fabric

The figs we ate afterward were warm, soft, wrapped in prosciutto. Perfection, on arugula, and I would have offered my bite to you.

I woke this morning to a clear day, warm, gentle. I woke, rolled out of bed and wandered into Sunday, into the breeze and thinking about the figs, and what I would tell you about them. That they were warm, soft, sweet, like a Saturday.

That they made me miss you.

Songs I love make me long for you, but they are not our songs.

I miss you here, wish you were woven into the fabric, and not only wrapped in it.

I wish I knew the saltwater that hits your face when you dream, the sun that freckles your skin.

I wish you could take my secrets and keep them a little closer, a little longer, and not in a box, hidden away.

I wish that the scent of my hair were in your pillowcase, too, so that each morning, when you awoke, you reached for me.

red suede

Libelulle walked around the bed, mindlessly running her fingers through the red suede strands of the small whip she had taken from the nightstand. “What now?” she paced, bewildered and energized by the possibilities that lay before her.

Mosquito lay before her. She called him this tonight, though she had never thought of him as prey before. She had never fantasized this scenario that had played out tonight as they teased one another, joking still about the green rope still tied to the foot of her bed since November, just kidding about the ball gag and the blindfold. But he trusted her, as he asked her what it felt like when he had tied her down that one time, and she showed him. Now he was Mosquito, and he could not speak, or see, or escape. She would devour him.

Or she could.

She felt her chest lift as her breath became shallow. Her head became light, and Libellule sat down on the large ball that sat still near the balcony door. She bounced to keep her balance, feeling her pelvis rock, which made her giddier still. She dropped to the floor, onto the fuzzy rug that she had moved to her bedroom one afternoon, hoping to fulfill a fantasy that really did often play out in her mind. It was the one where Mosquito simply fucked her, Libellule in pearls and heels and nothing else, on the white plush ground. A simple fantasy, but one that seemed to evoke some level of hotel glamour that at times fit the need quite nicely, especially when the balcony door was open.

But now Mosquito lay speechless and sightless, face down, spread out, on her soft bed. Beneath his hips lay a pillow, and a towel, because he thought to put it there. And it did not feel so much like bondage when they started, because he showed her how to make the knots, and they were laughing, and talking, and he asked her to do it. And now it was quiet, and she was in control, and she knew it.

Mosquito did not move. She had wondered, if she left him long enough, if he would struggle at all against the ropes. He seemed to sleep now, but she knew his breath when he slept, and this was different. His buttocks tensed at times, when she moved at all, or made the smallest sounds. Each passing moment seemed to raise the stakes, as he waited. As Libellule waited, too, unsure herself of what she was capable of doing.

Libellule stood. She took the red suede and let the strands softly stroke Mosquito’s right thigh, then his left. Mosquito’s hips moved back slightly, his head turning just a little into the pillow. She stopped, and lay the whip gently on Mosquito’s back. Libellule was fully clothed, as she often was when Mosquito was naked, even when he was fucking her. She felt the power in his skin, and wanted to be powerful, too. She took off her heels, one by one, placing each heel close to each of Mosquito’s hands, so he knew, at least a little, what she was doing. She let him hear the zip as she removed her dress, let the dress fall on the ground, and bent over to pick it up, her warm body close to his head as she lay the dress beside him, the faint smell of perfume and perspiration now close to his face. She unhooked her bra, let the lace trace his legs just as the whip had a few minutes earlier. He ground his hips into the pillow, now feeling the restraint. She was stripping for him, slowly, and he could not see her, or touch her, save in his imagination. Her panties remained.

Her panties were pale pink lace, pale pink not covering her black hair, pale, pink, sopping. Libellule bent and tentatively picked up the red suede from Mosquito’s back, gently letting it linger on his back, like a feather, first up, then down to his chiseled marble ass, which now belonged to her. Mosquito was incapable of saying no to anything she wanted do to to him now. She could be cruel. She felt it, and the thought excited her, her panties now irritating her plump labia as she stepped back to look at him again.

