A Man of His Word

I've been down here all through his dinner.
Licking, sucking, swirling, laving, swallowing, gagging.
  (lather, rinse, repeat...)

Now his hand strokes gently and deliberately through my hair,
  slowly and sensuously gathering it all into a fist.
Knowing what's coming, I take a deep breath -- while I can.

And it begins...

Hard and fast, my head is repeatedly plunged downward.
Rhythm, depth, speed, all taken from my control.
The driving force increases.
I brace my hands on his thighs.
"Keep that tongue going...", he warns.
I struggle to keep pace but he's taking faster than I can give.
I have to cede control of even my own muscles and airways.
I choke, sputter, and struggle to breathe.
Strange noises rumble past my lips.
Fluids I normally contain arc wildly through the air.
He's rough, relentless, implacable.
I'm immobile from the neck up, no longer helping, now just riding out the storm,
  which eventually crashes over us and recedes.

Slowly, our breathing returns to normal.
I rest my cheek on his thigh and he traces the evidence of passion left on my skin.
"I did tell you I'd drown you in cum...", he grins.

"Permission to get a washcloth, sir?"
"Bring two..."

On Failing Carnality 101

I've been reading a lot of accounts lately that would, shall we say, earn SP's "Well-Written From The Cunt" Award. And you can tell by the comments the stories elicit that there are a lot of folk out there agreeing -- going, "ooooh, wow, hot!" ... and sullying their keyboards.
Which there is absolutely Nothing Wrong With, I hasten to add.
(Well, OK, if you are literally sullying your keyboard, then my inner tech might want to yell at you to go get a tissue, for goodness' sake. But otherwise, fine -- whatever floats your boat.)

But when I read that stuff, all *I* can think is, "Must... Wash... NOW."

And once again, I am struck by just how NON-carnal I really am.

Not that I don't enjoy the dripping, engorged, thrusting, slapping, groaning stuff as much as the next person. And I am sufficiently uninhibited to devoutly believe that the bedroom (living room, kitchen, hallway, bathroom -- wherever you like your nooky) should be a "Nicety-Free Zone". Hang-ups and fastidiousness have no place in the sexual arena. This is where the gloves come off.

The problem is that that my doorways appear to be strictly one-way. I have just as much trouble letting the unrestrained out as I do taking the repressed in. Rampant sexuality anywhere outside of the bedroom (living room, kitchen, hallway, etc.) just seems, well, unseemly.
Apparently, my carnality requires context.

And sometimes, that bothers me.
Because sometimes, it seems like it might be nice to run around thinking about sex all the time, oozing pheromones and stunning innocent bystanders into blinking incoherency.
But that, sadly, is just not how I roll.

I do not mentally strip men in the grocery store. I don't secretly eye bulges and note whether they dress right or left. I do not let my gaze linger over every Tom, Dick, and Harry while silently evaluating their bedroom potential.
Every once in a while I might be struck by a desire to lick an especially beautiful sculpted arm (I'm a complete sucker for that intriguing intersection of delts, triceps, and biceps) but that's about it.
Otherwise, I'm much more likely to just think, "Hey, cool hat!"

Nor do I go through life confident that I am Wanted By All. I don't loop "I'm Too Sexy" on my internal jukebox. I haven't strutted publicly since that one party in 1997 -- and even then it was because that was the only way I could walk in those heels.

I simply don't carry my sexuality like a banner.
Mine's bashful -- it hides in my mind.
Where it apparently beckons through my eyes, or so I am told...
But as we know, few men start by looking in your eyes.

I try to tell myself that it's OK to be me, but secretly?
I have carnality envy.

WHEN Is My Vacation, Again...?

(warning: this one's true but not pretty)

My astrological identity may be that of a crab, but I've always seen myself as more of a of jellyfish, adrift in the sea of life, bobbing with the current as it meanders through the seas...

Until, that is, the moment when my tiny cnidarian brain suddenly realizes, "Crap! I'm fathoms deep in water!" and I revert to panicking, thrashing, drowning human.

Unfortunately, in my distress, coherent thought and articulation fly out the window. So naturally enough, those around me are baffled, asserting that they just don't see a problem and why am I panicking?

Which, because I'm a contrary cuss (in a state of panic,) makes me yell at them. "DO YOU NOT SEE ALL THIS WATER HERE?!?"
     (but I forget to add, "and I suck at swimming")

So they answer the spoken.
"Well, you're the one playing jellyfish, what did you expect?"

Which, because I don't realize I didn't say, "and I suck at swimming", sounds like they don't care if I drown...
     aaaand ...
now we're both hurt and confused.

Oh, and let's not forget that I'm also furious with myself for panicking in the first place. Cuz, y'know, jellyfish aren't supposed to feel fear...

... I've had better weeks.

Trust Is...

Maintaining your rhythm while your Dominant drains pasta immediately above you.

(Not my actual Dom)

Layers of Lust

I sent him pictures, as I often do. I know he likes the ones that highlight hot details of a scene but this time he got photos that show very little action and even less flesh but that create a very strong impression of dominance and possession.

He responded that those pictures had circled in his mind for days, making him want to use me - selfishly, roughly, repeatedly. I could actually hear the growl beneath the sentence.

It was a purely visceral expression of dominance. My specified role was simply as a means to his end. No implied mutuality, no sense of desire for Jz-the-person, or any of those softer feelings that warm a girl's heart. The actual terms used, in fact, reduced me to nothing more than his own personal glory-hole.
Fucktoy, indeed...

I read the words, blinked, and waited for my indignation to set in. Disconcertingly, however, it never did. Instead, I glowed quietly.
Which struck me as so very peculiar that I had to stop and consider, "why?" -- because I would have expected that little display of objectification to set off every knee-jerk reaction I possess. But no.

So... what just happened here?

I'm still not certain and please bear with my fumbling explanations but I think that the difference lies in the fact that it was his dominance that was triggered, not simple sexual desire. Yes, yes, the two are interwoven with us, that's a given, but...

Sexual desire is, quite frankly, not really person-specific. The libido is a restless, demanding, itchy little bugger that really just wants to be satisfied, object be damned. You can talk yourself into wanting just about anyone if the internal craving is strong enough.

But dominance and submission really are incomplete without the other half of the symbiosis. You can't play those mental tricks on yourself that render anyone fair game. For D/s, like requires like.

Which means that to vent that dominant energy surge, he needs a submissive. And it seems to me (and OK, here's where I may be veering onto the "Delusional Slut's Sugarplum Fantasy Trail",) that for him to specifically want to, um, surge "repeatedly" means he wants to reinforce his dominance, to both strengthen and draw from that synergistic energy loop that he already has with someone.
This is not something he can do with just any sub, he needs HIS sub for that -- and she would be me, the tall, mouthy one over here in the corner.

So, as best I can figure it, the reason I didn't get upset over the objectification is because my subconscious recognized that it wasn't actually an impersonal desire, despite the phrasing. It was genuinely ME that he wanted -- and that's not something he often expresses. (Hence the glowing.)
Or at least, that's the comfortable explanation that my conscious brain likes.

(Should you hear a loud, anguished wail echoing through the blogosphere sometime in the future, it might be me, reacting to being hit upside the head with a 2 x 4 by an uncomfortable reality -- but that'll be another post entirely...)