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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Last night…

…we had phenomenal sex.

Like, eye-crossing kind of phenomenal.

Having awesome sex isn’t the newsworthy part because we always have awesome sex. But this time was omfg-fantastic. What makes it newsworthy (to me) is that, like, neither one of us really even moved.

It has to qualify for Laziest Sex Ever, if there is a competition for these things, and if there isn’t, then I’m starting it and we just won.

It was the strangest thing really. He shoved it in and did this little how-deep-can-I-get-it kind of lunge that he does where he just keeps pushing and pushing like he’s drilling for oil up in there and I was sliding off the edge of the bed until my head was hanging off the side and it just felt so fucking good that I started coming and coming around his cock while he just held it there and then he’s like “Jesus that feels good, cunt. God. Jesus. Holy- I’m gonna come. Now.”

And boom.

Done.

Weird!

But Oh. So. GOOD.

So then he lays back and says, “See. I told you I wasn’t going to do all the work.” Like he planned it that way or summin’.

Smug bastard, idn’t he?

I told him I make it way too easy for him.

We had a bet one time (or maybe it was a challenge) where I said that there was NO way he could make me come if I didn’t want to- without stooping to cheating by using the hitachi- but just by fucking, if I didn’t wanna orgasm, I wouldn’t.

See how I try and snatch control wherever I can? I’m such a dork.

Anyway, we had a terrific time proving me wrong. Over and over and over again. The fact is, I am a prisoner inside my own orgasmic needs because, try as I might to think of my mother naked and to count ceiling tiles, I lost.

So the next challenge was that if I wanted to come, he couldn’t stop me from it.

Again, HE had a terrific time proving me wrong. Me? Not so much. That sucked ass. He came and came and came and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me and knew *exactly* when to pull out or stop or move so that I’d only hover right there on the edge and not once fall over it.

Smug bastard! I told you!

Personally, I’m just glad that he’s not the kind of dom that restricts orgasms or doles them out like candy treats cuz there is nothing I like better than coming until my ears bleed. I used to think he was “doing it wrong!” because he didn’t make those orgasm rules like others do.

Now I think that if it’s wrong, by God, I don’t wanna be right!

Orgasms are fun.

~cunt

p.s. This will probably be my last post until sometime next week. I’ll be in Illinois being nice to my ex (puke) and visiting my family (squee!). I’m looking forward to seeing them for a change. I haven’t seen them for a long time and I kinda miss them. It should be a fun time (minus the ex).

Master can’t come all the way with me because I won’t be back before he has to go back to work. He’s coming halfway and then spending the day with his family before heading home again. I was going to try and arrange a slut-visit for him while I was gone because I didn’t figure it was fair that he have to go without having his cock serviced just because I was going to be gone, but, alas, he’d rather enjoy his time alone.

I can’t blame him. He never ever has time away from everyone all at once. But to turn down a slut-visit? That’s some serious jonesin for peace and quiet.

Enjoy it, Master.

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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!”

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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Don’t you hate when that happens?

You know how when you’re busy doing something, like, say, cleaning the house? You’re kind of sweaty from having just vigorously mopped the kitchen floor and vacuumed the living room. Got your sexy, ripped-up, housecleaning clothes on and you’re really just in the zone. The cleaning zone, the groove, you have a plan and it’s all laid out, from room to room, what’s next and how long it’ll take.

You’ve been cleaning for hours already and you are focusing only on where you’re going next, what’s still left to be done. Maybe you’re elbow deep in Comet cleanser, half-in and half-out of the bathtub, scouring your little heart out, thinking “and when I get done with this, I can go flip the laundry real quick – last load finally – and then unload the dishwasher and I’ll be just about fini- ERK!

I say Erk! because suddenly, from out of nowhere, you’re snatched by the hair, flipped around and shoved to your knees and before you can finish thinking “What the fuck, Chuck?” warm, wet spurts of….of… something…. splatter all over your face.

Then there’s a couple of disorienting seconds where your brain scrambles to identify and label this liquid as it splashes across your glasses. Spit? Piss? Semen? My God, it could be anything in this house and deep down inside you *know* it could be anything and isn’t it *funny* that your first instinct is NOT to duck and cover but to turn your face up and drop your hands and squeeze your eyes shut. Because spit, semen, OR piss in the eye? Not so fun, tyvm.

