Pussy Pride Redux – Sex with Rings

Awhile back I wrote a post for the Pussy Pride Project on Molly’s Daily Kiss. I had a lot of fun with that post, and I have enjoyed reading other contributions to the meme. Recently I got a couple of replies to that post, and since I enjoy talking about my pussy (shocking, I know) I thought I’d do a follow-on post to it to answer those questions. This time, I got to elicit the Guys assistance as well, so (for perhaps the first time?) you’ll get to hear from each of them as well!

H.H. of MySexLifeWithLola said, “Can you or W write about what it’s like to have sex with all those piercings?”

Although I’ve actually written about what sex with my rings is like several times, especially when they were new, it’s usually in the context of the rest of a scene that we are in the middle of, not just about the sensations specific to fucking with rings. And I don’t think I’ve ever asked the Guys to write about it, although we’ve talked about it many times.

Here’s what W had to say:

Fucking Jade with Rings

If fucking a girl with rings isn’t on your bucket list, it should be. I’d like to say it takes a real man with cast iron balls to manage it, but that isn’t really the truth.  Sure, you can’t be a wimp, but the primary effect for me is mental. As soon as I see them or feel them on Jade I get hard as a rock, not so much from the physical sensation, but from the mental effect that they have on me. There’s just something deliciously wrong about a girl with metal rings implanted in her cunt, and to fuck such a feisty, unconventional girl is a huge turn on and conquest.

The feel of the rings depends upon the position and your technique. In some cases you can barely feel them, but with others you can feel a hardness along your cock as you forcefully push her open and you can feel friction around your shaft as you pump back and forth and manipulate her parts.  I imagine them to be guide rails placed there for the convenience of myself and that of other males that have the (power) to use her.

Most of all I like knowing that I’m fucking an industrial girl. A highly skilled, efficient, fucking machine that you can pick out of the crowd. Someone special that guys dream about and most girls can’t match.

I swear I didn’t pay him to write all that stuff. ;-)

Ad’s perspective is a little different, as might be expected.  He says:

Impressions of Sex with Rings

You wanted my impressions of sex with the rings. The first impressions that strike me are visual and tactile. The sight of the rings is eye catching and impressive. After seeing them you then want to touch them and play with them. Seeing how they can be pulled and what sensations they create. They do focus your attention to the sensations in that area. When touching them they are hard and smooth. Once you plunge inside you feel the rings sliding along your length. That can be distracting, in a good way, tho. The only small negative effect is while using a vibrator near the rings. The rings can be a little buzzy and pinchy when vibrated heavily, thus spoiling the mood. Overall the rings are fun for both partners!

So there you have impressions from both my partners about fucking me with the rings.

As for me…well, although the Guys sometimes can’t tell much of a physical difference, I always can. Getting fucked now that I am so heavily pierced is always “getting fucked with rings” for me, and they are an essential and integral part of the experience. I can’t be fucked and not be acutely aware of them, the entire time, even if I have adjusted and moved them around to minimize discomfort.

In some ways, this is good, and hot. As W says, it is definitely a mental trigger for us both. I know how much they turn him on, and, especially when he is fucking me brutally, shoving his way through them and hurting me, it’s extremely arousing. It is also very arousing to always be aware of these piercings in terms of my connection to – and ownership by – W. This, to me, is the essence of my submission to him, in a very tangible, almost irreversible way. It’s not some pretty little hood decoration that can be overlooked or ignored. There they are, hard, cold, infringing and in-my-face (so-to-speak) all the time. Always there, always a reminder of W, of being owned, of who owns me, of his possession of me. This awareness extends beyond fucking, too. I am aware of them this way every day, nearly all the time. Walking, running, sitting, doing yoga, riding a bike, turning over in bed, going pee, taking a bath, getting a massage, curling up on the couch or out and about, there isn’t more than a few minutes, maybe a half hour here and there, that I am not aware of them or having a random thought about them – and thus, by extension, W. This is true even more so, of course, when I am being fucked. And when it is someone else fucking me? The knowledge that I am marked that way – marked in such a visceral, physical way as W’s property – is a huge turn-on.

There is also a lot of imagery and physical sensations related to the rings themselves that turn me on, such as pulling my cunt lips open by the rings and spreading them wide. The image and the actuality of that – and how that makes me feel on a very base, emotional level – is very powerful.  Having them slicked with come, again, both visually in my fantasies and in reality. The image of a cock pushing through the barrier they form, and then being surrounded by and encased by metal. Sometimes I am able to hitch my hips up in just such a way as to feel the fourchette sliding along the ridge of W’s cock (I avoid doing this to Ad because he doesn’t get off on the sensation like W does.) That image alone can send me over the edge. Another image, that of one man spilling his seed inside me and my rings dripping with his semen, only to have another man push into me, sliding his cock over my cum-slickened rings, is an especially powerful and erotic one to me. Perhaps this is because I no longer get soaked on the outside of my pussy very often anymore (an unusual and unintended side-effect of having my inner labia constantly exposed, I think.) But whatever reason, having them stroked with lube or spit or semen is very, very erotic, and heightens the ultra-sensitivity that I already experience in my labia.

