In the Pink

Continuing the series of re-posting vintage pieces that I wrote in the past, originally published here or elsewhere. The following is a classic piece, written about 3 years ago.

"Give me one," he says to me. I am lying spread across the bed, arms and legs secured akimbo, a warm muffler as a blindfold across my eyes.

He is half-sitting and half-lying on and over me, stroking my skin, pinching me and flicking me, mini-slapping me with various pervertible slapping devices (beer mat, bookmark, bouncy rubber cat toy) to the sound of me yelping in pain and then sighing with ecstasy alternately.

Every so often he leans over me, his face so close to mine i can sense the warmth of him. I lift my head, hoping to catch his lips with mine in a warm and passionate kiss -- and every so often he indulges me. But not always. This is, after all, his game. He makes the rules.

And how I love how he does so.

He pinches my clit, until I scream in ecstatic agony -- and give him my orgasm, right into his palm.

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

"Give me one," he demands from me. I'm free-standing, the requirement is that i stand upright and allow him to toy with me as he pleases.

But of course. Could it ever be any other way? 8-)

There are the basic assumptive roles into which we naturally and easily slide -- catalyzed by our opening ceremony, which sets the scene very effectively for who and what we are when we are together. This is a role-play of sorts, but one that goes beyond any role-play of teacher and naughty schoolgirl, or of adult male returning to her home the young, naive and inexperienced babysitter.

His hand contracts, and his fingers slide further inside me. I struggle to remain upright, eventually grasping onto the bookcase frame nearby as the alternative is to allow my knees to buckle. I look at him, my eyes pleading for clemency, and his acquiescent nod acknowledges the reality of the situation, and permits my frame-graspage.

I lose control, and come, screaming my ecstasy, and gushing what feels like gallons of come down my leg and onto the rug. And collapse into his warm embrace.

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

I love how he demands that I *give* him my orgasm. I give him my submission, and I give him my love -- and I do so with all my heart, love, trust, warmth and being. But to give him my orgasm? Huh? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? That he gives me one?

Orgasms are usually perceived as something that we take from our partners. Furthermore, there is no requirement for love or even any feeling that transcends beyond base animal attraction and lust in order to achieve that particular brand of ecstasy.

And yet, here he is, and he turns it on his head for me. "Give me your orgasm." He sees it as a gift to him, and I find this fascinating, unusual and absolutely amazing.

To him, the fact that i experience the overwhelming sweep of bliss that streams through me like a light-sabre, then shudder as if undergoing (a very delightful form of) electro-therapy and then (eventually) collapse against him, limp and sated, breathless and panting, is all evidence that I have given him a gift? So much the better.

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

Later, he presents me with a healthy and highly inviting erection -- a result of some dedicated and willing attention from my mouth and tongue -- and demands that I clamber astride it. He didn't have to demand. I'd have done it anyway. However, he is in control, therefore the instruction must come from him.

It's how we like doing That Thing It Is That We Do.

Agreeably, I situate myself above him and slide him into me. He grasps my arms, dictating my every move, moving me up and down faster and faster, hitting my G-spot as he himself drifts off before my eyes onto a cloud of ecstatic joy. He looks into my eyes, and whispers to me.

"I love how your cunt feels around me."

I nod, I smile my special smile at him, my eyes never leaving his.

"I'm going to take mine now."

"I give it to you with all my heart, my mind, my soul and my cunt."

"I love you, my kitten."

"I love you, Don Gato."

He comes, his all-but-silent "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...!" echoing around the room, belying its near-silence.

I love being with him, I love fucking him, I love him fucking me, I love how he tells me how he loves my cunt and how it feels to be inside it, I love how he touches me when i sit at his feet, I love the way his skin feels on mine...

I will always give him whatever he wishes. Orgasms and otherwise.

Oh for the love of GOD let these godforsaken holidays be OVER ALREADY.

I cannot take it anymore, i really cannot.

The lethargy, the mind-numbing inertia, it is TOO MUCH.

I have had it, I am telling you. Any more of this nonsense and I shall Do Myself In, and then where will you be?

I jest, of course. I'm lucky enough to have plenty to live for. But the constant holiday-ness can get a girl depressed, yanno?

Ugh.

Suggestions for interesting things to do to while away the time in comments, please -- no sessions, so sex, and I've masturbated already, so get your thinking caps on...!

Yalla!

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

I chose my name because I adore Mel Brooks.

I find the choices of names here to be enormously interesting, and always find myself asking people where their nickname came from, and/or why they chose it.

So, comment for me, people. Tell me why your name is what it is.

G'wan!

There are days when getting out of bed seems like a bad idea, and though you fly in the face of such doubts, your day turns out to be a Mongolian clusterfuck of epic proportions.

Conversely, there are days when everything clicks. The mistress of the universe smiles down upon you, and coincidence follows happenstance to create a harmonious day of a manner enough to convince you that the aforementioned type of day did not, could not and would not ever exist.

Today was such a day. While it didn't involve sex, or a wild, furniture-ripping session, it did involve happiness, laughter and the joy of true friendship. It was the kind of day to store away in my memory bank and dust off for reliving when the shit storm clouds gather.

