In the Pink

“Welcome,” you say, although you always pronounce it “well-cum”.

You lean back and look at me, taking in what you see. Five foot seven inches in heels, blue jeans, snug black low-necked t-shirt, pink-streaked blonde, curvy.

“You’re wearing far too much clothing.”

I remove my heels, then my t-shirt, then my jeans.

You take my hand and draw me towards you. Encircle my waist and hold me close to you. Your warm breath softly caresses my ear.

“You’re still overdressed.”

“I’m overdressed? Me?” (In other words, I stand here before you in bra and panties, and you’re fully clothed!)

A sharp, stinging slap on my ass elicits a gasp of shocked pleasure.

“Yes. Fix it.”

I step out of my lacy black panties, and slower than i need to, i unhook and slide off my matching bra.

Your hands reach for me, holding each of my breasts in turn, before you grab my nipple and pull me closer toward you. I’m already wet, and desperate for you to feel it, but I know the way you think:

"There’s no rush. Langsam. All in good time."

You hold out your wrist to me. I unbutton your cuffs, one by one.

I slide your shirt off you, and drape it carefully across the chair.

I kneel down to unlace and remove your shoes, and then your socks.

I unbuckle your belt.

I unhook and unzip your smart businesslike trousers. They fall to the floor with a jingle and a thump (how you move with all the gadgets and tzatzkes attached to them is a mystery to me).

I slide down to remove your underwear, until I’m resting on my knees, close enough to breathe on your skin, but taking no specific action until — unless — requested. (That would be topping from the — ahem — bottom.)

One of your hands on my face, the other on my shoulder. Your arms about me, stroking my back and my front. Our bodies pressed close together. You stroke my hair.

“My cunning linguist Pink Tabby. How are you?”

I feel like I belong to you, in this moment. I am no longer a cat who walks by herself. Symbolic gestures or pieces of leather are unnecessary, and hold no significant meaning for either of us. That which flows between us — that special way in which we commune, the almost telepathic mental connection, the constantly growing list of cannot-possibly-be-only-coincidences, the myriad likes and dislikes we share.

In this moment, it’s only you and I. No one else exists.

As if to seal the deal, you kiss me. I love the sweet way you always moisten your lips before moving in for the kill. I adore the soft touch of your mouth on mine. Being with you is like coming home.

You astounded me, when first we met, by assuring me that BDSM was not all about the fast, the hard, the rough, the extreme touch. That tenderness was a realistic expectation as much as a much-anticipated brutal flogging — that being aroused by either or both, in their specific circumstance, was not contradictory. In this kiss, you bring tenderness, and so much more.

And then you wind your fingers into my hair, and pull — intensifying my sensations to the point where my senses collide and I can feel the subspace, as though it were a chasm over which I were suspended.

The ceremony is over, but our time together is only just beginning.

I love Stephen Colbert, and would do him in an instant -- for hours. Days even.

Watch and laugh -- I challenge you not to.

http://www.vidaddict.com/steven-colbert-cant-help-but-break-character/

Another one from the vaults.

It’s the voice.

The timbre, the resonance. The depth, the volume, the slight catch that betrays your hidden desire.

Or not so hidden, perhaps? I can’t see you right now, but if I could, my bet is that you’d have a boy scout troop tugging at your sleeve hopefully, while eyeing the crotch of your jeans.

(Yes, those really gorgeous, sexy, beat-up, old blue jeans that you like to wear. The ones that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Not too tight, not too loose, molding to your cute ass when you stood washing the wine glasses. And there was I, admiring the view and shivering internally at how i planned to run my hands over your ass at the earliest given opportunity.)

Either way, my ear presses hard against the phone, straining to catch every nuance, every sound. I love how deep and sexy your voice is as it rumbles into my ear. I love the way you smile as you say my name, and the shiver it sends down my spine.

Especially when you’re feeling calm and relaxed. The lazy way your honeyed tones flow out, saying my name, or merely whispering “Is that good, baby? You like that?” as you slide a finger in and out of me, deliberately and slowly.