On the other hand, sometimes the physical sensation while I am having sex – always always always being aware and having to think about and adjust for them – can get tiresome.  And the aforementioned issue with wetness. Sometimes I just want to get fucked, you know? To feel a hard, thick cock slide into me without having to worry about/compensate for/adjust to the rings.  To not have the primary sensation be the rings, rather than the fingers, hand, cock or toy.  And yet…that very sensation…feeling the metal, the pinch, the slide when they get wet…feeling them as an obstruction and as a tool used to cause me distress or pain…feeling them being pulled or twisted or tugging on them or pulling them open myself…is all very erotic and physically pleasurable in a way I hadn’t expected when I first got them installed.

Question number two was asked by a reader that calls himself Chaos.” He asked, “Your pussy piercings are so beautiful. Do you plan to get more? And what do you think about pierced cocks?”

First of all, thank you very much for the compliment. I love my rings too and find them beautiful as well, though sometimes I look at them and am amazed at what I have done to my body. My pussy is no longer anything like what it was before them – it’s been a true body modification, and one I just didn’t expect, to be honest. As W said once, “We’ve created something entirely different from what it was.” I told him yeah, and that means since he created it (or it was created) in large part for him, I guess that means he’s stuck with me. ;-)

To answer your questions, I don’t think I am going to get any more genital piercings. I may get a few more in my ears, but I don’t really have a desire for other places to be pierced either (never my nipples.) The only other genital piercing that I have considered is a triangle, but to be honest, the potential for nerve damage is high enough in that one that I don’t think I ever will take the chance. And I love the way my hood piercing looks, but it is so distracting and annoying, and makes it hard to orgasm in a normal way, that I don’t think I will put it back in.

As for cock piercings…um…I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in person! And certainly never fucked one. W has a fantasy of getting me fucked by a heavily pierced cock, but it’s never come about.

Yet. ;-)

Wanton Wednesday – DP One Way

This is one way to do a DP.

Wanton Wednesday - Two Click-Thru

This is another.  And I know I posted about yet another way (the “conventional” way, lol) but I can’t find the post, so, oh well.

Later this week, in another of my “Draft Posts per W,” I’ll describe yet another.

Whether it’s a little naked or a lot naked, baring your soul or baring your body parts, you are welcome to join us! Yes, you! Words, photos, whatever you want to share that is Wanton will fit right in.

Wanton Wednesday

Need to Know

As you all know by now (if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time) W and I have been testing the waters of swinging. He wants me to experience it for many reasons, one of which most certainly is that he simply likes to watch me get laid, but also because he feels that the particular set of protocols and morays that make up the swinging lifestyle are ones that I should learn, and eventually, excel at. Because he believes that I will, eventually, be “good” at it.

Sometimes I am not sure about this last, but…(as you most surely know by now)…I will do anything to please him.  If doing this pleases him, if being “good” at this makes him happy, if me becoming an “accomplished” swinger makes him hard, then hey–I’m there.  And thrilled to do it.

Unfortunately the St. Louis scene isn’t exactly the swingers’ mecca that we might have hoped it would be.  And…we’ve had a few bumps in the road as well as we’ve learned to negotiate this new dynamic, both between ourselves and in regards to others.  And, frankly, we’ve had to backtrack and re-assess how it might work for us a couple of times, because it is so foreign to our own dynamic, and because, specifically, swinging itself does nothing for me.  I need some level of kink, of a CNC or coercion dynamic, or it just isn’t hot for me.  So we’ve been trying to figure out how that might be incorporated (without squicking others out or driving them away) and how best to allow our own dynamic to work within the framework of swinging.  Needless to say, it’s been a bit of a slow start.  And it may never work completely the way W wants it to. But, I’m hopeful, and (as always) eternally optimistic.  If I can make it work, you can damn well believe I will make it work.

Meanwhile, there are scenarios that have come up via our contacts in the different swing groups.  Not necessarily “swinging,” but scenarios that appeal to W’s and my particular kink and that we’ve decided to explore. Each one of these is an opportunity for learning (as well as the possibility of some hot sex.)

Lately I’ve been talking to a woman that wants to send another woman to fuck her husband in his hotel room (he’s in town for a few days attending a business function.) Ideally, for my hotness factor, this sort of scenario would happen this way:

W makes contact with the woman. She and he negotiate what will happen. He arranges a time with me that will work, without telling me the details. At the agreed-upon time, he takes me to the man’s hotel room, drops me off at the door, I go in and perform whatever service W and the woman have agreed to, and two hours later W picks me up (hopefully bedraggled and with some outward signs of having been used hard by this man.)  Oh, and with pictures of it in my phone and sent to the wife.  He then takes me home, “inspects” me for compliance with his and the wife’s wishes, uses me or abuses me to reclaim me, and sends me home to my family.

Fuck. I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

The reality, though, in large part because of the particular dynamics of swingers, is a bit different. I saw the wife’s post about wanting someone for her husband. Knowing that this is exactly the kind of thing that would get W off, I replied to her. She and I have been in negotiation now for two days, and today I made contact with her husband, confirming the details of a meeting that will happen Thursday. All the while, I kept W apprised of the situation, and he, knowing I needed to hear/feel it (even though I never directly requested it) gave me permission–and specific instructions to comply.

