Sexing in the Rain

It was shaping up to be one more boring Monday night in a long string of boring Monday nights. Master is back on that 4:30am rotation, and by 9pm, he’s usually nodding off in the recliner.

It was already after 10pm, and he was yawning over his book. I stripped and got into bed, kicking the sheet off. It was just this side of humid. No air conditioning and an upstairs bedroom equals bluck. Warm, heavy air is the only thing that the ceiling fan manages to blow around and because of the swarms of mosquitoes that populate this area, we’re reluctant to open the windows at night. The little blood suckers worm their way in somehow.

As we settled down into silence, we heard a noise. A slow but steady roar, reaching a rather alarming crescendo that had us looking at each other in surprise.

“Is that rain or a jet taking off?” Master asked, grinning.

I laughed. “Well. We’re nowhere near an airport, sooo…”

We both flipped over to our bellies to the huge window behind our bed. Sliding it open we groaned in unison in appreciation of the wet, rain-cooled air that puffed through the window, chilling our sweaty, naked bodies.

“God that feels good.” I mumbled, watching the rain pour down in the weak light of the streetlamp.

“I love the rain,” Master said. “I have a water fetish.”

“You have a wet fetish,” I noted. “In fact, you have an everything fetish.”

We moved closer together, sharing the open window. On our tummies, chins propped on our hands, watching, listening as the rain fell in waves. First, tapering off to a barely noticeable sprinkle and then building back into the impressive roar that got our attention in the first place. Rhythmically, the sound rose and fell. It was enticing somehow.

I sat up on my knees to fight with the curtain, trying to wrap it around the bedpost so it would stay open. Maybe it was my naked form silhouetted in the light of the streetlamp… maybe it was the wet, slapping rhythm of the rain against the roof… maybe it really is that he has a water fetish… whatever the reason, as I was on my knees, twisting the curtain, his finger was suddenly in my cunt, probing, pinching.

I groaned and instinctively widened my knees, giving him access, my hands stilling on the bedrail, curtain forgotten. His other hand reached up to my breasts where he squeezed painfully hard. My hand fluttered off the headboard as I gasped, reaching down to touch him before I could pull it back.

Sometimes, when I move my hands, reaching for him during sex, he growls at me to “put those hands back where they were”, getting off on the mental bondage and the unencumbered access to my body, my hands well out of the way. Other times, he encourages reciprocal groping. I never know which it will be.

This time, he wanted groped. Seeing the shadow of my hand move away, he slid closer to me, spreading his legs. “You can touch,” he said, half-lifting his groin toward me as I remained kneeling above him.

I was surprised to find him already hard, and it turned me on like crazy. Whichever part of it had aroused him so quickly- me, the sound of the rain, being naked in front of the open window, or my wet cunt spasming around his fingers- whatever it was (and I like to think it was me), the feel of him in my fist was… amazing. Erotic. Arousing.

I didn’t wait for permission, I just slid over and straddled him, sinking myself down on his cock. He ooh’ed appreciatively, pleasantly surprised at my forwardness I think. I don’t often take the initiative in that way and I rarely ever move to be on top. But… I had to have him. I had to have him right then, right in that way, with the rhythm of the rain outside, riding him in the dark in front of the open window, with the cool air drifting over us.

Though being on top feels like the dominant position, and as such, I tend to shy away from it, he always shows me that it is not. With his hands free, he pulls and twists at my breasts, my nipples, making me gasp and shiver under his touch. He takes my hips and manipulates me, moving me to match his pace or lifting me so he can pound, deep and hard as gravity and my weight work to his advantage. He pulls me down to his mouth so he can bite and nip at my chest, my shoulders and neck, delighting in the quiet mews of pain that I whisper into his ear.

And he talks to me, telling me that he can feel my juices dripping down his cock because I’m a slut, a whore, telling me how I’m going to come, and come hard, and keep coming until he tells me I can stop, until he’s through with me, used me up, talking, growling at me while he’s pinching and squeezing and pumping, and I do exactly as he says- I come, and come, and come, squirting down his thighs and I just… wallow. In being a slut. A whore. A fucktoy. In being used. Being fucked. Taken and enjoyed, and then tossed aside. Wet, sloppy, dirty.. and well-fucked.

Afterward, he left me in a puddle of goo, both mine and his, and got up to thump his chest and howl at the moon, his cock still jutting stiffly from his naked form, still wet, glistening in the dim light of the streetlight shining through the window.

I laughed, shaking my head.