Surrounded by stone clad jacuzzi walls, the echo caresses me. This time it’s all about you; your reaction to a foot massage. Clearly I’ve struck the right chord with you, as your sighs verge on the orgasmic. It must have been a hard couple of days, but now you’re relaxing your body, and the noises you are making reflect this.

But you know which vocal sound delights me the most. As I move my mouth up and down on you, my tongue lapping at you, my teeth tracing delicate and depraved patterns up and down your shaft, as my hand gently teases your balls. The joy and pleasure in your voice is the ultimate in sexy for me, when you moan and mumble incoherently. Then afterwards, when you kiss me tenderly, and move your mouth against my ear so that I can hear your sultry whisper as I feel your breath against my ear and neck, and all the hairs stand up all over my body with the rush of excitement that you cause me:

“Oh my god… you do that even better than you write it.”

The moment that you feel his hand on your flesh, that’s when you know.

Not all trysts work this way, it can be freely admitted. But there are occasions where you instinctively know that the owner of said hand is one with whom there is something very unusual and special going on.

You know for sure that you two have connected in a very unique way; that the sex will be of the mind-blowing, furniture-moving, scrape-me-off-the-ceiling variety… These are usually the times where you have cause to feel as though an electric shock just ripped straight through you, from nipples-to-cunt, with a nod and a wave at your g-spot.

And you’re right. A casual touch over a table in a restaurant, as he passes you the soy sauce. You take a lump of wasabi with chopsticks clutched in trembling fingers — what the fuck was that?! Your skin is tingling as though you’ve just been rubbed with mentholated cream, and your heart is beating faster than it should.

You take a deep breath, and try to compose yourself, but there’s no point. You don’t really want to. Such levels of connection are so rare and so precious that you want to savor every second, but still cannot quite help your knee-jerk reaction to deny it, suppress it, re-normalize the situation. Each attempt you make is very clearly in vain.

Nothing seems normal at the moment, but you revel in the abnormality. This is what you thrive on, and you plan to utilize it to the max.

The remains of the miso soup and the tuna tataki are arranged in that lackadaisical manner that the leftover food from a carefully ordered meal is wont to take; sprawled in disarray over the dishes where once they were heaped so beautifully.

And you two sit, exhausted from the effort of eating, but exhilarated at what is to come. From the moment your fingertips touched you knew that you had connected in that amazingly intimate, physical way, and the countdown was on till the required niceties were out of the way and you could be alone.

Although, if the truth be told, both of you had, at separate times, considered sweeping the dishes onto the floor, throwing the other over the table and fucking them senseless. Said thought had rendered the thinker speechless for a while; which had actually gone unnoticed due to the disproportionate amount of body language being used as the primary means of conversation.

Bills are paid and you leave, and as you do, your hands bump against each other, which immediately becomes a firm handhold. The urgency is palpable and rising, and you know that it doesn’t matter where, or what, but you must be alone with him now. Now. NOW! Apparently he feels the same as he drags you down the side street where his car is parked and almost throws you up against it, much as you might have thrown him over the restaurant table, and kisses you for the first time.

It’s amazing how much a kiss can convey; how it surpasses speech in its communicative ability. You know what he is thinking, feeling, needing and wanting — and he knows the same about you.

It’s only a matter of time before it happens. The time it will take for you to drive there. A journey which will not allow you to separate your hands, and a destination where the remainder of your bodies will continue what the hands started.

And all this you know, from his touch.

Another of the "From The Vaults" series.

I was hoping to see that look in your eyes.

Not that there is anything to complain about the various ways in which you’ve looked at me so far.

You’ve looked at me with anticipation, that time when your toes touched innocently touched mine, and we sat, talking about anything and everything while our feet played footsie, and neither of us acknowledged the exchange of electrical current. Until, of course, you stood up, pulled me to my feet and kissed me until i thought I’d never breathe again .

You’ve looked at me with interest, when we spoke of the way in which i do my work, and i demonstrated for you how capable i am professionally. You liked my enthusiasm, my dedication, the fact that I know what I’m talking about — and you even looked at me admiringly because of it.