I need to feel his coercion, his demand that I do this thing, even though I was the one that set it all in motion, and have set it all up.  He knows that, and has neatly (and quite adeptly) turned it into coercion play.  And it works.  And I am hot.

Trying to explain this to the woman doesn’t work out so well, though.

I didn’t set out to have to try to explain it to her originally. It was more of a slip. I am well aware of the female-driven swinger dynamic. Women run the show, their word is first and last. And a woman being forced into performing sexually is anathema.

So of course I didn’t tell her I was doing it for W.

Until I did, sort of.  Accidentally.

And then I had to try to explain that yes, I was doing it because it made him hot, but that makes me hot, so it’s all good.

“You are doing this because you want to, right?” she asks.

I can honestly answer that “Yes, I am.” Because I am.  She doesn’t need to know that I want to because I know W wants me to, and that knowing it will make him hard is why I am doing it.

“He didn’t make you contact me, did he?” “No,” I can reply with all honesty, because he didn’t.  I don’t have to explain that if it hadn’t been for him, for me knowing that me doing this would excite and please him, I would never have contacted her.  But he didn’t make me do it. (Nor that now that I have told him about it, he most certainly will make me do it–there will be no cancelling out of it now.)

And when she asks, “Am I excited?” about meeting and fucking her husband, I can honestly say “Yes.” Because I am.  She doesn’t need to know that at least half my excitement comes from this fucked-up dynamic that W and I share, and that she would never understand.  Yes, I am looking forward to and will like the sex, if he has any skill at all, and I am looking forward to his cock in me, to being fucked by a stranger.  She doesn’t need to know that I will probably enjoy it even if he doesn’t have any skills, and not only because, as W says, every cock that fucks me is his cock and that the whole time that man is fucking me I will be thinking about what W will do to me later, about how hard his cock is, knowing I am there and what I am doing.  Because there’s another part to this too. There’s the other part of this dynamic that she also doesn’t need to know about and probably wouldn’t understand. The other reason I will enjoy myself is because I will be serving her and her husband, pleasuring them.  I will make damn sure he enjoys himself so that she is pleased and happy with the situation.

And that gets me (and W) off, too.

They already are pleased with me.  Amazed at what they’ve found in me, even if they don’t quite understand what that is.  They don’t realize what I am, or how hard I will work to make everyone happy, horny and satisfied.  And that, in the end, their pleasure drives my own.

But they don’t need to know that. It’s enough that W and I know.

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.

Cowboy #2 – Two Stories

I have this List that I am working on for W.  At his request I’ve created an Excel spreadsheet listing all of the boys and men I have fucked in my life.  It is supposed to be in chronological order, and by name, with at least one fact about each one listed.  It’s slow going, as a) I don’t recall them all in order; b) I don’t recall all their names; c) I don’t recall them all, period; and d) as with every other project I am supposed to work on, I procrastinate until I am threatened with loss of life or limb.  Or some other punishment.  And since W doesn’t play with a punishment (or “funishment”) dynamic, there really is very little to compel me to actually complete it.

(Oh shit, wait, I’m supposed to be a good submissive, right? And a good submissive does things just to please her Top…you know, because she knows it will make him happy.  Uh-huh.  Riiight.  That’s me all over.

Well…maybe I am, a little bit.  So okay, I admit, I do work on it a little bit at a time.  And preen and glow when I do and it makes him happy or turns him on.  Cuz yeah, I am a bit submissive. ~rolling my eyes and sighing~)

Anyway, I’ve already written one story at W’s behest about someone from the list.  And now I am writing another.

The fun part of this one is that it’s masturbation material. For me, not you.  Or maybe you too–I have no idea what you do with my scribblings once I send them out into the wide blogging world. I’d like to think about you all hot and bothered, reading my stories with one hand down your pants–

Anyway.  So the other day, as I lay on the floor with my cunt rings tied open–

What?  I didn’t mention that in my previous post? Oops, bad blogger.  That’s what precipitated all the fucking I mentioned in that post.  Although we ended up on his couch downstairs, it all started upstairs, when he decided to tie open my “cuntflaps” (as he called them) by my rings obscenely, and then use other nasty implements to spread open my mouth and nose (nosehooks are for THE BIRDS!) and finally used clothespins on my outer labia to “pin” me to the floor.  After which he pulled me down on top of him, and, with my rings still tied open to my thighs, told me to fuck him.

It’s at moments like those that his claim that he’s not sadistic is clearly proved false. Know what happens when a girl’s insides–the parts that aren’t supposed to be exposed to the air–are? You guessed it–they dry out.

“Do it,” he said, when I whimpered and tried to pull away.  “Go on.  Hurt yourself.”

So I did.  (Because, you know, I’m a good submissive, remember?)

I pushed him inside my dry, tender, exposed hole, whimpering and whining the whole time.

And fuck me if I didn’t get wet.

Soon I was whimpering and whining because, in spite of my head telling me I shouldn’t be, I was excited.

~ sigh~ I am just so fucking easy.