Libellule walked close, ran the suede down Mosquito’s thighs once more, now aware that she was stalling, that it was time. She had to whip him.

And so she raised the red suede, let it snap in the air, now no longer soft on his skin, but stinging. He moaned–or tried to–and Libellule watched the red mark raise ever so slightly against the white of his beautiful ass.

She whipped him again, harder. Stopped, amazed at her intense anger now, anger at being so excited by this, at having tied him up where his dick was so inaccessible. She was angry at this desire to hurt her Mosquito, angry at her intense need.

Libellule yanked off her panties, and threw them near Mosquito’s face. She reached into her cunt, greedily, sticking in fingers in a frenzy so unfamiliar to her that it frightened her. She had to come, and felt no remorse in meeting her needs as she grabbed the vibrator and placed it directly onto her clit, barely able to contain her excitement.

She could come. Should have. She was too excited, and Mosquito was in perfect control, there thrusting into the pillow as he heard her moan and thrash. He could come just like that, she imagined. She imagined his cock was hard, that he would have welcomed any touch from her. She wanted him, wanted him to take over and fuck her violently. She watched him there, trusting her, saw the red mark across his backside, and felt tears well up, a lump in her throat. It hurt her to leave marks on his skin, and yet it is what he wanted, what she wanted , too from him. She watched him there, as he breathed and rocked. She felt the whip in her hand, and her hot aching need as she thought of the power he entrusted in her. It was wild, intoxicating, this power.

And she knew now. She knew why it had been so long since he had tied her up.

Libellule could stand no more. She walked to Mosquito and pulled off the ball gag.

“What do you want?” she asked him.

“You tell me. I am your prey.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Libellule said.

She untied him. Mosquito rolled to his back, his cock springing up. Libellule felt a sigh of relief, her cunt still aching, Mosquito now reaching for her nipples.

“I want to hear you moan again,” Mosquito said, and he twisted his fingers gently, the blindfold now fallen, so he could see her face, so he could stop as he saw her pain increase.

“Climb on me,” Mosquito begged, and Libellule straddled him, her fire only hotter as his cock glided into her. She fucked. She fucked him hard, and watched as his face changed, as he let go of her nipples and grabbed at the blankets beneath him, as he then grabbed her hips and pushed her down harder, pressed to feel his cock fill her as she screwed him.

Libellule could not stop. She could feel his cock quiver, about to shoot up inside of her, and it would push her to climax, too, just as it had so many times before. But different. She let go, forgot all modesty, let her mind imagine the most forbidden parts of herself, the parts in which she takes the reigns and rides him, hard, the parts in which she abandons all notions of nice–if she ever held on now to a thread of niceness still in bed with Mosquito. She did. She was sweet, and caring, and responsible. But not now. She let go of all of her that was not slut, and fucked him up and down, spreading her legs wider, and rubbing her clit down each time she ground into his hips.  He held her there, groaning loudly as she felt his come fill her swollen cunt, making her scream as she clamped his cock uncontrollably, her legs shaking, too, her breasts heavy and sore, her hips suddenly tired like a man’s.

Libellule lifted herself off Mosquito and sat beside him, wild eyed and panting like a panther that has just killed. He kissed her and smiled, and rolled back to reach for a pillow. And Libellule saw it: the red flash on Mosquito’s naked ass, a tattoo of her violence and her lust. Her heart pounded once more as she saw it: the whip on the nightstand, making her shiver, making her want to have him, all of him, once more.

in which I imagine you, lusting for me

You were leaning over looking up from some sort of work, your muscular arms braced firmly on the desk, that very clever look on your face. You looked in command of the situation, and seeing you there like that made me want to come up behind you and reach around to unbelt you, to unzip you, to yank down your briefs–carefully, because by the time I got to that, even quickly, your cock would be pressing hard against the fabric, immediately reacting to my brazen interruption. You would not need to run your fingers beneath the lace to know my panties are drenching. You would look back at me and grin, then start to straighten and reach for me, to pin me to the wall and hold my wrists while you kiss my neck and tease me. You would turn back, then push me toward the stairs. But no. I would put my hands over yours on the desk and tell you to stay. Just like that.