When, after washing up, I informed him that I needed a Tylenol because he’d fucked me straight into a headache, he replied “Right on!” and gave me a knuckle-bash.

He’s such a man. A big, barbaric caveman.

And he’s all mine.

~knuckle-bash~

;-)

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Lucy! I’m home!

Remember a couple weeks ago when we had that glorious child-free weekend and had the best. time. ever?

Well, that Friday night, the kids were already gone when he got home from work. So he walks in the door and I’m standing in the kitchen (which you can see from the front door), stirring something at the stove and he looks me up and down, kind of sneers a little, and says “Now why aren’t you naked and on your knees, cunt?”

And I stare back at him, all deer-in-the-headlights speechless because it didn’t even occur to me to do that, and then I toss down the spoon, stomp my foot and in my best Lucy Ricardo wail, say “Whaaaaaaaaaa!!!!! I forgot how to DO this!”

He laughs and flaps his hand at me, mumbles something about having to “retrain a bitch” and we got on with our fah-bulous weekend.

So! The other day when he called me and said he’d gotten off work early and was on his way home and I knew we had a whole stinking hour to ourselves before the kids got home from school?

Well.

I was NOT standing in the kitchen when he got home. Quick learner I am (says Yoda).

In fact, I was naked, spread eagle on the bed, with my vibrator buried deep in my cunt.

(do all the rest of you have that moment, like right when you hear his key in the lock, where you have to fight the urge to stuff the vibe under a pillow and whip on some clothes before he SEES you being a shameless hussy? And then right at the very second he turns the corner and lays eyes on you do you squeeze your eyes shut and wish to be swallowed up by the floor, half-expecting the finger-pointing laugh and exclamation of “Eww! wtf are you doing??” – and you don’t dare open your eyes until you hear that pleasantly surprised moan and mumbled “Oh yeah. That’s what I’m talking about right there.” Do y’all do that, too?)

Anyway, back to me being naked on the bed –

He got Insta-Boner and was still trying to kick his jeans off his feet while he tripped his way up over my head and slammed his cock down my throat.

After copious amounts of the gaggin’-n-chokin’ variety of throat plundering, we had hot monkey sex that left a puddle of goo the size of a dinner plate on our Very Expensive Comforter (damn it) and both of our throats sore and scratchy. His from growling and yelling at me to “come, you goddamn whore! Come right fucking NOW!” and me from having been throat-plundered but also from yelling back “I AM, goddammit Master! I am! Grrrr!”

Hee. Good times.

Then, after we fought over a glass of water (a fight where he won and I just got wet), we stood naked and sweaty in front of our wall o’ mirrors in the bedroom, pointing out various angry red scratch marks on ourselves. He’s all “Jesus Christ woman, you took the skin off my arms!” and I’m all “So! Look what you did to my titties, fucker!”

:D

So, while masochism may be on a long-ass vacation to Tahiti, I’m pleased to announce that hot monkey sex is still around.

~cunt

Ethel Mertz: What are you writing about?
Lucy Ricardo: I’m writing about things I know.
Ethel Mertz: That won’t be a novel that will be a short story.

Ricky Ricardo: This whole thing is my fault. Something I said that started this whole mess.
Lucy Ricardo: What’s that?
Ricky Ricardo: “I do.”

;-)

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“We are torn between a craving to know and the despair of having known.”

The night before last, I was really, really horny. We’ve been fucking like bunnies (still “making up” you know. ;) ) and the more sex I have, the more sex I want. Master was plum-tuckered out, already lying in bed with his eyelids all droopy, looking all kinds of sexy and pouty, naked and yummy.

I stripped and lay down next to him, placing his hand on top of my freshly shaved-smooth, warm, wet pussy. He grinned sleepily at me. Encouraged, I began to stroke his cock, coaxing it awake. Though his cock responded, stiffening and lengthening in my hand and seemingly ready to fuck, Master claimed the rest of his body was just too tired.

But he was still smiling at me, still giving me reason to hope, so I hopped up onto all fours, my face at his feet, and wagged my ass at him. This may come as a shock but it’s difficult for me to be that blatantly slutty and desperate to fuck. I tend to let him make the first move and not push for getting it if he isn’t raring to go. But he’s mentioned that he’d like me to take the initiative more, to act more like a slut.

So I did, and though he took that opportunity to spank the bloody hell out of my upturned ass (hand spankings just plain hurt, that’s all there is to it), he didn’t hop up to fuck me. That’s a hard one for the bottoms (I think anyway). Just how far is too far to ask for, or entice, him into fucking. It starts to feel too pushy in a big, fat hurry. I think had I continued trying to arouse him, he’d have fucked me upside down and sideways, no matter how tired he was. But I stopped and curled up next to him, where he was asleep in about 20 seconds flat.