But this post isn’t about all that.  This post is about what he said to me as I impaled myself on him, feeling my rings pulling me open wider, and getting hotter as I thought about being so utterly exposed, so unprotected, my hole spread wide…

Grabbing me by the hair he pulled my face close to his lips. “Tonight, when you’re touching yourself,” he said, “I want you to think of the next guy on your list.  And when you do, I want you to imagine what it would have been like if you’d been made to fuck him with your rings tied open just like this.”

And I did. Later that night, lying in bed next to Ad, who’d fallen asleep early, I touched myself and imagined what it would have been like…

And because I have to tell the REAL story of the 25th guy on my list, you’ll get two stories in one!

#25 – Cowboy #2

(Yep, there were two of them. NO, not at the same time.  I hadn’t done that yet.)

The Real Story of Cowboy #2

Once upon a time I was living with my older (crazy) sister. I was trying to leave my first husband (trying being the operative word…I left him at least six or seven times before it stuck) and she offered me a place to stay while I got myself situated.  Shortly after I moved in, she decided to leave her husband, and moved to a small, central California town, taking me with her.

Things were not so great living with my sister.  (Note the “crazy” modifier above.) Late one night, after a particularly stressful day with her, I ended up meeting the husband of a friend of hers out at the local honky-tonk. And yes, I can call it a honky-tonk, because it was, and no, he wasn’t Cowboy #2.  He was just a friend that knew how rough it was living with my sister, so he invited me out for a beer to get me out of the house.

Stupid me, I went.  Stupid because I ended up sleeping with one of my sister’s friend’s husband’s friends, “Cowboy #2” of this tale, and that, eventually, ended up being part of the reason I ended up not living with my sister shortly thereafter. Or being friends with my sister’s friend or her husband anymore. See, I was smart enough not to sleep with F (my sis’s friend’s husband), but I wasn’t smart enough not to sleep with C2, who was also married.  And later, when it came out that I had done that, well, it wasn’t hard doing for my sister to convince her friend that I had also slept with F.  (Why would someone accuse her own sister of something like that, especially when it’s untrue? Um, were you paying attention when I used the word “crazy” up there?)

Anyway, that’s another story, and not one for this space.  The story I can tell here is a typical one: F and I had a couple beers, he introduced me to some of his friends, we had a few more beers and they all kinda flirted with me in that way that men do with any girl between the ages of 22 and 50 after they’ve had a few beers. The bar was a typical small town bar, smoky and dark, with honky-tonk on the jukebox, a couple pool tables in the middle and everyone drinking Coors (it was California, after all.)  C2 was no more or less interesting than any of the others, but he stayed later, and flirted a little harder, brushing against me as we played pool, smiling a lazy cowboy smile, and…hell, offered me a ride home when I was ready to go (F was still drinking hard.)

So I fucked him in his truck, straddling him with the steering wheel pushing against my back, at a roadside rest area about 10 miles outside of town.

I don’t recall much about it, to be honest, and can’t remember his name or his face. I do remember his truck had a saddle and a coil of rope in the back. And he wore a cowboy hat. (See how clever I am? “Cowboy” #2.)

Not a very exciting story, right?  How about we sex it up?

The Story of Cowboy #2 – As It Should Have Happened

Unfortunately you don’t get a lot of background in this story, as you did in the first. When I masturbate, I get down and dirty pretty quick, instructions to make up a story or not.  All I see is myself back in that bar, with those men around me.  Three or four of them in their shitkickers and cowboy hats, drinking beer, laughing, eyeing me.  I’m in one of my short short denim skirts this time, a tank top and a pair of outrageously high heels. The kind I never would have worn back then.

And underneath my skirt, my rings are tied open by black silk cords that wrap around my thighs.

As I lean over the pool table (ostensibly to line up my shot, but we all know I can’t play worth squat) those strings are made visible.  I feel the Cowboy come up behind me and lean into me.  I can feel the scratch of his jeans against my thighs, his wool shirt against my back, a boot on the inside of one of my feet.  He holds my leg there, keeping them open without anyone really knowing what he’s doing except me.  I feel a hand on the inside of my thigh, and then, higher. I feel his fingers, rough and callused, brush against my spread cuntlips–

–and stop. I can feel his confusion as he pauses for a long moment, neither of us breathing.

And then his voice, in my ear, “Keep up what you’re doing,” he says. “Act like nothing’s going on.” I feel him square himself behind me (hiding what he’s doing from the others?) even as he edges my legs farther apart. As I pull the pool cue back to take a shot, I feel his fingers probing that open hole, tentatively at first, exploring just the edges of this bizarre configuration that W has put me into, and then more roughly.  His fingers are hard and thick, and in a moment he has shoved one into me.

I feel his cock grow hard in his jeans against the backs of my thighs.

“You fucking little whore,” he says, grinding against me.

And this is where total fantasy takes over and the story loses all sense of reality or focus.  Touching myself, the story becomes jumbled in my head with a story I read once long ago, in fact one of the first pieces of hardcore porn I ever read, in a Hustler magazine I found in my dad’s apartment.  Suddenly the Cowboy is fucking me over the pool table, still fully clothed, with the others looking on. Then they are taking turns, and then, at some point, they are fucking me with the pool cue as well.  This is a recurring fantasy derived from the original story that I read, but now, at W’s behest, it is enhanced by the added humiliation of having my rings and cuntlips tied open.