Of the three most-likely possibilities, I’ll take semen for $200, please, Alex.

~fingers crossed~

So you do a tentative tongue flick over dripping lips and that, along with a tell-tale happy grunt from the Man, and it’s semen for the win!

Then, just like that, the cock disappears from your vision, vision blurred by smeary globs of spunk over your once-clean eyeglasses I might add, and he’s gone, without a word, just spurt-n-go, leaving you with a wet dripping face, a goofy-ass smile and your trusty cleaning rag.

Though all of sudden you don’t wanna clean anymore. He’s done knocked you out of the zone, upset your groove, put the smack-down on your cleaning mo-jo. Try as you might, the need for sparkling appliances is gone gone gone – like your money at the gas pump.

Don’t you hate when that happens?

And by hate I mean he should do that more often.

~cunt

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Hints from Heloise—er, from Kaya

Helpful hints from the kaya-files.

Sinuses still plugged from your recent cold-from-Hell? Try choking on a mouthful of fresh, hot urine. As it spurts out your nose, it’ll clear out that pesky remaining congestion. Roto-rooter couldn’t do a better job!

Tune in next time for hints on cooking – naked.

~Heloise’s kinky cohort

(Our kids are going away for the weekend. All of them. At the same time! I am giddy as a schoolgirl!)

(but of course I started my period because, you know, God looked down from the heavens and saw that I had a potential good-time happening.)

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‘Cause I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all…

I’ve been thinking about sex and pain. Or, more accurately, painful sex. The deeply-felt, internal pain with intercourse, not sex with accompanied pain in other places.

I’ve been checked out by the doctor and, according to him, my female parts are all in fine working order. There is no obvious reason for the pelvic pain that often accompanies sex. So I figure it’s just a damn good thing I’m a masochist, otherwise, I’d be screwed.

Heh. I said screwed.

The other day, Master’d sent me under the desk for His favorite sexual pasttime of under-the-desk fucking. There is a definite disconnect that occurs with under-the-desk fucking. I can’t see Him, I can’t touch Him, I can’t talk to Him and I really can’t hear Him. His voice, on the rare occasion He tries to talk to me down there, is muffled, far off, distant.

Which is all well and good and as it should be and whatever other smarmy phrase fits here. That IS the purpose of the under-the-desk fucking. I am, as Master tells me, a masturbation tool, nothing more, nothing less. He’s happily lost in His own little world, looking at porn, reading porn, watching porn videos. I’m forgotten, silent, a “thing”. It’s the grown-up equivalent of locking himself in the bathroom with mom’s handlotion and the JC Penney catalogue opened to the women’s underwear section.

I am allowed to get myself off if I want to. But my pleasure during an under-the-desk occasion is not His concern. In other circumstances He’s a very generous lover, making sure I’ve orgasmed several times before coming Himself, but under the desk is different. I am the pocket pussy and pocket pussies don’t need consideration. He’d not worry that the pocket pussy was pleasured and so, down there, He doesn’t worry if I am pleased. If I am, it’s all my own doing, with my thoughts and my fingers and the rythmic pumping of His cock in my unmoving cunt.

I’ve gotten quite good at it over the years. I can come, I can have out-of-this-world orgasms that zing through my entire body and make my eyes cross, and not move one half of an inch out of position or make one audible sound. Other than the pulse of my cunt around His cock, a sure-fire indication of my doings, He’d have no clue to my pleasures I don’t think. And I can continue to hold perfectly still and perfectly silent through that awfully intense, highly sensitive, immediate post-orgasmic minute as He carries on pumping in and out of me.

And I can hold perfectly still and remain almost silent as He pounds away at me through deep, internal pelvic pain.

On this occasion, His deep thrusts and the constant pelvic pressure that spiked with each upward thrust was feeling divine. It was feeling good. I kept catching myself thrusting back against Him each time He stabbed in, trying to deepen and harden the upshot, to raise the pain up a notch. He rose to the unspoken challenge and began slamming me, knocking into me so hard that I fell forward, smashing my face into the carpet and getting rugburn on my forehead.

The pain was intense, but just right. And later, after I’d crawled out and sucked Him of my juices, I sat on the floor cradling my abdomen and waiting for the sharp cramp to fade to a dull ache. He sat in a chair and I noticed that He was cradling His groin.