But then yesterday, when he got home from work, he was barely in the door, I hadn’t even said hello to him, and he had his cock pulled out of his jeans and was shoving it into my mouth. “I’ve had that picture of you on your hands and knees, waving that ass around, in my head all damn day, cunt. I’m gonna tear your shit up.”

He did too. Fucked me like a two-dollar whore. On my knees, face on the mattress, one of his feet planted against my cheek, pinning my head down. He’d put the nasty black clamps on my nipples, and he yanked back on the chain of the clamps, holding it against my leg so that I had no choice but to stay curled back, trying to keep my nipples as close to my knees as possible lest they be shredded. He took me hard, used me, and fuckin’ hell did it feel good.

It was less than an hour later that he pushed me under the desk and took me again. It was all I could do to keep my head out of the wall and my face from getting carpet burn as he pummeled me from behind. Above my head I could hear the muffled sound of other girls moans through the computer speakers as he browsed his porn collection. I’ve long since stopped getting my feelings hurt when he uses me as his silent, invisible fucktoy while he gets off on watching those size 2 blonde bombshells getting fucked on the screen. In fact these days, I get off on it. I get off on being treated as such and I enjoy hearing the noises, the slaps and smacks, the grunts and groans of other peoples actions, while I’m required to be so passively still, a living, breathing blow up doll.

I’m still horny as all fuck, but now on top of horny is a big ol’ craving for tears and pain, blood and agony. Wanting to get to the place. You know the one. The one that disturbs me as much as it excites me, that pulls me as deeply as it frightens me. Where pain and pleasure are not one and the same, are not working together, it’s all pain all the time, because the pain is the only thing that *gets* you there.

That place. Soon, I hope.

~cunt

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Close enough

Well, there was no spreader bar. No wrist to ankle cuffing, nor bondage of any sort.  Not one toy made it’s way of the closet. And there wasn’t a belt crashing into the tender flesh of my exposed cunt.

But.

 There was a full body massage that started at his shoulders and ended at his cock. There were lips and teeth and tongues. There was sucking, there was moaning and there were lots of orgasms.

No complaints here.

~cunt 

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Ahh! Me so horny!

I was horny yesterday. In kaya’s old world being horny would have been no more news worthy than saying I woke up and had coffee yesterday. But it’s been several weeks since I’ve been *that* horny. I’ve been in a dry spell of epic proportions.

In fact, I didn’t even recognize it for what it was at first. I felt “funny”. I wondered if I was getting sick, coming down with a cold, or having another occurance of Family Flu ’07. It took a moment to realize that the “funny feeling” was centered around my groin. An experimental touch or two proved the suspicion. I was horny. Hallelujah.

I made myself wait, enjoying that need, the want, the build-up of sexual tension.

Well that’s not true. I would have immediately dove for my vibrator had the world not conspired against me. There was first a Very Important Phone Call (well worth it darling) and in the midst of that, another phone call, the school nurse informing me that Am had had an asthma attack that scared her and she tearfully wished to come home (and fix her make-up). Of course once she was home there seemed little reason to actually go back to school, so instead we went to the mall. (What can I say? We’re women).

From the mall back home where I zipped around cramming in chores and making dinner and doing homework, all the while anxiously waiting Master’s return home from work so I could surprise him with the knowledge that I was horny!

And getting hornier by the minute, letting my thoughts dwell on his cock, his ass, his body. I had planned out full body massages, I mentally ran through the toy closet, picking out implements of sexual pleasure to play with. I imagined the salty taste of his sweat as I would suck my way around his neck. I imagined the feel of his curly chest hairs brushing over my nipples. I imagined wrapping my legs around his waist, that breathless moment just before penetration, his hands tangled in my hair, hips forcing my legs apart, wider, unimpeded access to plunge, that very quick tinge of pain that I would feel as he forced me open, and then the smooth warmth of my body welcoming him, closing around him. I imagined how wonderful that first orgasm was going to feel, knowing it would come quick, hit me deep, spiraling out from my cunt to my fingers and toes and back again, milking his cock, waiting for the next one.

Oh I had it all planned out.

I planned while we ate dinner and I watched the clock. I planned while I ran to the store for cat food. I planned while deciphering fractions. I planned and planned and planned.

You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? Apparently it holds true for the best laid plans of horny sluts, too.