Lovely.  Nasty and sick and so fucking hot I come in about three minutes.

And that’s the story of Cowboy #2, both real and imagined.  I think we’d both have had a better time if W had been around back then.

Work from Home Wednesday

Yesterday was Work from Home Wednesday.  That’s right, I’ve changed my weekly work from home day to Wednesdays, just so I could get some alliteration.  I’m neurotic like that.

Okay, not really.  But it works nicely, huh?

Anyhow, I got to work from W’s, and boy oh boy was he back in fine fine fine Bossy Boss form!  He had several requirements for his sexretary on this day:

1. Appropriate attire, to include the proper heels
2. Hourly “Penetrations” to be documented here, on Fetlife & Twitter
3. The usual office tasks (keep the Boss’s coffee hot, correspondence, web work, etc.), many of which were to be performed during my hourly penetrations

I sported a pinstripe "suit" for work. ~clickety-click~ for the rest of the "suit"

An Accounting of My Hourly Penetrations

“You are required to be penetrated at least once per hour during the workday,” the Boss said.

8:10 am – in bed, me on top
We started before he’d told me it was a job requirement. Hey, I’m a horny girl!  It’s difficult to wake up next to W with a boner and not climb on for a morning ride…

9:43 am – bent over the desk, from behind
10:55 am – sitting on the edge of the desk
“Spread your legs,” he said. “Scoot to the edge of the desk and put your hole out here–c’mon.” He grasped me by the knees and drug me to the edge of the desk, spreading my cuntlips, opening my hole and positioning me on the edge of the desk.  I was just an open hole there for him to shove into.

An hour of work had passed since he’d last fucked me from behind, but not fucking me long enough so that I had time to come–it was just a task, he was just performing a function: achieve “full penetration” (and getting me just to the point of getting worked up) before pulling out and giving me a shove to get back to work.

Of course this was making me crazy.  Horny. Frustrated.  And having him make me open myself that way to him, on the edge of the desk–DAMN.  By the next penetration I was a hot, panting mess before we’d even started.

11:43 am – flat on my belly on the floor
He tells me to lay down on my belly, facing away from him. When I move hesitantly, unsure of what he wants, he pushes me down brusquely, pulling my legs straight, but keeping them together, and shoving me between the shoulder blades to lay flat.  “Lay on your tits,” he says, the crude word and his demeanor sending heat rushing through me even as he pushes my face against the carpet and orders me to put my hands behind my neck.  He lays on top of me, completely covering me, enveloping me with his body, pinning me, and shoves into me from behind, between my rings, which feel laced closed against him.  My face grinds into the rug and I am immobilized by his weight, and yet I am so excited I still squirm, even as he presses down harder onto me, into me.  Jesus fuck I am so incredibly worked up I can feel my wetness pouring down my thighs.  And then he is coming inside me, shuddering in his climax.  It is so unexpected and yet so fucking perfect. I am feeling a little dazed, very submissive, very used, a hole there for his use only.

12:35 pm – desk chair, me on top, reverse cowboy
During a conference call.  Even though the phone is on mute I stifle my cries as he fingers me while I slide up and down on his cock until, finally, I come, just as the call ends.  He gives me a “performance review”: “When you are on a work call you need to have your work documents up on your computer screen.”  I have no idea what was on the screen OR what the call was about.

1:35 pm – leaning over the filing drawer, from behind, while alphabetizing his files
He really DOES need a secretary, if his alphabetizing skills are any indication.

2:00 pm – from behind, standing up at his supplies closet, inventorying office supplies
He’s got LOTS of old stuff, and some I don’t even recognize!

3:59 pm – under the desk on hands and knees
Just barely made my 3pm penetration, because we’d been out to lunch.  This was degrading for some reason. And hot because it was. And I came like five times because it was. And I have a rug burn on my shoulder.

4:46 pm – on my back on the desk, legs up, hands holding my ankles
I think my brain is turned to mush. I’ve been fucked into mush. “I think you’ll need to work overtime,” he says.

5:59 pm – standing up at the shredder, from behind
Working overtime…5pm penetration almost didn’t happen in time due to equipment malfunction (office equipment, not W’s. LOL) But I made it.

6:54 pm – old school fucking, flat on my back on the Boss’s desk
Holy fuck. What a way to end the day. Oh yes.  The Boss shoots his load inside me fucking me amid the mess in the middle of his desk.  Slippery cum, Boss pleased, happy office sexretary slut-girl.

Looks like my next task should be to clean his desk, eh?

Much later, after running to Target to get me clothes suitable to wear to work the next day (this was an unexpected Wednesday Work at Home Day), curled up on the couch, I blinked blearily at W. “We played all day without actually playing,” I said, meaning no bondage, no overt BDSM play. “And yet I was really flying there by the end.”  He laughed and nodded (clearly proud of himself.)

He had fucked me into subspace.