“Ow.” He said. I looked at Him quizzically. Ow was usually my line.

“Ow?” I repeated.

He nodded. “When I fuck you like that, there’s no give. It hurts sometimes.”

I blinked. “It hurts YOU?” I was confused and… appalled. He hurt? For my pleasure? My brain was twitching. He’d never indicated that fucking me so violently caused Him anything but extreme yum. “But…. why?”

Misunderstanding what I was asking an explanation for, He reached out and began jabbing His finger on the unweilding wood of the desk. “It’s like fucking this,” He said, His fingertip bending with each jab. “Whatever my dick is hitting inside of you doesn’t give. Too long and too hard and my dick gets sore.”

“But why do You do it?” I asked again. “If it hurts, I mean.”

He just smiled knowingly, in that secretive, there-are-things-you-don’t-need-to-know way, that is, I think, particular to evil dominants, and patted me on the head. “Oh, you’ll figure it out soon enough.” and off He went, leaving me to hate not being able to stamp my feet and demand that I be told what I want to know when I want to know it. (Which is maddening, really, don’t you think? I think so.)

I’m not going to claim that after a fuck of that sort I walk bowlegged, or that I’m hunched over in pain. Nothing quite that dramatic. I do sit a bit gingerly. I do ache in my pelvic region. I do cringe at the thought of fucking again anytime soon.

And by soon I mean anytime in the next week. But Master tends to have other ideas. No surprise there, really.

It was the next day though. I would say He waited a whole day in order to let me recover, but that would be a lie. The only thing that happens in a days time is swelling, bruising, and increased tenderness. Just the touch of His cock against my pussy lips and I hissed.

And He smiled. He… leered.

“Hurt?” He asked, pressing harder against me.

“Yes, Sir.” I answered between whimpers.

“You’re tight. Swollen.” He said, more to Himself than to me, still pressing, pushing, forging entrance through the bruised tissue. Again I whimpered out a “yes, Sir”. He pinned my legs back and in simple, missionary style sex, with not a toy around, no bondage, no smacking, no effort, He made me cry.

This was not the good pain that I bucked back against, this was deeper, sharper, more intimate. A pain I couldn’t harness and direct. A pain that consumed my mind and my body, a pain that took every ounce of willpower I had to not resist, leaving nothing left to control the whimpers and quiet cries that flowed on each breath, nothing left to control the trembles that racked my limbs, nothing left to mask my face. Genuine, naked, vulnerable pain.

He drank it in, He leaned His ear close to my mouth so as to not miss a single whimper and He hurt me. “This is why,” He said, barely rocking His hips against mine while I shivered beneath Him. “So easy.” He breathed.

When a single, unchecked, gutteral sob escaped from my lips to caress His earlobe, He softly cried out “Oh. God.” and shuddered to an orgasm.

Later, still feeling exposed and vulnerable, I curled up close to Him, seeking reassurance and comfort. He pulled me to Him and let me find my own way back. I always do.

“You’re mean.” I accused, tracing my finger around His nipple.

“Yes.” He said.

“That really hurt.” I pouted, feeling around for any hint of regret or apology on His part.

“Good.”

I grinned against His chest. “Bastard.” I said affectionately. He laughed, the sound echoing through His chest and into my ear. I sighed, contented. Sore and achy – but happy.

It is as it should be.

So glad He’s home.

~cunt

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Mittelschmerz!

Think I just cussed you out in German?

Painful ovulation, when severe, is referred to as mittelschmerz, a German word that means “middle pain.” Most women who experience painful ovulation usually report a nagging pain that begins as a sharp twinge and diminishes into a dull ache for the next day or so.[...]Pain in the abdomen can occur during intercourse or it can be aggravated by intercourse…

In other words, it feels like someone has stabbed a hot poker into your side. Sex during mittelschmerz feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing a hot poker into your side. A hot poker with spikes that are coated in tobasco sauce and covered with razor wire.

It hurts.

Yesterday was my mittelschmerz day. Accompanied by the beginnings of a killer headache and I was in fine form. Well, fine form for anyone with the option of popping two aspirin and curling up in bed with a good book to ride out the discomfort that is. Not so fine form for a slave with a horny Master.