But not just like that: I would kick your feet apart a bit then, as you lean now against my dining room table. The windows are open, and you are completely exposed to the ladies who walk by to their appointments next door, if they have the sense to catch a glimpse of your lovely cock through my window. The trees and bushes most likely distract their glances, but maybe they saw you come into my house. Maybe they wish they could have you, too.

Your cock is hard, but it does not interest me now. I click open the bottle of lube and use enough to worry you–enough to grease your secret hot hole, for me to coat my fingers in it, to run my fingers around the tight rim and enter you as you breathe in. Oh yeah. Oh you like it, I know. You love it. You love the feeling of my finger slipping in and out of you, first one, two, the forbidden exquisite pleasure of me fucking your ass, just like that. Your nerves swell,  electric, I follow them, pressing hard, making you moan. I love this.

Little beads form on the tip of your cock. I have pulled my fingers out, your ass still open and gorgeous and succulent, my tongue incapable of resisting you, yes I lick, yes I love to drop to my knees in worship of all that remains obscene in your mind. I push you farther, and know you ache still for more.

I imagine you alone, thinking of this, of me.

I imagine you in a moment when your mind clears of the day, and night comes, or in the morning, the quiet. You think of me here, of yourself leaned over my table and cursing as I open you still wider, as I devour you, let your darkness find the light, as I lube you once more and lube the dildo that is far longer and far thicker than even two of my fingers, as I push it gently into you, then stop. As I push it in farther, then stop. As I push it in to its tip, and then stop. Then pull it out nearly all the way, and push it back all the way. I imagine you fucking yourself with it, just like that.

What do you do when you are alone? Do you shudder still as much as you push the cock into your delicious ass? More, because you do it selfishly, just the way that feels perfect to you?

Do you pull it in and out from the back, fucking yourself hard as you lean over just as you do now?

Or do you recline as I do in a bed with the pillows propped up, your legs spread wide, your ass all open and exposed like my cunt as you reach between your legs and fuck yourself? Do you watch your come-heavy balls tighten as your full ass quivers, as your cock fills and stiffens even more? As you know that even one soft stroke will set off a pearly white fountain of lust?

Do you let yourself come like that? Or do you let yourself calm with the dildo still and deep? Do you let the pleasure wash over yourself slowly, so that when you do stroke your cock, you can control it? Can you imagine still your sweaty palms now all lubed up, too, imagine the narrow slick tube your hand makes into my pussy, now so tight and hot and wet imagining you?

Do you close your eyes and think of the way my breath changes as you push me to climax? Do you dream of this as your own moans escape? Do you try hard to hold back? do you stop to breathe, to squeeze gently, to postpone your excitement just a little? do you prolong the intensity of the fuck, as you do with me? Do you let yourself ache then with  need? with the need to let your cock push to the very end of my cunt one last luxurious time? Do you think of my cry, my incendiary frenzy, my ripe swollen breasts, my lava laden cunt that you at last spill into, the whole of you copious and thick and flowing out of you deep into me, your ass full and deep, your heart full and pounding?

I think of your sweat slick body, you lying on a bed with one hand caressing the end of your cock, with the other firmly grasping the base, with your back arched to keep your biggest dildo from slipping out even a little. I think of you all alone and full of grinding lust. I think of your head turned hard to one side, of your heels dug into the mattress, your rough voice, your breathing, your hands sticky with come.

I think of you, later, dressed and recovered, your cock relieved and resting, your walk reminding you of your ass still slick and open now as you move on with the ordinary, your lust satisfied but not completely.

e[lust] #28


Photo courtesy of Delilah

Welcome to e[lust] – Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #29 (Which will be in September, taking a short summer break)? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed and Twitter for updates and submission reminders.

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What makes me a woman? It’s a stumper, this question. There must be something that makes me a woman. Something more than how I am perceived by others as I walk down the street. But what is the answer?