Working Girl

Today I am supposed to be a working girl, since last week I kind of took a pass on all things work related.  Instead I am sitting here in my office, wearing a low-cut blouse, black pencil skirt and 5-inch heels, working a bit but also daydreaming, feeling like the epitome of the office bimbo–the too-sexy secretary of (probably) many a man’s fantasy.  You know, the one that bends over her Boss’s desk suggestively when she needs his signature, that will go down on him during a conference call, that lets him take her to the local no-tell motel for a quickie at lunch.

I love it.

I love this game that we play. I love being W’s office slut, his sexy secretary, his Working Girl, even when I am here and he is there.  I love it even more that he really does appreciate me for the work I do, for my professionalism and dedication, intelligence and diligence, even as he makes me his office slut, as he uses me and objectifies me and turns me into his “sexretary.”

I got ready this morning while W watched.  Ostensibly I was dressing for work, but actually I was dressing for him, wondering, as I watched his gaze take in my hair, my face, my outfit, and most of all, these ridiculously inappropriately high heels (knowing exactly why I was dressing this way, and nodding approvingly), if he’d be thinking about me all day.  About me strutting around my office in them, my coworkers checking me out; about the boy that craned his neck to watch me as I crossed the street to the Bread Co. to get my coffee; about the mothers that gave me the hairy eyeball when I dropped my son off at summer camp; about the sandwich delivery guy that I caught staring at my ass as I bent over the table in front of him to sign the credit card slip for my lunch.

I wonder and hope that he will be, but instead it is me thinking about him as I take my circumscribed steps, knowing that it is this image that turns him on–the powerful, confident woman hobbled by him, not by rope this time but by the heels he makes her wear.  I think about him as I feel the skirt and heels accentuating the flex of my calves and curve of my ass, the blouse clinging to my hips and the indent of my waist.  I think again about his eyes on me in the mirror as I made up my face and brushed out my hair, and his hand in my hair earlier that morning, in bed.  Now, my face is perfectly made up and my hair stylish in its new sleek bob, but it’s still a bit messy, as though it is remembering his hand in it as well, or as though I’d just straightened it after I’d been down on my knees in front of the Boss’s chair, his hand on my head as he held my mouth to his cock while he chatted on the phone. Merely another perk of being the Boss–having a willing, open hole to fuck whenever he desires.

The truth is not far from that–this morning in bed he rolled unceremoniously on top of me as I dozed after the alarm went off and pushed inside of me before my body had a chance to prepare: my cunt closed, tight, dry, but still, ever-willing. “You’re just a fuckhole today,” he said. “I’ll use your hole dry or wet. It makes no different to me.”  I gasped, yielded, tried to accommodate, and, as it always does, it didn’t take long for my body to respond, wetting, opening and grasping him. But it really made no difference to him–he fucked my hole until he was finished and rolled off, dismissing me. “Get ready for work,” he said.  “You’re late.”

Sitting in my office now, trying to think about work (because I know he really does want me to be a Working Girl today) my cunt gets wet again thinking instead about his casual use of my body this morning.  I know that later, alone, I will touch myself and think again of him pushing into me, shoving past the rings seemingly laced shut against him, my body dry and unprepared, and of the way my body always, in the end, opens up for him. I’ll lay in bed and slide my fingers inside myself, between my rings, and feel just how wet the thought of being his Working Girl, always ready, always willing, makes me.

Pssst–there might be a click-thru somewhere…

Rope as Foreplay

I had a sleepless night last night, but in the end it was worthwhile: I finished the edits on a story I’ve been working on with an editor and got an acceptance letter this morning. It was the first time I’ve been asked to revise a story for publication.  Always before I have had simple rejections or acceptances, with the occasional, “We really like this story, but it’s not quite right for this anthology,” type rejection (one of which, “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” I revised on my own and submitted elsewhere, where it was accepted.) Although I know a lot of writers that despise making editor-requested revisions (or refuse to do so) it was an interesting exercise for me, and in the end I think I got a better story out of it. The thing it highlighted for me was how differently I perceive rope than might the average reader.

For me, the rope itself is foreplay.  When he touches me with his rope, he is touching me with his hands, with his power, with his desire. I feel it right to my marrow. Anymore, just the scent of the hemp rope is enough to make me wet;  the sight of him picking up a piece of rope, uncoiling it, running it through his hands, makes my breath start to come quick and my pulse race.  And he hasn’t even laid a hand on me. It is intensely erotic, and for me, in writing a story about a woman and a man and a piece of rope–even if they are not engaging in overtly sexual acts–I am writing about them having sex. Because that is how I, personally respond to rope.

My story had a slow, erotic build-up to a sex scene at the end. The eroticism was derived from her reactions to the rope that bound her wrists, as opposed to anything he did sexually to her while she was bound. In fact, in its first incarnation, I deliberately made him not touch her in an overtly sexual way. The fact that he didn’t was erotic (and frustrating) to her, just as it would be to me. I’d be on fire, feeling the rope, knowing what could happen, waiting and anticipating.  It would be–and is–a delicious agony, as I wait for what I know must come (in my case either pleasure or pain.)  My story was a subtle attempt to highlight this, and, as such, for another ropeslut such as me, it would probably be highly effective.  But as “mainstream” erotica dealing with power dynamics in relationships, it didn’t convey the sexual punch that the editor was looking for.