I informed Him of my pain, both in my head and in my side. I wasn’t trying to use them as excuses so much as an exchange of pertinent information. Just as if He’d told me He was going to drive the car into town I would tell Him it was low on gas. I offer the information and He does with it what He will.

He acknowledged my pain. And pointed me to my hands and knees anyway. C’est la vie.

I did ask Him if He would start out slow, just to give my body time to adjust (in hopes that my ovaries would find a place to hide) and probably He thinks He did start slow. But He didn’t. At least, it didn’t feel slow on my end. But more than likely, the only thing that can be slow enough at that moment is not at all.

I’m not going to sugarcoat the pain of it. Sometimes, whatever it is we are doing turns into a self-lecture. For real, I could be a motivational speaker to reluctant masochists everywhere! I’m *that* good at talking myself into ‘taking it like a man’.

At some point, and perhaps it was my white-knuckled grip on the carpet or my frequent hissing that gave it away, but He asked me if it hurt. I assume “no shit, Sherlock!” wasn’t the answer He was looking for. A simple “yes, Sir” did the trick. Enough to spur Him into the faster-deeper-harder part.

There are times when I’m reading a journal somewhere and, especially if it’s someone I know or have been reading for a long time, I’ll find myself getting angry at the sadist for his “mistreatment” of my friend. Even with my passing knowledge of masochism and the how and why of our make-up, I still have a hard time easily accepting that they want this.

I remember the first time I watched Taylor and Carrie play, I literally plonked myself down behind Master’s leg. I had to turn away a time or two. I squeezed His leg and bit my lip and made big round saucer eyes of shock at Him when He’d peek down at me. He, on the other hand, loved it. He got hard. He gave me wiggly eyebrows while I looked on in indignation on Carrie’s behalf.

Fact is, sometimes it just doesn’t look very pretty in the moment. Now, almost immediately after their play had finished, when I saw the dopey look on Carrie’s face, the flush of excitement, the energy, the rush – well, I’m all on board with it. But to see it so personally, so up close, to watch her struggle and cry, to hear the sounds of his fist pounding into her flesh and her echoing yelp of pain – it’s.. disturbing.

I think I might have told Master that Taylor was a mean old bastard. (Sorry Taylor!)

So, I was debating about mentioning Master’s use of me yesterday here at all. Because I know, since I do it myself, how some people are going to react to the very idea that He’d be callous enough, mean enough, to use me so harshly at a time like that.

Because I don’t think there is a way to communicate, accurately, why I need that sort of treatment. How, had He chosen instead to put me to bed and coddle my ailments instead of pleasing Himself first, something inside of me would have withered and turned black. It just isn’t pretty as it happens.

The pretty comes later.

I got down on my knees and put my head on the floor. I gripped into the carpet hard enough to tear a few fingernails. I cocked my ass in the air and held my position as He tore into me – or so it felt. I hissed and breathed through each agonizing thrust, every one feeling like something ripping away in my side. When I sensed Him getting close I asked Him to take me hard(er) and fast(er), I wanted to savor every ridiculously painful moment in as much un-pretty glory as I could stand, and He did, almost knocking me over into a somersault as the pain reached a magnificent crescendo.

I came just after He did, right when He stopped thrusting, right when the pain dropped down a notch. I didn’t orgasm from the pain, not at all. It wasn’t erotic pain in any sense. I came from the use, the callousness, the insensitive cruelty.

After I’d righted myself and wiped the wetness from my eyes and looked up at Him, I whined a small and pitiful “that hurt” and He nodded, gave a curt “I know” and slammed His wet, sticky cock in my mouth to clean it off.

And then the pretty comes. It’s in the air and in our expressions and in our eyes. It’s in the lingering touches and small secret smiles. The emotions we feel. The energy we radiate, His powerful and hard, mine compliant and docile.

So should anyone think that Master is a mean old bastard and wish to rescue me from His maltreatment, please don’t. As Master likes to say “It’s all good.”

And when it’s good, it’s very good.

~cunt

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Dirty Hairy

There are two things that mark the end of the “pre” part of pre-menstrual syndrome and the imminent beginning of the “menstrual” part.

The first is that I get a killer headache – which I was blessed with last night. Two excedrin and an early bedtime took care of that.

