Klismaphilia

Sooner or later he's going to find out. There will come a day when he tells me he wants to fuck my ass, and he wants it clean when that happens, and he's going to see the horror and arousal and shame tumbling behind my eyes, and then my secret will be out.

I've been doing it myself since I was in grade school. The enema bag sat in the cabinet above the tub, and I was simultaneously terrified of it and fascinated by it. I never liked it when my mother would give me one. It hurt. It was embarrassing. She'd chase me through the house, and I'd run and try to hide, and I'd cry. But when I was alone in the tub at night, with the door shut... I'd get that bag down, fill it with warm water, and rub myself while the water filled me relentlessly, hopelessly full.

Today I passed much of a dull afternoon at work lost in my imaginings. He told me he was going to give me an enema, and I protested, eyes wide, pleading with him not to do that to me, certain that the humiliation would be too much. He didn't back down, knowing that I needed him to push me. He made me fill the bag myself. He hung it from the shower curtain rod and took off my clothes while my face burned with embarrassment and shame, and then he bent me over the tub and inserted the pipe.

His fingers probed my cunt, tight with the bulging of my water-filled rectum, and I was glad he couldn't see my face. One finger, two, three, four, then gone--only to be replaced a minute later by his cock, driving into that warm space and forcing the water deeper into my bowels with every stroke. He fucked me slowly, then fast, then slowly again, never letting me fall into a rhythm, and when the bag was empty, he withdrew both the pipe and his cock... and then I felt him pressing against my ass. With a squelch of lube and little other warning, he plunged his cock into my ass all the way to the ring that held it securely in its harness. I struggled desperately to hold onto the water inside me while he tried with equal fervor to force me to lose control.

This scenario played over and over again in my brain today while I made small talk with visitors to the office and tried to concentrate on what I was doing. Someday, he's going to find out.

When Time Stands Still

All these years of kink and sex-positive culture and fucking around, performing extreme acts of self-abasement in front of a crowd, exploring the limits of my body's ability to eroticize re-enactments of the world's horrors... and yet, sometimes the hottest thing is still the most vanilla.

From where I sit, the hottest thing in the world is still that moment with a new partner when his or her intention shifts, when the hand that's been caressing my back moves so slowly around to my breast, when a finger slips questioningly under the waistband of my shorts... Do you want this? Can I go there?

Blue kneels above me on the bed: he's pinned my face to the mattress with one big hand on the back of my head while the other meaty fist pummels my back, the blows falling again and again to either side of my spine. He lifts my shirt so that he can watch the bruises blossom, leaving it tangled in my arms and pulled over my head and laughing at my undignified position. There's nothing new about this scenario. He's been beating me for years, and he knows I like it. I crawl to him for it. I beg him for it. I rented this room at the no-tell motel just to have an opportunity to scream under his fists and around his cock again.

But he's never fucked me. Not in all these years. He beats me, humiliates me, takes off my clothes, fucks my face again and again and again, and even permits me the privilege of reaching around the harness to the wetness of his cunt to get him off from the inside, but not once has he touched the softness that lies throbbing at my core. I want him to, I don't want him to, I don't know what I want--but he's never forced me to decide.

The pounding stops, finally, just when I think I might break under the impact of it, and he caresses me, fingertips trailing along the sensitive skin over my shoulders as I writhe and shudder. I'm panting and gasping, clutching at the cheap sheet which has pulled loose beneath me, and I know my hips are thrusting at the mattress. I can't help it. Blue always makes me so hot.

The first time his fingertips brush the top of my shorts, I don't think anything of it. He goes on rubbing my back and I go on clutching at the sheet, and it doesn't occur to me that he's asking me a question.

The second time, he pulls at the waistband just the tiniest bit, and I draw in a sharp breath. I stop moving, just for a second, and his hand moves on.

The third time, his hands come to my hips, one at either side, and stop. I stop. My heart is pounding in my mouth, my eyes are shut tight, my breaths are coming in loud gasps. We stay that way for a long minute, and then he begins to slide my shorts off my hips. A little whimper of fear escapes me, but he doesn't stop. Slowly, very slowly, he inches them downward, shorts and briefs hooked together in his fingertips, the elastic waistbands offering no resistance. My belly pins the front of them to the bed and I raise my hips ever so slightly to free them. When they clear my crotch and settle into the crease at the bottom of my ass, he pauses. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks. I can't speak. After a moment, I shake my head: No. No, please don't stop. There's another pause, and then the mattress lifts beside me as he stands up.

I'm always surprised at how strong he is. In one fluid motion, he drags my hips toward him until my legs slide off the bed and my feet scramble for purchase on the floor. He tugs my shorts down past my knees, and then a wave of aloneness washes over me as he steps back and lets go of me. I lie there feeling vulnerable, my ass exposed to him, while he buckles his cock into place. There's the small sound of a condom packet being torn, and then he's settled onto the bed in front of me.