And, of course, you’ve looked at me with deep desire. Many times in the past. The first time over a warm and frothy drink that i — most unusually for me — had absolutely no interest in from the split second in which your eyes met mine, just before you took my hand and kissed my lips, lightly but with passion that conveyed quite how much desire lay behind your gaze.

And many times in the future, i most sincerely hope.

No, no, I’m not complaining. Not at all. It was just a hope… a wish. That as I walked in through the door the other day, that you’d give me that look.

Oh, you know the one.

That look that says you want me, right then, right there, bent double over the kitchen counter, clothes half-on, half-off, half-strewn over chairs and free-standing kitchen units, hands on bare raw flesh, fiery lips igniting equally , explosive raw passion setting our bodies alight as they touch, causing the familiar spontaneous combustion for this position but so much hotter and faster and furious than usual that i have no time for thought, no time to consider, just to respond with matching passion, and heat, and fury until we finally burn out and collapse exhausted into each other.

Yeah, that one.

Previously on In the Pink:

Frissons of excitement ran across my skin, as I felt his hand move across and down my body languorously, until he reached my breast and gave it a playful slap. I gasped in surprise as much as anything, and hummed happily.

My adventure was just beginning.

*****************************************************************

I must state something about the way we were looking at each other. The attraction was so intense, so very strong, that each time our eyes met I felt as though their imprint was burned right into the back of my skull.

“I’m not sure what to do… or not to do,” I whispered.

“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” he replied. “I’m not going to bark orders at you like a drill sergeant, I’m just going to show you and tell you what to do, and you’ll do it. And you’ll love the outcome, you must trust me with that. OK?”

I nodded wordlessly, my eyes never leaving his. The beauty of it was how it felt so natural. There was no sense of chastisement, no feeling of being looked down upon or ridiculed. I had absolutely no sense of dis-empowerment, which I think is the key. As a dear friend had once said to me about a good D/s connection, it’s a two-way street. Essentially, the sub is the one calling the shots, because s/he can have absolute trust and faith in his/her dominant, and this in turn means that any eventual outcome will be mutually beneficial.

He positioned me as he wanted me — my arms above my head, secured by one of his big, strong hands. (Mmmm. Tennis players. Mmmm.) He lifted one of my legs, and placed it up high, with my foot on his shoulder. He then positioned himself above me, his cock poised at the entrance to my cunt, which was extremely wet and slippery by this stage.

“Stay still,” he said. I nodded.

Our eyes still locked, he slid inside me slowly. This not being the the first time we’d fucked, it wasn’t a new sensation to feel his cock enveloped by my taut vaginal muscles, but it felt as good as it ever had, if not better. Once all the way inside, he remained motionless for what seemed like an hour, but couldn’t have been more than a minute. I said nothing, and gave no indication of the desperate yearning I felt to feel him thrust in and out of me. I just lay there, supine, my eyes burning back into his. I knew I was being tested, and I was determined to succeed with flying colors.

Eventually he began to pump in and out of me, and involuntarily I let out a grunt of satisfaction. He smiled at me, as he moved within me, and then slapped my left buttock, as he increased the intensity of his thrusting.

Damn, but it felt so good.

He lowered his face to mine.

“Kiss me.”

I obliged. That man could kiss. Goddamn! Apparently, he thought the same of me. He moaned softly, and gently bit my lip.

“Oh my god, I love the way you kiss. Where did you learn to kiss like that?”

I giggled, despite myself. “Kissing school, of course. Where else?”

As he fucked me so deliberately and slowly, I grew slightly in confidence.

“May i ask you something?” I inquired.

“Yes, Lilly, of course. (Damn, but i love fucking you.” he hissed. “Your pussy is so warm and tight around my cock… god, it’s incredible.) Ask whatever you like.”

“Can i sit astride you? Is it OK if i ask that? I mean, you’d want me to ask for that and only act on it when given permission, right? Am i getting this sub thing right?”