The second is a sudden, undeniable urge to fuck. To fuck now, fuck hard, and fuck dirty. That occured earlier this morning when I trotted past Master, naked and wet from a shower, bent over to show Him my shiny- albiet hairy- junk, and then begged Him to fuck me up the ass.

Being the red-blooded American male that He is, He obliged. What a trooper, eh?

It hurt, I ain’t gonna lie. It always does. His cock is big and while my ass may also be big, my asshole is not. Least I don’t think it is, though admittedly I’ve not measured.

I was hot for it though, pressing back against Him and grunting through the familiar burning pain. He took me slow at first, gently tapping His way in, only having to tell me once to move back as my instinctive reaction is to scootch forward in tiny millimeters. Once fully in, gentle no longer factored in and the phrase “bouncing me off His dick” comes to mind.

Funny thing about ass fucking when it’s good and right and feels amazing is that I lose my extensive vocabulary and can only manage such eloquent phrases like “fuuucccccck!” and “shit!” and “fuckfuckfuckfuck!” Occasionally I toss in an “Oh God!” when I can manage to close my mouth and stop drooling all over the floor.

But I don’t have any pictures to share of the actual ass fucking or of the gaping asshole left behind. Unfortunately, things got messy. Very messy. Even I, classless and vulgar though I can be, have limits.

Judging from the way Master catapulted into the shower when He was done, so does He.

~cunt

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So last night I was sucking Master’s dick…

Wait. I used that title already didn’t I?

Seriously though, last night I was sucking Master’s dick and I really, really, really didn’t want to be doing that. I was so far down in pms-fueled self-pity, it was pathetic. One of the (many many) pms symptoms I have is a complete halt to my libido. Orgasms are unreachable. Add to that the extreme exhaustion and general leave-me-the-fuck-aloneness, and His snap and point to His dick damn near had me spitting nails.

I told Him, too. “I don’t wanna.”

“Too bad.”

“No, I mean I really really don’t want to.” (like, let’s stop playing M/s dress-up and go to sleep)

“Do it anyway.”

I hesitated, contemplating the consequences. I don’t know what they would have been and I’m not gonna guess, but I concluded that doing it would probably be less traumatic. I r smart.

So I’m sucking and the whole time I’m whining silently to myself. Because pms makes me feel really sorry for me. Oh sure. You get your dick sucked so you can get turned on enough to fuck. And who’s going to make ME horny, huh? You think saying “hey cunt, wanna do it?” is enough, ffs? Lazy fucker. I NEED STIMULATION TOO! *sob* You’re just gonna ram it in there with no regard to whether or not I’m even turned on, like the mere sight of your penis should be enough to send me into throes of orgasmic need. Fucking ego. Ever heard of FOREPLAY???? Men just don’t under-

and then He grabbed my head and slammed me down the length of His cock where I proceded to gag and erk and struggle to breathe. Then He did it again. And again, again, and again. He talked, too, pouring down filthy words of slut and whore, nasty, filthy and gag-on-it-bitch, and you-like-it-cunt, and swallow-it-you-fucking-worthless-object

And when He flipped me over and slammed it in, darn if I wasn’t wet and ready and horny as all fuck.

Foreplay. Yes, He has heard of it.

*beams*

~cunt

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It ended, not with a bang, but a whimper.

Master used me last night. That in and of itself is not unusual.

It was the whimpering He wanted to hear that was unusual.

It’s not accurate to say that we fucked or had sex. Those phrases imply a partnering, a coming together of two people seeking mutual pleasure; this was not about my pleasure. It’s equally inaccurate to say that we made love as there was nothing loving about it.

I couldn’t scream or cry out or say words. I couldn’t touch or block or move.

First, with my mouth silenced, stuffed full of cock, He smacked at my bare cunt with the palm of His hand. Smack-smack-smack-tug. Each tug of the pubic hair making my eyes bug and a whimper boil it’s way around His cock. Again and again, smack-smack-smack-tug, tug-tug-TUG-smack-smack. Smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack, the heat and pain rising with each furiously-fast crack against my cunt, until, again, whimpers wiggled their way across His cock.