It’s God’s cruel little joke that the one day in two months when the only thing I want is to fuck my Master until his eyes cross, is also the one day that he has to put in a 17 hour work day.

By 11pm, my eyes were drooping and I figured I’d made a Herculean effort to make myself wait. So I blew the dust off my vibe, checked to see if the batteries were still good, and touched it, gently, to my clit.

I came before I’d even had time to get my panties off. There a was a brief flash of a fantasy, a quick remembrance of bondage and leather belts… and it was over, exploding wetness and moaning into the dark.

As wonderful as any orgasm was that one, even though it left my head spinning. So I went for another one.

This time my body, slightly sated, slowed down and I delved deeper into the fantasy. I pictured myself locked into a spreader bar, on my knees with my wrists pulled and locked to my ankles, head on the floor. About like this.

Isn’t that a gorgeous position?

And then I imagined Master’s belt crashing over and over and over again against the tender flesh of my unprotected cunt.

Sweet Jesus, what an orgasm followed that fantasy. Lip-biting, limb-thrashing, porn-star quality. I came, and I came good.

The next thing I remember is being startled awake as Master’s fingers brushed along my cheek. I remember curling into his tired body, moaning contentedly in his arms.

This morning he was up and at ‘em at 5am again. Crunch time at work and I felt guilty knowing I’d lounged in orgasmic bliss while he was tired and cold and hungry at work. I brushed my hand over the stiff swell of the zipper on his jeans and asked what I could do to help make it better.

“You can suck my cock tonight.” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me.

I can do that.

“I was horny last night.” I said, grinning.

“Figures. Did you take care of yourself?”

I nodded, blushing a bit. I still find admitting to masturbation in a face-to-face setting to be slightly embarrassing. He laughed, and held up his fist. “Knuckle-bash! You go girl.”

It’s wonderful to be supported in my sexuality, both when it wans and when it peaks.

Maybe tonight God will smile upon me and my sex life and the best laid plans of horny sluts will not go awry. Cross your fingers for me, will ya? ;-)

~cunt

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Aroma

My fingers smell like pussy. Specifically my pussy.

Last night, fresh after pleasuring, it was a stronger, headier scent. I didn’t need to press my fingertips to my nose to capture it. It lingered, wafting from between my legs through the sheets, drifting off my hands up to my face.

I didn’t wash. I enjoyed the smell.

It’s 10am now and I still haven’t washed. I’m still enjoying the smell.

It’s faded though. Quite a bit. Now I do have to press my fingertips to my nose to inhale the very slightest traces of scent left. It’s musky, low. Makes me think of earth and sweat, primal.

I’m quite attracted to scents. Odors, real odors. Perfumes and colognes are nice, pleasing to the nose… but odors, naturally occuring odors, are different. I don’t want to nuzzle my nose into a neck of Drakkar Noir during sex. Drakkar Noir is inhaled through crisp dress shirts, out on the town, exciting my sense for the real scents. The scents to come.

I want to snuggle my nose into earthy, natural scents. I want to sniff the blend of sweat against skin, to flick my tongue out to taste it. I want to smell the traces of me across his chin, caught in the curled hairs of his goatee. I want to breathe him in, trapped odors of arousal nestled against his thigh, tucked into his dark creases.

Then I want to loll in the resulting odor of coupling. His come mixed with mine creates an odor unique to us alone. His body scent, rolled and tangled with my own, smeared across my chest, my face, my neck. My groin.

Savored. In the air, on my fingers.

I’ll shower soon, and it’ll be gone. Lost to raspberry-scented body wash. Lost to Drakkar Noir on his dress shirt.

Leaving me hungry, lusting, for another whiff… of us.

~cunt

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I’m not as young as I used to be.

I have a birthday coming up (in two months, but it IS coming). I’ll be turning 37. I’m not freaking out about it because I’ve thought I was 37 practically all year anyway.

You know what they say about forgetting your age? It’s absolutely true!

On my last birthday, I was feeling somewhat depressed. 35 years old. 35 is half of 70. 70 is time to plan your funeral. I just remember thinking that it was all downhill from 35. I didn’t want to be 35 AT ALL.

So I moped around and whined to anyone listening that I was going to be 35 and wah wah wah…. until one day, Am kind of sat up, counting on her fingers and said “Um, mom? You’re going to be 36 this year. You are already 35.”

She was right. I was already a whole year past halfway-dead. And forgetful to boot! So I turned 36 last January and promptly projected myself to be 37. I’ve written 37 on practically any form asking me my age all year. So I figure this birthday, when I actually turn 37, it should be fine. I’m used to being 37. 37 is good.