He increased the pressure and pace of his now far-less-leisurely fucking motion.

“Of course you must ask. You’re learning fast, and you’re doing very well, Lilly. And yes, you can get on top of me… but not yet.”

He suddenly withdrew, and shifted himself so that he was in front of me, with his hands under my knees, lifting them.

“Right now, I’m going to taste your pussy. You must lie very still. I mean it. Don’t move.”

He bent his head until his lips were touching my labia, but so softly that i felt my ass clench in anticipation.

“No moving, Lilly. Stay absolutely still.”

I did as I was bid. His tongue tickled my clit, bringing me to near-orgasmic status, and then tantalizingly leaving me hanging. I groaned.

“Please make me come.”

“All in good time, Lilly. Patience.” And with that, he removed his mouth from my clit, and shifted onto the bed in front of me.

I wasn’t sure whether i should ask from my position as submissive — but curiosity got the better of me, and I’d already warned Iain that i wasn’t very good at being submissive — so i cautiously asked him what he was doing.

He smiled. “Just watching you. I love looking at you. You’re so sexy.”

He moved forward until his knees were straddling my chest, and gently slapped my face with his cock. I looked at him, and he nodded at me almost imperceptibly. I opened my mouth and he slid his cock into my throat, and began fucking my face.

It wasn’t the first time that thoughts had passed between us in such a psychic manner — another fact that had me reeling. I think this was partly why i trusted him, because i knew where his head was, and that he meant every word he said, sincerely and from the heart.

He deepthroated me with his cock and i lapped eagerly at him, gagging slightly but remembering to breathe through my nose, and relax my throat as much as i could.

“Good girl,” he praised me. “Take it in as far as you can.”

I obliged. Cocksucking is a matter of pride to me. I always do my best, because i love to give pleasure that way. However, I’d never been in this physical position before, but I was adjusting. Kinda.

He fucked my face for a few more minutes, and then shifted once again, so that he was lying on top of me, our faces very close together.

“Kiss me,” he said. Once again, i obliged. Once again, I swooned. He slid his cock into me, as though it was the most natural thing in the world and together our mutual fucking rhythm began again, except this time it was hot and fast and furious. We were both nearing our respective apex and needed to get there soon.

His eyes never broke from mine, as, intent on our mutual goal, we moved together, like a well-rehearsed piece of modern choreography. I could feel the mantle of orgasm begin to cloak me as he slapped my thigh — once! twice! — and then my ass — yes! hit me! yes! — and i heard myself cry out in joy as i saw his face contort and my own peak came closer as he bucked and he shuddered, and he came and I came, and i called out his name and he called out mine, as he held me tightly to him and i could smell his very wonderful earthy manly smell as i shook and convulsed and gradually subsided and he did the same and i felt his cock pulsate within me and i laughed and he laughed and we lay there together laughing quietly until we were both contented and silent and spent.'

****************************************************************

I still see Iain, from time to time. You can understand why.

Written way back when, to describe an experience that records the beginnings of my BDSM journey. History in the making, if you like. Enjoy.

**********************************

Exclusivity is simply not my thing. Never has been, really. Experience is everything, feelings are secondary. That is, until the feelings become primary. Not to mention, primal. Yeah baby. I want to feel, i want to know, i want to experience everything. While obviously ensuring my own safety, I’m open to pretty much any kind of sexual experience that i can think of — the caveat being that they have to turn me on.

Well honestly, what is the point otherwise?

The sort of screaming, pumping, amazing wild-monkey sex that so many people write of had always been a closed book to me. The planets didn’t align properly for me to even begin to understand the endless possibilities of sex until i hit my prime, which unlike Miss Jean Brodie, was 35, with no discernible affection for Fascism.

But once i got it… whoo-hoo mama. There began the eternal quest for adventures, encounters and experiences. You have read of many of my adventures here in these pages — and it is my fervent wish that you will continue to do so. Reports are subjective, as far as the way in which my memory works. And nothing is ever chronological. It’s all a case of what tickles my memory with its sensuously long fingers in a particular week.

