use of this bed, this room. I have seen pictures of things he has done to women in hotel rooms. I want him here, using me, hurting me, taking pictures of me.

I remember a particular hotel room with Ad, a long time ago. A five hour drive to get there.  Me reading erotica to him, my head in his lap as he drove, all the way to Hot Springs, rubbing my mouth and face against the bulge in his jeans. I wanted to suck his cock as he drove, but we were brand new then, maybe only had sex three or four times, and he was still reserved about it with me. So I teased him. Breathed on him through his jeans, letting my breath heat him. Stroked and rubbed and put my mouth over him through his jeans.  Given a little more time, I might have even made him come through his jeans, but we arrived just in time.  And I had barely begun to undress before he was on me in the room, fucking me against the side of the bed in a frenzy.

Now, here, this room is lonely. Or it is until I start to fill it with my mind.

I start to touch myself, softly at first, feather-light strokes against my clit, gentle tugs on my rings. My mind drifts to a particular fantasy W spun for me one day as he and I and Ad lay in bed one morning. W with his fingers inside me, his palm grinding against my clit.  Ad’s big hand on my thigh, holding me open, while W whispered the story in the quiet room. It may have been the first time Ad had ever heard one of W’s stories, though he certainly knows of them. They are not Ad’s type of fantasy, at least as far as I know (Ad doesn’t share such things.) But as my breathing quickened, as I began to tense up, I felt Ad’s fingers tighten on my inner thigh, betraying his excitement.

The next day there was the imprint of his fingers on my flesh.

I think about W’s story now as I lie on the bed, letting my hotel room fill with the bodies of strange men, with the smell of their arousal, with the sounds of their breathing. Their presence becomes as real to me as the white, white light outside, as the comforter beneath me, as the still emptiness of the room.  I can feel W’s hand on my face, holding it tight as he tells me what to do.  I can hear his voice in my ear, telling me what he is going to let these men do to me, what I am going to let them do to me, because he has said so.

My fingers grind faster and faster against my clit as I both watch the scene in my mind’s eye and live it, seeing  the girl–myself–on the bed, and being the girl on the bed, in that other hotel room that lives in W’s–and now my–mind. I both feel W’s hand on my face and watch as he holds me still, not permitting me to look around as the first man positions himself behind me.  I experience it all vicariously, even as I live it out in my mind. And as I feel the stranger’s cock against me, as I feel and watch his first, hard thrust into me and watch him fuck me while W holds my face still so that I can’t see who it is behind me, I moan, the beginnings of an orgasm tightening my belly.  It spreads outward from my center, rising up and up until I have to press my hand down onto my cunt to keep myself pinned to the bed.

And as my breathing slows, the light swirls and shatters around me, falling into shards of broken colors: the sun, setting outside the window. I blink; alone once again.

Anatomy of an Orgasm

Lately we’ve been getting a lot of photographic documentation of me having sex with myself, right up to and including the moment of orgasm.  It’s strange seeing oneself in the throes of unrestrained pleasure.

It looks a lot like being in pain.

And maybe, in a way, it is.

Beautiful, exquisite, torment as you reach for that oh-so-final, almost-painful-in-its-pleasure, release.

I'm a woman, and I like porn.

I needed release last night. Filled with pent-up desire and the frustration of having no outlet for it, I lay in the front room of the condo I am sharing with my daughter here in Mexico and listened to her settling in for the night, separated only by a half wall and wooden shutters. I’ve been struggling more than I thought I would (and I thought I would a lot) with this separation from W; not the separation of these 10 days so much as the knowledge that it will now likely extend until the end of the month, and in that time, he will be spending time with his other partner, playing with her, using her, hurting her the way I want to be used, played with, hurt.  I am happy for him, and for her, even.

I wish it was me.

But it’s not, and I am here, alone, and I want the release of an orgasm to lull me into sleep, to make the night go by faster so that I am not laying here awake thinking about him. With everything in my head though, and with my daughter so close by, I can’t find that space in my head that will take me there.

So I turn to porn.

I am not a big pornography viewer. Which may seem odd, considering that I am the subject of a hell of a lot of it, and even, tonight, tried to find a way to send W some of my own, the first porn “video” I’ve ever made, the one that Ad did of me fucking myself with Blue and W’s J-hook. But maybe because I have so much imagery of my own, and the stories that I tell myself (and that W tells me) are so vivid (and hell, they star me) I just don’t find a lot of need for it.  On this night I do, though, and (thankfully) I find what I need pretty quickly, and come, twice, hard, and fall at once into a deep, dreamless sleep.

This morning I woke up thinking about women and pornography.  After being pointed to Violet Blue‘s Our Porn, Ourselves website, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I feel about pornography in general, my own relationship to it in particular, and what it means to be a feminist, a woman and a mother that also happens to like porn.

There are a lot of nuances to the debate however (an excellent discussion of these can be found on Audacia Ray’s blog here) and I don’t have the knowledge or experience to address most of them.  I can only speak from my own perspective.

I can, however, agree with the “Pro-porn Principles” as laid out by the Our Porn, Ourselves website:

WE who declare that organizations such as Feminists Against Pornography do not speak for us.

WE who want the world to know that organizations such as Feminists Against Pornography do not represent feminists as a group.

WE who believe that every woman has the right and power to enjoy her sexuality as she decides.

WE who believe that to tell a woman how she may or may not enjoy her sexuality in any way is to deny that woman of her rights over her sexuality.

WE who state that any woman who attempts to control the way another woman enjoys, explores or expresses her sexuality is in fact creating a world that is harmful for all women.

WE who state that we are women, and we like pornography.

WE who state that as women, we are not harmed or threatened by the creation or viewing of pornography, and we wholly support the rights of any gender to view, create and enjoy pornography without judgment.

WE who want a world in which pornography is simply a sex toy enjoyed by all genders and sexual orientations, where women and men view porn within their own self-defined healthy sexuality, without being considered sick, twisted, wrong or mentally ill, and that men who enjoy pornography are no more likely to beat their wives, rape women or become peadophiles than anyone else in society.

WE hereby declare ourselves as adult women capable of making our own choices about our bodies and enjoyment of explicit visual stimulation for our sexual health and well-being.

WE hereby demand that our voices be heard.

For more on this topic, see my latest article over on Eden Cafe: Pro-Porn.