To cap it all, today (and yes, while it's officially tomorrow at time of writing, at Von Schtupp Central it is still today until the Temptwess turns in her Teutonic tootsies) saw the release of Gilad Shalit. Divided though I am emotionally on the absurdly high price we paid, I -- along with 4 out of 5 Israelis, according to Haaretz English language edition -- fully support the deal. Just to have him back with us gives me hope for this country. Regardless of the political impetus behind the securing of this deal, it means a great deal to me to see that this country still does value life.

You can forgive me for having been skeptical on this point, prior to today, I'm sure.

Either way -- it was a stonker of a good day. What's more, I have learned my lesson -- it's something to do with having passed the big four-oh. I appreciate the joy that I am blessed with on a daily basis, or at least I try.

If i'm lucky enough to be blessed as I am, it's the least I can do, right?

The socks, that is. They have retreated to their corner, and all is relatively calm. Laundered items should always be so obedient. 😄

Now if we could only get the Cage to behave as it should*... as I wrote to a friend earlier:

"Wobbly should be confined to things that are destined to wobble, and not favoured websites."

(And I may have growled menacingly also. Maybe. A little. It has been known.)

* I cannot be the only person to have had difficulties accessing the site today. Tell me it ain't so, people!

Continuing in the series of dusting off old pieces worthy of a second look. While this piece was not published here initially, it could have been. Enjoy.


My dom does not call me bitch, nor cunt, nor whore.

The collar that I put on when I’m with him — or more accurately, that he puts on me — is part of the beauty of our connection. I am not his bitch — I am his.

When he holds the leash, it is indeed a sense of “belonging”, but it works in both directions.

I belong to him as much as he belongs to me — the leash is that which binds us.

Yes, we each have our own role to play in this equation, and yes, our roles are clearly defined — my role is completely different to his.

But the equality and weight of the two parts to be played are exactly the same — which is what makes the “us” of what we have work so well.

The collar and leash are merely one part of the circle that we form. The circle also consists of our hands, and our hearts — no beginning, no end, simple and complete.

Another from the vaults.
“Tickle your arse with a feather?” he said with an evil twinkle in his eye.

“I’m sorry, what??” she gasped incredulously.

“Typically nasty weather” — delivered in an even tone of voice, as if it were indeed a repetition and not an exchange of like-sounding words intended to shock and amuse.

She looked at him blankly, for a moment, and then laughed.

“I am entertained by stimulation of the mind,” she said. “Stimulate me.”

“Stimulate you orally?” He sounded hopeful.

“Stimulate me orally, but no touchy-touchy.”

“No touchy-touchy?”

“Nope.”

“I have to make you come, just by stimulating your brain?”

“Well — I don’t know about making me actually come. Get me as close as you can.”

“Until you beg, and plead, and cannot bear it any long and just have to be fondled and stroked to immediate gushing orgasm?”

She met his gaze, and smiled. “How well you understand me.”

He smiled back at her, and considered the challenge.

“I bet I could make you come. By talking to your cunt. Even better — reading erotica to your cunt. What do you think?”

He leered, not unattractively, and she blushed, but continued undaunted.

“I write with my cunt, via my fingers, you know that, don’t you? In a way, she’s an extension of my brain. So maybe if you read to her, it will stimulate her.”

He paused and considered this.

“So what you’re actually saying is that while men are often accused of having their brains in their cocks, you actually have yours in your pussy?”

“Kinda. Like I said, an extension. An extra room if you like. An annexe, if you really want to stretch the analogy beyond all recognition.”

He paused again, and thought some more.

“And if I’m supposed to stimulate your brain, that means that I have free reign down there — touchy or no touchy.”

He pulled her so she was standing closer to him as he sat and thought, and almost absent-mindedly began to stroke the back of her thigh, as he continued.

“Put it this way. Any activity that goes one between my head and your pussy is bound to involve my tongue. Why not make it reading? Officially, anyway.”

She tried to keep her cool and failed dismally. He could feel her tremble, but pretended not to notice. Instead, he remained calm. Unruffled.

And more than a tad amused at her growing excitement.

He could smell her arousal. He imagined how her cunt was slickening in front of him, imprisoned behind beige satin and lace, but continued to appear in total control.

“You’ll have to concentrate hard. It will probably sound a bit muffled.”

She swallowed, and looked down into his eyes. “I could give a fuck about muffled. Tell me more. You’re making me wet.”

“I’m all too aware of that,” he murmured, and pulled her even closer, so that his face was up against her soft belly. He felt his head spin — her smell was absolutely intoxicating, and he wondered how long he could remain so controlled.

“How long will you be able to hold out on your feet, do you think? How long before your knees turn to butter and you collapse in a post-orgasmic crumple?”

She swallowed, and fought to retain her composure, unaware of how close he was to losing his. This was a challenge as much as anything else; a gauntlet tossed down oh-so-casually, but she’d be buggered if she picked it up.

On the other hand…

His mouth moved against her, and she felt the vibrations rattle through her.

“I want to see how long you can remain standing.”

She swallowed again, clenched her fists, steadied herself, and nodded. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.