And this week it’s the turn of screaming, pumping, amazing wild-monkey sex. To quote Mia Wallace, as she wipes her nose of telltale snowy residue prior to returning to her table, “Goddamn, i said goddamn!”

**********************

You heard me speak of my wish to begin experimenting in restraint and BDSM. Control is always the issue for me. I often feel as though my real life — and yes, i do have one — is spinning out of control on a regular basis. It’s therefore time to put down the laptop (for this, read prise it out of my hands) and exert some of my well-worn and born of long experience control mechanisms and functions, and calmly bring the situation back to Normal status.

Therefore, when the issue of control enters the sexual arena in which i voluntarily place myself, it’s hard for me to let go. Hard, but not impossible. If the right person is there, whom I can fully trust.

That was Iain.

Iain and I were separated in age by only a few months,, and in height by just the requisite number of inches to make me feel petite and protected when he held me close to him. We met at a conference that i was attending as a correspondent for my employers, and he was a key note speaker.

We quickly established the kind of bond that proves that not only do pheromones exist, but that they have a wild side. Instant attraction on the eye, compounded by a sudden realization that we had felt very similarly when I’d conducted a phone interview with him a while previously, but due to pressures of professionalism were unable to act on anything.

This, however, was different. We met in the refectory of the college where the conference was being held, over a casual and excellently strong coffee. Through no more mundane a coincidence than table-sharing, we quickly established who we were, who the other was, and what time we’d both be free to meet later.

I don’t waste time when i don’t have to. Impatience is one of my worst flaws.

We had a connection from the get-go. That was very clear. We both thought of similar things at the same time, and tended to have the experience of one person sharing while the other gasped and said “I was just about to say that!”. The initial rapport and attraction grew rapidly, enabling us to shed both our inhibitions and our clothing with great speed. And the fucking was something brand new to me. Not only was it of the screaming, pumping, amazing wild-monkey variety, but the almost other-worldly compatibility had me more breathless than i already was after fucking solidly for two hours.

As we lay, limbs entwined and tangled, realizing that we couldn’t stop touching each other even for a second, the conversation returned to one we’d started earlier… about control and submission. I felt so secure, and at ease, that I told him what i was feeling at that moment; although hearing it loud came as nearly as much of a shock to me as it did to him.

“I’d love it if you took control. I trust you.”

A moment of stunned silence passed before he recovered himself, and smiled into my eyes, before kissing me deeply.

“You won’t regret it. I won’t do anything to you beyond what you can take. And I’ll listen to you, I promise. If you want me to stop at any time, you can say so — just be sure that you mean it.”

Frissons of excitement ran across my skin, as I felt his hand move across and down my body languorously, until he reached my breast and gave it a playful slap. I gasped in surprise as much as anything, and hummed happily.

My adventure was just beginning.

I can see the future.

The image is not as clear-cut as one might hope, but is less blurry than one might fear.

I see the past clearer, but that’s a given — the past is a reflection of what has been, and is, as so we well know, 20:20.

In the past, I see the comforting strong arms holding her passionately, kissing her as her knees buckle, preventing her from slumping to the floor in a delirious heap.

In the past, I see her, half-naked and half-delirious, legs akimbo, head thrown back, writhing in ecstasy. I hear the guttural sounds of unadulterated and pure joy escape her lips as his tongue and teeth work their magic on her. I see her shudder to a thundering climax that seems to last for hours – and then another, almost concurrent, shakes her into further frenzy.

In the past I see his lips meet hers, and hear them murmur to each other through passionate kisses. Not words per se, but sounds of acquiescence and wonder, or warmth and affection, of sensuality and desire.

Looking forward, the images are not so sharp, but they are very real.

I see two figures, sans attire. She is restrained, arms secured firmly to the side. He is poised above her, teasing her body with licks and nips wherever he pleases. He has her at his mercy, or so it would seem, much to the delight of them both.