He flipped me around and poked the head of His cock just into my cunt, holding it there, holding still, His form a heavy, hot, panting mass above me. In confusion I lifted my hips, thinking like a good little slut, trying to bury the rest of Him inside me. He growled at me and backed up a bit. “It goes in when I want it to go in, cunt” and I realized the error of my ways. He didn’t want a good little slut tonight. He wanted a good little cunt. I stilled, spread my legs wider, and prepared myself for the painful plunge that I knew was coming.

And it did, just as I knew it would. I probably don’t feel His preparations as much as I sense them; the tensing in His muscles, the positioning His legs and hips, coiling, like a snake preparing to strike, before driving into me just as fast and as hard as He can possibly move – but I certainly feel the searing pain of being penetrated before my body is ready. Tender cunt-flesh being shoved aside or ripped away, hip bones grinding into mine, the warm rush of His breath across my face as He grunts with the effort of tearing through.

I wonder sometimes if, as I’m aware of His preperations to plunder me, is He is aware of the struggle that I carry on within myself? Or is He fooled by the appearance of me, legs still spread, arms passive. Do I make it look too easy, does my demeanor belie the pain and difficulty of it all? Does He see the white-knuckled grip I have on the sheets? Does He feel the trembling in my thighs as I fight to hold them open? Does He notice the scrunching of my face or hear the gasp that is ripped from my lungs?

I suppose He does. And I suppose that’s why He immediately, before I’ve recovered from the first plunge, pulls back for another and another and another. I suppose that’s why He wraps His arms around the top of my head, pinning me in place, because otherwise His thrusting tends to send me sliding up the bed. I suppose that’s why He places His ear next to my mouth to better hear as I whimper with each body-jolting thrust.

And as soon as my body adjusts to the invasion of His cock, as my cunt lubes itself and my internal organs find other places to rest, and my whimpers dissolve into gasps of pleasure, I suppose that’s why He changes His methods. Lifting Himself up on His knees to free His hands but still keeping His cock pistoning in and out, He grabs my breasts and mashes them in His fists, digging His fingers in until I’m sure they’re about to puncture through. Grasping them and beating them against each other like cymbals, creating fleshy lumps of sound that reverberate through the air and my chest, mingling with the refreshed whimpering. I almost lose it then, lifting my hands, wanting so badly to grab His arms and stop this insanely painful breast tenderizing, but I do nothing, nothing but flap my hands uselessy at my side while He continues on, smacking them together harder and harder before switching it up by slapping the heels of His hands into them and grinding down, smooshing flesh into ribs, driving the breath out of me in one long, whispery, whimper.

That final whimper seemed to do it for Him and He jerked out of me, grabbing me by the hair and yanking me upright where I knew to hurriedly suck Him into my mouth, His cock all warm, wet, and sticky from my cunt, and work Him with my tongue and throat until He’s finished, sated, emptied.

After, I bathed the sweat from His back, bathed my juices from His cock and balls, I thanked Him for using me, while my insides ached and my breasts and nipples stung.

Hours later, in the deep darkness of pre-dawn, He woke me by pulling my legs apart and He took me again. Gentler this time, slower and easier, He rubbed His cock along my still-tender slit until enough of my own wetness and greed coaxed Him in. This time I whimpered for different reasons as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through me, soothing the aches and pains that He was gently bumping. He whispered that He was going to come inside of me, a rarity as He considers any sperm not ending up down my throat to be an extreme waste, and I moved with Him, enjoying the uncommon but pleasant feel of His cock pulsing with orgasm in my sore and battered cunt.

He lay on top of me then, still and spent, His breathing slowing in my ear. I could feel His cock buried deep inside of me. I experimentally squeezed, clenching my cunt around his ultra-sensitive cock and He twitched, whimpering in my ear. I smiled into the darkness, clenching again, and He answered with another whimper, a breathy and agonizingly erotic whimper, waftly softly through my ear to lodge like a shockwave in my groin.

For just a moment I had a taste of why He chases after my whimpering with such fervent passion and determination. It’s hot, it’s powerful, it’s arousing. A simple, lasciviously breathless moan. It’s musical. I stopped clenching, feeling a bit like I’d peeked at my Christmas presents, and He gave my nipple a hard tweak causing me to whimper again, putting Him back on top. After all, I am not the maestro here. I am but the instrument, being played at His whim.

~cunt

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