The stroking of her thigh continued, and she gradually became aware of a cool breeze as well as the mesmerizing brushstrokes of his fingers. Her skirt was bunched up around her hips, but she didn’t care.

She had to concentrate on remaining upright.

She felt his thumb hook into the elastic edge of her panties, and slide them down her legs. Should she feel exposed, or on display? Or a happy combination of both? Who cares? she thought.

She shifted her weight to allow his closer access, and he slapped her ass, playfully.

“You’re supposed to be standing still,” he whispered into her stomach, “But since that was such a helpful fidget, I’ll forgive you that one time.”

He bent his head so that his mouth was parting her labia, and she could feel his breath on her clit.

“Is it really this simple?” he asked, rhetorically. “I just make my mouth into a small circle around your utterly delicious clit and start talking at it?”

She moaned her assent. This was better than she’d hoped, and she wanted to savour every moment.

She was slicker than he’d imagined. Wonderful.

“Now then,” he continued. “I have no printed smut to read to you, but I wonder if you’ll find my rendition of the daily carbon market assessments as sexy as I do, when I read them with your clit subject to the mercy of my tongue.”

He moved away from her fractionally, and reached down into his bag for his iPhone. He paused a further moment while he surfed and then he returned to his former position.

“The UN system is the second-biggest greenhouse gas trading program, after Europe’s.”

She groaned, and clutched at his hair. The B of biggest, the various S’s — the effect was far greater than she’d anticipated. Who knew that greenhouse gases and carbon emissions could feel so fucking amazing?

“Steady, babe” he muttered, still stroking her thigh as his mouth danced over and on her.

He continued. “EU factories and power plants –”

He stopped. She’d buckled. He couldn’t believe that he wasn’t more than a minute into this and she’d had a knee-trembler.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“Yes,” she gasped, breathlessly. “It’s the p-p-plosive sound…. it goes straight through my cunt like a really good vibrator.”

“Fabulous. How about this? Carbon emmmmmmMMMMMMmmmmmmmmissions…”

She whimpered.

He put the iPhone down, and slid both hands between her thighs, opening her as much as he could. His thumbs slid straight inside her — goddamn, she was so wet. He spoke, enunciating and over-exaggerating his plosives with as much energy as he could muster.

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pretty pickled peppers.”

She moaned again. Louder.

“A pretty peck of pickled peppers, Peter Piper picked.”

This time, she howled. Her knees were bent and he noticed that her fists were clenched so tight that her fingers looked almost bruised.

OK, I’ve teased you enough, baby.”

She shivered, and pushed her cunt at his tongue. She was only partly conscious of where she was and what she was doing, although she could see herself in her mind’s eye — standing half-dressed and dishevelled, supported by his hands and a pair of increasingly shaky knees, riding a wave closer to orgasm with each puff of breath into her pussy.

All she knew was that she didn’t want it to end. His hands moved again, this time to hold her by the hips and ass. She settled into the comfort of that peculiar embrace, sensing what was about to happen.

“I’ve got you, and i want to feel you come.” Powerful, authoritative, and said with her clit between his teeth.

She’d known she wouldn’t be able to hold out long, but this was surely a record. And he was tempting her beyond all hope of redemption.

“Come for me, baby. Come in my mouth, on my face, surrender yourself. You know you want to…come…. god yes… come, baby…. yes! That’s it! Gush. Come on me, all over me, let me taste you, god yes… holy fuck…!”

As his tongue whispered these enticements, it simultaneously felt the fruit of its labours as she came and came in waves of shuddering soaking sweetness. He held her firmly in place, as he felt her subside, never wanting to let her go.

Such intensity wasn’t new to him as a concept, but this was an experience he’d never forget.

After an eternity of silent subsiding, he released her cunt, and spoke again.

“I knew you wouldn’t hold out long.”

She grinned and gestured feebly at him.

“Who the fuck said I wanted to?”

Ladies and gentlemen, the socks are back!

Well, I suppose it isn't all bad. After all, winter is approaching, and I'll need something to keep my feet warm during long and protracted sessions with the Big Bad Cat. There's only so much naked a person can be for hours on end of ecstatic, moist and thrilling play. The socks are just an added comfort.

That's why socks exist, right? To keep my feet warm, and absorb all the sweat, and odour and jiffa?

Or did they come into existence that way?

It's the chicken and the (pungent) egg all over again, huh? Le sigh.

My flabber (and my flab) has (have) never been so gasted.

I shuffle off this immortal coil, or some such, for a mere three days, expecting my blog to go dark from visitors.

And what do I see? Numbers sky-rocketing again.

This has not happened since the summer, when someone, fuck alone knows or cares who, decided to stalk my blog. Apparently the fascination -- quite justified, I might argue, were I the conceited or self-aggrandizing sort -- but of course, I'm not -- is just too much temptation to bear.

It was Oscar Wilde who said "I can resist anything but temptation."

Clearly, he wasn't alone. 😄

Fuck would also know, presumably, what information the blog would divulge that one could not learn from, ooh, I don't know -- TALKING TO ME? Conversing, what a strange concept. Letters work also, yanno.

Either way, it's good to be home.

More later.

A gutte shabbes. Mwah!