“More sex,” was basically what I was told. I was a little nonplussed by that at first. What? The entire story is one long sex scene!  But then I went back and reread it.  Objectively.  And I saw exactly what she was saying.

This is my reality. The picture below is of a scene we did that, on the surface, seems…static maybe.

And for the first half hour-ish, this was all that happened. Well okay, he started out by making me sit at his feet while he sat in a chair, and suck his cock while he tied my wrists to my upper arms, first one, then the other, all the while pushing my head down on his cock whenever I came up for breath.  But when he put me on the floor, that is exactly how I stayed.

What you don’t see is me writhing, not fighting the ropes, but to grind my cunt against the floor.  Opening and closing my legs as far as the ropes would allow, thrusting and pushing as waves of heat and lust washed over me.  The smell and feel of the rope was intoxicating, but it was the sound of the rope hitting the floor behind me, as W coiled and uncoiled it, the thumps of it on the hard wood, that sent shudders through me.

By the time we got around to this part:

I was already so worked up I could have come if he’d blown air on me.  I burned, with anticipation, with frustration, with the need to feel his hands on my skin, my ass, my cunt–and with the uncertainty of what exactly he was going to do.

As it was, sitting on me backwards, grinding my nipple collars into the floor, and mauling my ass, shoving his fingers inside me and in general handling me like a piece of meat, did the trick quite well.  But the point is, I am almost convinced that given enough time to squirm on the floor, I could have come without him touching me at all. I was that aroused just by the feel, sound and scent of his rope on me.

In any case, I went back and revised my story, adding in some actual foreplay, and using orgasm control and denial as the vehicle by which I highlighted her building anticipation and frustration.  And really? For the average reader, I think it works better.

But for me…for me sometimes the rope is foreplay enough.

His Girl

“I want you to stay here after it’s over,” he said. “I’ll want to get my girl back.”

There are all sorts of aftercare.  I usually tend to think in terms of my needs for it, as do most people; a bottom’s needs for some kind of care after an intense or physically demanding scene are usually pretty obvious.  My needs vary, depending on the type (and severity) of the scene. Sometimes I bounce right back up, ready for more; sometimes I tease, play and joke; sometimes I need an hour or even a couple of days to recover, with commensurate aftercare by one or both guys.  Sometimes the aftercare I need is of a physical nature: a blanket, arms to hold me, hydration, a quiet space to come back to earth.  Other times it is emotional: kind words, a reconnecting, being told I did well or that he is proud of me. A lot of times, part of my own aftercare–especially after emotionally-charged scenes–is in allowing myself to noodle through the experience, to pull it apart and examine it, parsing the experience out piece by piece as I try to gain an understanding of what I went through, physically and emotionally.  All of these needs are well-documented and usually catered to very well; my guys like me to recover well and fully so that they can do it all over to me again.

I don’t know if W’s need to “have his girl back,” after it was over was exactly an expression of an aftercare need, but I do know that what he was saying, that he wanted me back, his Jade, not the piece of voiceless fuckmeat I had been reduced to, was as deep a need for me as it was for him.

I wanted to feel sex with him as a connection to him, as a bonding with him, not as something remote and emotionless and mechanical that was being done to me. I needed to feel him, to see him–the man, not what he had had to become in order to use me, and allow me to be used, the way he had.

Sex for us is always heavily charged with overtones of dominance and submission. It can’t help but be, that is who we are with each other, it drives our sexuality and feeds our arousal.  It is often rough and at times trips along the tricky line of consensual-non-consent. But even at its roughest, even when he is subjugating and dominating and forcing and hurting and pushing and taking, there is always a connection between us. There is at its core this thing between us, the emotional heart of what we feel for each other, and even as I am opening up my body to him I am opening up my heart, and I know that he is sharing his with me.

That was, of course, absent from the scene the night before.

I recognized very early on in the scene, before I went into that no-space, that having lost the ability to communicate–to speak–had a very profound affect on me.  In fact I think that may have been the strongest contributing factor to how deep I went, and how quickly.  For instance, that picture I posted in yesterday’s post? I had no idea that I had been smeared with the oils and paints that the other Top likes to use.  I remember one very clear detail: after they had shackled me, and the other Top had cut off my clothes, he came at me with the oil.  I recall that moment very clearly, and then seeing the paint container in his hand, but then nothing else of him painting me at all.  It was not until I saw the photo that I even realized he had covered me with it.  I was that removed from my own body and what was being done to it.  Oh, I came back, but that was later, after they had removed the “no speaking” restriction.  Then I was back to myself: I was playful, and laughed and teased and bratted. And even later, in the car on the way home, I was wildly aroused and excited, and tried to get W to let me fuck him while we drove (he didn’t. LOL)  But there is that whole space of time when I simply wasn’t there.

In thinking about it now, I actually recognize the space I went as being very similar to ponyspace. There, too, my voice is taken from me. There, too, I am a dumb animal, reduced to a body, an animal, although in the case of Onyx, a much-loved, cared-for, pampered animal. I don’t exactly disassociate with my body in ponyspace, as much as with W and Ad as men, as sexual partners.  They are my humans in that space, my handlers, not my lovers.