But it’s also old. I know, I know, a bunch of you that are older than that are going to want to slap me upside the head. But I’m just being honest here. We’re getting old. We’re aging. I’m trying to come to terms with that. I’m not saying that life is over or that we have to stop living and start dying! I’m just acknowledging the limitations that age is putting upon me.

Take yesterday for instance. Master came home for lunch. I always ask if he’s wanting a cunt-style lunch or if he just wants lunch. He just wanted lunch. Good deal then.

So he eats, we talk, we sit on the couch and pass the time pleasantly. He has an hour for lunch, he has to leave at 12:45 to make it back to the office on time. So at 12:44, the last thing I expected to hear was “Let’s fuck.”

Yet, that’s exactly what I heard. I admit I hemmed and hawed a little. I mean, you know how it is, women of our age don’t necessarily see the phrase “let’s fuck” as the erotic foreplay it may have been once upon a time. I was pretty comfortable there on the couch, kinda lounging, watching the tube, thinking about a nap… so I was all “are you serious?!”

He was. Of course he was! He asked me how fast I could make him come.

Well. On a good day with some preparation ahead of time, some forewarning, I’d be all over that challenge. But yesterday was not a good day and I was woefully unprepared. Mentally or physically. I’d been doing that once-a-year, everything out of the closets and drawers and shelves and corners and rearrange furniture, deep clean on the upstairs all morning. I was sweaty, stinky, un-showered, wearing dirty sweatpants and grungy t-shirt, all kinds of un-sexy. Sexual confidence begins with being confident of your appearance and approach. It does not begin with “But I stink! My pussy stinks! You can’t touch it!”

But he did. Of course he did!

And I didn’t “stink”, I just didn’t smell like peaches and cream. I smelled like pussy.

Anyway, I strip down as ordered, still doing that half-warning, half-protest that I’m not summer’s eve fresh (one of my weird neurosis is body odor) and he’s ignoring me, telling me to shut up and bend over (honestly, the romanticism!) and then he starts trying to acrobat me around the living room with his cock.

Now. I’m 37 36 years old. I’m slightly(cough) overweight. I want to be able to perform those moves, because, damn, they look like fun and I bet they feel great.. but.. I can’t. I’m OLD.

And you know what? So is HE. As much as I can’t contort myself in such a manner, neither can he hold me in such a manner. At least not without the added support of ropes and ceiling-mounted eyehooks!

But he tried. He gets an A for effort. He lifted me here and lifted me there. He bent me over this and that and put legs up and around and behind. He pounded me and it was enjoyable, don’t get me wrong. I was creaming in embarrassing amounts around his cock so something was going right.

Though I also ended up with a migraine headache from having my head repeatedly bonked against the arm of the couch.

Not to mention… Annie. Annie, that adorable kitten, God love her. She’s a bigger attention whore than I am (seriously. I wouldn’t have believed it possible either, but it is true, I swear!) Annie, who has learned to play fetch with her mini-blue-fuzzy-mice. Annie, who doesn’t give a rat’s ass that we were trying to fuck in a hurry. Annie, who continuously bounded, all claws and cuteness, upon our naked bodies, mouse in tow, waiting for one of us to throw it. So it kind of went – fuck for 30 seconds, pause, get the mouse, throw it as far and as hard as we could, then hurry up and fuck before she came back, scaling our bodies like a rock climber for another round.

When did fucking on the bed with the door closed go out of style, huh?

At one point, he had me up, straddling him while he was standing, my arms wrapped around his neck, hanging on for dear life, legs around his waist… and holy fuck, did it feel GOOD. So so good. But, I’m not a tiny girl and he’s not a body builder so that was a short and hurried position. He set me down on the arm of the couch when his arms gave out. Apparently his arms were completely done in for because in the process of dropping setting me down, I fell backwards, rolling to the side, into the coffee table, on top of the stack of lunch dishes.

I ended up with the edge of the coffee table making a rude and uncomfortable acquaintance with my asscrack, one leg over the spilled dishes, one under the table.. and Master standing over me, with His cock standing straight out and his jeans puddled around his ankles, staring down at me. Impatiently.

Man, I just cracked up. I’m too old for this shit! What the hell!

He was way late getting back to work. How fast can I make him come? 15 minutes – Three Stooges style.

;-)

~cunt

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To forget one’s purpose is the commonest form of stupidity. –Friedrich Nietzsche

just_his_girl asked to see how things go under the desk.

The desk

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