"Get it wet," he orders me, and I struggle to get my mouth over his cock at such an awkward angle. His hands go to my hair, forcing me down onto him, making me gag, and the mucus begins to collect in my throat. Blue loves blowjobs. He comes two or three times as I struggle to breathe under the assault before finally sliding his slick cock out of my mouth and moving to stand behind me again. I've kicked my shorts off the rest of the way, and he again takes my hips in his hands. He tells me to put my knee on the bed and I comply, and then the head of his cock is pressed against my asshole. I should have known he would not want to make it easy for me. Ignoring my cunt completely, he presses the head of his hard rubber phallus against my sphincter and begins to push. For me, there is nothing else in the world. The room, the hotel, the whole big world melts away and there is nothing but Blue's cock working its way insistently inside my ass. This moment, when time stands still and I am so incredibly focused on just this one moment in time... this is what I came here for.

Reclamation

It's that time of the year again: one more pap smear, one more internal exam. For all my medical fetishism, I've never been able to eroticize, or even really get comfortable with, the gyn exam. 

My blood pressure was through the roof before I even got into the exam room. The nurse was surprised. I wasn't--I'd been dreading the appointment for days.

My first several gyn exams were really bad, done by insensitive assholes I never want to see again, and they did a lot to raise my anxiety level. I've had a few good ones, done by sensitive doctors who knew how to keep me distracted and not make a big deal of it. Even the best exam has left me feeling... violated. I come away from them with the feeling of some semi-stranger's hands inside me, the feeling of my cervix burning from the brush they used to scrape off the precious cells so they could tell me whether my body is turning against me... it's hard to shake those sensations. Usually, I find specks of blood on my underwear afterward and it makes me sad. My cervix shouldn't have to weep. This year it didn't, and for that, at least, I'm grateful.

I took the day off work, knowing from long experience that I'd be emotional and wanting to be able to take care of myself. I had a harder time with this year's exam than with my last several--I have a new doctor and we don't connect as well as I did with the last one, who moved into a different specialty field for the money. I miss her.

I did what I had to do--I got through the appointment, went to the lab to have blood drawn, met up with Boyfriend for lunch, and drove myself home. I regretted having scheduled myself several other commitments on that day, but I had a little time, and so I did the next thing I had to do: I took off my clothes, found my favorite vibrator, put fresh batteries in it, told my pussy I was sorry for putting her through that horrible exam again, and made love to her. I didn't cry, though the urge was there. As always during this yearly ritual, it was difficult to find my groove. Orgasms tend to be elusive when my mind is filled with uncomfortable, unerotic thoughts. Finally, with some effort, I brought up the memory of my most recent play with sounds: the way it felt to slide a big, solid, smooth, cold metal rod through my urethra and into my bladder to massage my g-spot from an unusual access point. That did it--thirty seconds of those thoughts and I lay gasping and twitching in a twist of sheets. When I stood up and put my clothes back on, I no longer felt anyone's hands on my body but my own. Relief.

Sex Is Funny

A comment you really don't want to hear during or immediately after sex:

"Oh... you ate corn."

To the Hilt

My favorite cock for sucking is a bubblegum-pink soft silicone unit I picked out of the bargain bin at some dime-store porn shop. It's very porous and I don't dare use it without a condom, and it's a bit too soft for fucking, anyway--but it's fabulous for sucking. Firm enough to present a challenge, but yielding enough to make it a little easier for me to push myself with it.

I was ridiculously horny this weekend. Spring has finally arrived where I am, and the warm weather has awakened my libido in a big way. I lured Boyfriend into the bedroom yesterday with my ass in the air, taking a hard vaginal fisting that had me clutching at the fitted sheet and crying into the wad of blankets under my face. Twenty-four hours later, I was half-naked in the car, caressing myself provocatively while occasionally reaching over to stroke his upper arm in that special place that drives him wild. He thought he was going to go straight home from running errands, but instead, he ended up taking a small detour to my house.

I was really hungry today. I wanted my mouth to be thoroughly used. I couldn't get enough. Boyfriend stopped at the bathroom, and when he came out, I had the harness and the silly pink dick all ready for him and he knew what I wanted. He barely had it buckled in place before I jumped on him, condom in my mouth, and slid my lips over the shaft.

I tried kneeling between his legs, then moved to the floor with him at the edge of the bed, then back up between his legs, and eventually I scooted around so that my pussy was next to his face. That turned out to be the magic angle: next thing I knew, I was sucking that cock into my throat all the way down to the ring. That's about six inches of silicone down the hatch.

I haven't quite defeated my gag reflex yet. I'm not sure whether I want to... having a strap-on-wearing sadist grab a handful of my hair and force me to gag on his or her cock again and again is pretty fucking hot. In this case, I gagged so many times that I finally lost the battle and tossed my cookies. But I can get that whole cock down my throat, at least for a few seconds at a time, without gagging. I just haven't figured out how to move once it's down there without tripping the reflex.