W was most certainly not my lover that night.  I lost all connection with him as my lover, and was definitely no longer “his girl.”  Which was exactly what he was looking for, I think. I was as much a collection of holes to him that night as I was to myself.  If it had that profound an affect on me, wouldn’t it have on him? His statement beforehand that he would need to “get his girl back” may have been for my benefit, but I don’t know.  Playing this way is edgy for us both.

So yesterday, even after being used that long and hard, even though I was so sore, I still needed sex with him.  Desperately.

That was the aftercare I needed.  And that I think he, too, needed.

And he obliged.  Oh, it wasn’t sweet love-making.  Even as aftercare it is never that (and wouldn’t work if it was.)  He hoisted me up on his desk and fucked me there next to my computer, whispering dirty things in my ear.  He pushed me to my knees in front of him on the couch and told me to hump myself on his leg until I came while giving him head.  And then he came, groaning as he filled my mouth.  He held me, one arm around my throat, while I masturbated to an orgasm, because I’d been distracted by giving him head (yeah, not so much a multi-tasker in that respect.) And later…later, in bed that night, he pushed himself into me and filled that empty space inside me, the space that was still “no-space” with his come as well.  And it was in that moment, as he held me tight, releasing himself into me, that I finally, truly, came back to myself.  That I became “his girl” again.

A Collection of Holes

Sometimes, a scene can get hotter in the remembering of it.

I know, that sounds counter-intuitive, or maybe like it wasn’t hot in the doing of it, but that’s not exactly true.  It’s…more complex than that.  And less, in a weird way.

I’m not really sure I can even verbalize what I mean.  I am pondering, and noodling, and turning it over in my head.

I’ll start backwards, and see if I can get there, make sense, that way.

This morning I woke up feeling pretty low, maybe even negative, about the scene last night. I recognize, now that I am out of that headspace, that this is actually a typical emotional reaction for me to the type of scene we did: very sexual, very objectifying, very degrading. Feeling an emotional backlash after that should be expected, but for some reason I am always taken by surprise when I wake up this way, and this morning was no exception.

So what was I negative about?

The set-up for the scene was incredibly hot. W has a friend that he has allowed to play with me before.  The guy comes in to town, gets a hotel room, and W takes me to him and allows him to do degrading things to me while he watches, and occasionally joins in.This time the scene was going to be decidedly less corporal than last time; more sexual.  W wants to get me gang-banged at some point, and this was his “calibration” to see how I’d do being fucked (and fucked, and fucked) for hours at a time.  What made it hot was that from the moment I went thru the door of the hotel until we left 5 hours later (me in W’s undershirt, high heels and nothing else) I was not allowed to speak.  I was an object, a collection of holes, a body to be used.

And use me they did. Hard, every hole, with hands and objects and cocks, until I was “used up,” as W put it, and barely able to function, much less speak. W’s objective of turning me into a “thing,” into “fuckmeat,” was well accomplished. But I didn’t really get how well it was accomplished until today, when we debriefed about the scene. In fact, all I had was this vague sense of unease, of feeling as though I had somehow failed, that centered around the fact that my memories of the night were so unclear and out of focus I couldn’t really remember what had happened, except for the fact that I do know neither man had an orgasm.

Okay, so yeah, let me just get it out there: sex just doesn’t feel complete when the guy doesn’t come. I have learned to accept that W doesn’t always come every time he fucks me, but that’s because I know that he enjoys it just as much as if he had. Hell, maybe more, because I think sometimes he doesn’t allow himself to orgasm as an extension of his power over me, and that that psychological edge is more fulfilling to him than the physical release might be. And, in the end, though it may be after two days of fucking me and hurting me and making me suck his cock, I win he eventually does lose control allow himself to come.  But generally, with the general populace, having an orgasm is a pretty good indication that “I did my job well.” I know, I know that isn’t really the case, and that, especially in BDSM, coming isn’t always or the only goal. But, damn, it just feels good (mentally and physically) when they do.

So that was a start to why I was feeling off, and what I communicated to W. And we talked about it…

And as we talked, I started to realize that even that part of it was objectifying.  They just used my holes. In and out. I came that night, twice that I remember, but even that wasn’t the objective, as it is so many times when W puts me thru hours of marathon sex. They didn’t care if I came.  They didn’t care if they came.  It wasn’t about sexual satisfaction or gratification.  It was about using me, using my body, a set of orifices.  My body came because it is trained to do so, because it simply can’t help but come when it is stimulated certain ways.  But it had nothing to do with me, with Jade.  It was my body reacting to physical stimuli.  And it was only in remembering that, in thinking about it, that how really fucking hot it was set in to my brain.

There was something else that happened during the scene that I didn’t recognize until we started talking about it.  I went to a space that I never have before.  When I said I was fuzzy and couldn’t remember clearly what happened? What I realized was that that was because I truly had gone into that headspace where W had put me.  He accomplished it far better than I think even he knew until we talked about it. I had shut off.  My brain had turned off so completely that I was, simply, an empty body, meat, a collection of holes to be used by them.  Stunned into insensibility and numbness.

It makes my cunt ache, just thinking about it.