Baggage: An InventoryEveryone brings bags with them. My goal is to carry my own bags. I’ll let people help me shed them, but I will never let them carry them. Those bags are my own to, well, own.

There’s pain and then there’s pain (and then there’s pain)Part of what I crave in the second type of pain is the selfish sadism of the partner who continues despite my pleas. He does it because it arouses him, and he does it because I’ll endure it for him.

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What Is Gender?Playing with dolls and preferring the color pink doesn’t make you a girl anymore than chewing on a bone makes you my dog.

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Sex Toys: Single or Partnered, there is no shame in owning themThere’s no fucking shame in owning your sexuality, in taking control of your own damn orgasm. Can you PREFER human contact and partnered sex to sex toys? Sure. You can prefer whatever the fuck you want. But don’t insinuate to me that owning a lot of sex toys is somehow bad or shameful.

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Blog Design 101: Balancing Personal Style vs Readability
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Kink & Fetish

BDSM Day, an international recognition
BDSM Advice Series: Bondage Tape
Being a Brat Can Hurt
Caning, energy and romance
Screw roses! I enjoy playing with Thorns…
Working Girl

Erotic Writing

A Trip to the Toy Store
Can I get into your knickers now?
Coffee Break
early afternoon
Elevator Shaft
Fogged-up Windows
Fucking Eli
FWB
I’ll see you tonight…
One on One
Open By Night
Rock Out With My Cock Out
Renewed Interest
Twenty/Fifty-Three
that little fucking game changer [part I]
the weekend away – Sunday

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Death By Bondage
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Things I Looove Thursday

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Ask PolyAnna: Multiple partners?? Safer sex??
Are My Nipples Getting The Correct Signals?
Evolution
More Pussy Pride – The Perfect Vagina
My Take On Masculinity
Rambling Harlot: On Internet Dating and Shyness
Sex and Catholic Schools
Sex And Disability: Starting the Dialogues

in which I lust for you

This is the part I have already told you. This is the part where I tell you about the early morning, about my inability to sleep as the sun streams its tiny slivers through the blinds. This is the part where I tell you that I awake every morning wanting you.

This is the part where I spread my bare legs open to greet my lust, where I tell you that I imagine my fingers as your tongue, faintly tracing the wet inner folds of my labia, teasing me ever so gently into fire.

But of course, that would be a lie.

I never wait in such moments. I wake up on fire already, wet, but still flip open the bottle of lube on the nightstand and go right for my clit, hard, needing. It is appalling, I know. I feel my cunt tense as if to shield myself from the intensity–a movement that is so effective as to stop myself from feeling so much, from even breathing.

So, I think of the tantric workbook, try to relax and open, open, an exercise that in theory seems so fucking obvious, but in practice is so difficult. I stop, open, and I am afraid. I want you.

I want you, not my own hands here. Want you, your fingers making the decisions, playing me as a surprise, as your gift to be unwrapped, as a gift you give back to me. I reach down and want to feel the top of your head, not my own soft, wet folds, not my own lust.. I can come, but don’t want to, want you, want more.

joint venture

I let my hair go long, not because you might find it pretty, but because I like the thought of my dark, untamed, perfumed tresses spilling to your skin as I fly down and fold my head over your lap, your cock you, sprouting, growing past my teeth my tongue my throat, past my esophagus, my windpipe, my air my gut my blood. I am no longer. I am right here. Your rough hand reaches out for me, grabs my thick mane, my lionness mane, my woodfire mane.

clarity

Haze is a sheltering cloak. The mist and the rain envelop me, muffle my senses, make me feel safe. I linger, sultry in the shadows and droplets that hang from air itself, but protected.

I do not want to be safe.

I want the shining starkness of this new day, sun day, clouds hanging low ripe for the plucking day: the distinct variations in the greens, my chaos exposed and ordered by the breeze, just this, just this day. I want to see it, say it, sally forth, lie down, count my blessings.