I see him straighten, and the reposition himself to thrust into her — but he stops with only an inch of cock inside her yearning cunt. Their eyes meet and each holds the others’ gaze, each willing the other to break first — he for her to beg, her for him to fuck her, hard… just as they both know they want him to. Eventually, she cracks.

“Fuck me.”

“What? Say again.”

“Fuck me.”

“Do what? Why? Tell me.”

“Fuck me. Now. FUCK ME NOW.”

“Tell me why.”

“You want it.”

“And?”

“I want it.”

“And?”

“You need to be inside me.”

“And?”

“I need you inside me.”

“Magic word?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please … you know what!”

“No. Say it. Tell me. Articulate.”

“Please fuck me.”

“That’s a start. Give me more.”

“Please slide your cock inside me.”

“More.”

“Please fuck me before I explode with frustrated desire. Please… just, for the love of god, just please fuck me now.”

“Because?”

“Because I need you inside me. Because you arouse me beyond belief. Because I want us to meld. Because… I can’t focus anymore… goddamit — please!”

It is there that the future dissipates. The vision swims and swirls before my eyes, and I cannot see what happens next.

Will he fuck her, slam himself into her, make her scream with ecstasy?

I prophesize that he will.

Another one from the vaults. Enjoy.

*******************************************

I call him a couple of hours ahead of schedule, on a day when we had planned to meet anyway, and inform him that I feel the need to push a limit.

"I feel the need for intensity. I need a release of some sort, and I'm pretty damn amazed that I can even recognize and articulate that, never mind that I have a legitimate and flexible outlet in which to do so. Will you help me? Does that fit with your evil, mean and rotten feline plans for the day?"

There is a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone, and then a question.

"Intensity, hmm? I'm surrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre I can think of something that will help you. Would you be willing to improvise with me according to whatever role-play i come up with?"

I nod, and then, realizing that a nod is not audible, affirm this verbally.

"So, it's OK with you?"

No answer, save an evil feline snigger, and a low, ominous purr. (I love when he gets ominous.)

Fast forward to later that day. As always, I have stripped to his command, and then lovingly and carefully removed his clothing, and we are naked and facing each other. After the usual preliminaries, and an extra hug or two, just because he wants them, he grabs me by the hair, and twists my face to look at him.

"You have been abducted by the Big Bad Cat from the Great Ship Feline. You are my captive."

Our eyes met, and I smile widely.

"I'm your captive? OK. So you're my captor."

"That is correct."

My love of wordplay gets the better of me. Captive? Captor? An abductee of an evil, mean and rotten feline? Surely it would better read a "Cat-piv" taken by a "Cat-por", or, to stretch the rules of spelling completely, "Catpaw". I mention as much to the man holding me by my hair, looking deep into his crystal-blue eyes, and am rewarded by the twinkling smile that makes my senses tingle.

"OK, then Catpiv -- get on the bed. On all fours."

Fastening leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles, he secures me to the bed with canvas tapes.

"We alien Felines need to probe you for information," he purrs, sliding his fingers into me. I gasp -- usually he'll start with two or three and work his way up through four to a whole fist. Today, there are four fingers curling into me and i can feel his thumb exerting exquisite pressure on the nubbin of skin covering my clit, moving it gently up and down but not actually indulging me by stroking the clit itself in any way.

The pleasure factor is immense, and it's so early on in the game! I asked for intense, and intense is what I'm getting.

Once he has worked my cunt into a bubbling frenzy, loosening and relaxing the muscles enough, he slides his fist into me, and begins to pound my G-spot. I gasp, and cry out, and it only increases his efforts. Leaning over me, he reaches underneath and pinches a nipple until the pain crackles through me from stem to... well, clit, and then I feel him nibble on my ear. I gush, hearing the splatter onto the quilt, amazing myself at the quantity -- I sound like I've let loose the fucking Hoover dam!

I struggle to maintain my all-fours position, as his weight is entirely on me. He senses this and removes himself, only to untie two of the four restraints and flip me over, so he can access my soft, white, under-side with greater ease.

And then he really goes to town.

I lose myself. Initially, I lose my first two or three layers of reality, and slip into a subspacial haze of happy bliss. He flogs me, not so much harder than before, but more. Just more. Then the subspace engulfs me and I float away, aware of all that is occurring, and yet detached in the best kind of way.

He beats my lily-white (though fast reddening) ass with a bendy cane, real cane, not bamboo, and then applies lavender oil and caressing strokes to ease the effects. He holds me tight, and kisses me, and generally plays an appasionata furioso, using me as though my body were a Stradivarius violin, and he were Yehudi Menuhin.

Lovingly he leads me over to the bed, and gently rubs the tender spots. Then, with no time to even think he snaps me out of my subspace, and orders me to bend over.

"Like this?" I ask, feet on the floor, hands down on the bed.

"Almost. Spread those legs further. Yes. Wider... yes."

I feel the ice-cold glass slide into me before i register what it is. My glass friend, the handmade glass dildo... and he's frozen it, god bless his evil cattish heart. I never stand much of a chance around my glass friend. Three or four thrusts into me and I'm moaning, a further couple (pound, pound) and I wail as though I'm a banshee, and the girl-juice ("cunt-juice" as he likes to call it) hits the floor with an immensely splashy clatter.

A pause for effect, as the thrusting slows, then stops, and he hugs me from behind.

"I've wet the floor," I murmur.

He smiles, and the blue eyes twinkle at me

"Yes, but at least that means that there will be a dry spot for us to lie on, on the bed."

"You mean...?"

"Yes. Time to indulge in the Cat-por's favourite ritual. The post-coital cuddle."

Intensity doesn't get any better than this.

The wail that bursts forth from me at the point of complete surrender is almost primordial in its nature.

Orgasm was not always a noisy experience for me. Borne of a combination of immaturity, and having my sexual learning curve experienced under mostly dormitory conditions, silence was a skill I learned to equate with reaching my orgasmic apex.

Not any more.

It used to be all about pleasure. My pleasure. Regardless of how much I enjoyed pleasuring a guy — and I really do take great pride in making someone else happy — my orgasm was about me achieving those pinnacles of wailing ecstasy.

This was before I discovered my G-spot, before I knew of female ejaculation, and loooooong before I knew what it was like to experience such a thing — and even longer before I knew what BDSM really was.

My first orgasm — my first real, hit-that-spot, “holy FUCK what was that?” moment, was with a boy from the US, whom I met while on kibbutz. Until then, masturbation had been a comfort thing for me. This guy hit the spot, and had me shuddering silently into his shoulder, amazed that what had up until now been a passable way to spend a quiet afternoon could have such incredibly cataclysmic results.

In a good way.

But my reaction, while real, and quite noticeable to said boy, was silent. Like I said, dormitory life had a strong influence on the ease with which I allowed myself to express myself vocally. Or lack thereof.

Fast forward to my first fisting. Also my first ejaculation — well, the first that emanated from within me, as opposed to being sprayed in me, up me or over me. My verbal expression was less muted, but still more of an occasional grunt or cry.

Fast forward (again) to today.

Orgasms — despite the ritual fetish of denial that accompanies them — are abundant, lavish and — well, put it this way. there’s not a dry eye in the house. Or a dry anything, come to that.

But the vocal appreciation of same is on a whole new level.

The wails that burst forth from me come from a place that could be described by archeologists as newly discovered. Hitherto I had been completely unaware of the depth of emotion within me that was accessible.

The sounds I make now are an abandonment of consciousness, a wail directly from my soul. They seem to last forever, although of course they don’t — but an untold and unfathomable length of wailed joyous expression goes by before i am silent again, save huge, shuddering gasps of air that reinflate my lungs.

It’s a whole new level of ecstasy. A new experience on every level. I think it’s as much about with whom I experience this pleasure as the nature of the experience itself. The pleasure that the achievment of my orgasm gives the the one who permits me, encourages me and draws it forth from me, is palpable, fundamental and almost tangible in its nature.

Which makes the whole experience a hundred times better.

A thousand, even.

😄