Boyfriend is nasty as they come. He didn't shove my face into the stinking puddle of vomit on the sheet, but I know he thought about it. Eventually he got up, rinsed off in the shower while I stripped the sheet off and threw it into the washer (that'll teach me to suck cock without putting a chuck down first), and came back for round two. He wasn't done using my mouth, which made me happy as a pig in mud. He lay back and spread his legs and I dove in hungrily, covering my face with cunt-juice from eyebrows to chin and sucking his clit and labia in, feeling his clit get bigger and bigger under my tongue. Periodically I let go long enough to make filthy comments about his bulging cock, encouraging him to imagine it as such, until he exploded with it clamped firmly between my teeth. Boy, that's gotta hurt afterward.

There was a bit more to our afternoon escapade, but the part I most wanted to tell was the bit about swallowing that silly bubblegum cock all the way down to the ring.

A Bit Slow On the Uptake

I finally figured it out. All this time, I've been expecting you to be the person you were when I met you, but you're not anymore. Even when I finally realized that you'd changed with the dissolution of your marriage, I kept waiting for you to change back. I didn't know that your ex took some crucial part of your heart with him and you might never get it back.

On the surface, you still look the same. Oh, you're a little bit older, a little bit greyer, a little bit harder, a few more wrinkles around your eyes. But you still have love in your life. You still party and play the field and write about desire as if nothing has changed... but it has.

When we met, you didn't wear a mask over your emotions. You reached for me joyfully, your hand grasping mine across the table, your eyes seeking contact. You pulled my body to you, invited me inside, offered up your desire until I wanted to crawl right inside you because I just couldn't get close enough no matter what I did.

Then things fell apart. He didn't want you anymore, and then you didn't want him either, and that part of you that had reached for me closed up like a big fist squeezing your heart shut. You said you didn't want to bottom anymore, and I didn't know that meant you would become stone cold and remote. You kept on saying all the right things. You said you wanted to play with me. You said you wanted to make love to me. As you insisted that you didn't want to bottom, and I began to want to explore bottoming myself, you seemed like the safest, most reasonable person for me to come to... and you said yes, you would love to top me, and top me you did.

After it all came crashing down, I couldn't figure out what was wrong. I couldn't figure out why I felt so distrustful, why I needed to hold my heart back, why I felt so rejected even as you were telling me with your words that you wanted me, you wanted to spend time with me, you wanted to play with me. In time, you even told me that you loved me. And yet... it's been over three years, and I haven't been able to play with you.

I finally understand. The part of you that used to show your desire in physical ways is gone. I don't know if your ex took it with him or if it's still inside you, curled up in a little ball and protected by layers and layers of armor... but I haven't seen it since you left him. You don't reach for me anymore. You don't seek out my eyes with yours as you once did. You don't show any sign of arousal or desire around me, even when you touch me. You take my hand when I offer it... you hold me when I come to you... but you don't offer yourself to me at all. You barely even call me, even though you tell me over and over that I can call you any time of the day or night and you're always happy to hear my voice. Being with you is like being alone.

Offering you my desire makes me feel ashamed. No matter how many times you tell me it's OK to ask you for things or to tell you that I want things, I feel like that's a lie. I feel like a creepy clueless girl with no boundaries, throwing herself at someone who doesn't want her.

I miss your passion. I miss your desire. I miss your reaching out to me. I don't know if those things are gone forever or perhaps just gone from me, but I can't keep handing you my desire and watching it disappear into the black hole where your heart used to be. I've got to stop.

I didn't mind...

I didn't mind that it cut me. I might have liked it. The look in your eyes, your ragged gasps as you watched me slowly slide the handle inside myself, the roar that rose from your chest as you came, your face inches from my cunt, watching that knife slide in and out... slowly at first, then faster and harder... all of that made it worth the dozens, maybe hundreds, of tiny little nicks at the base of my left inner lip. I came so hard, and so wet, and for so long... I didn't mind that it cut me. I might have liked it.

Sugasm #122

Sugasm #122

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #123? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Sex and love; anger and appeasement “And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely.”

The Tetrised Luggage “Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat.”

You never know who we are “People tend to have an idea of who can/does talk about sex.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults) The Media vs. Pornography

Editor’s Choice Red Assed Mouthsoaping for His Lies

More Sugasm Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

No Insomnia Here

You know you were tired when you wake up in the morning and discover that the toy you used the night before, just before you conked out, is still inside you.

It's been a long time since I had a threesome. It was awkward at first, trying to figure out who was going to do what to whom, and by the time we found our groove, there wasn't enough time to do everything we wanted to do. Next time we will have more comfort with one another and I think things will flow more smoothly. I think there will be a next time.

Meanwhile, I will savor the memory of sharing laughter and orgasms with two soft, sweet-smelling women, and I will wake up in the mornings with the evidence of my joy still lodged in my cunt.

'Ho, me?

I've always been fascinated with prostitution--from the first that I was old enough to understand the concept. Hooker, hustler, hussy, prostitute, whore... from a very young age, I wondered why selling sex was supposed to be wrong. I was stealing skin magazines by mid-elementary school, and unlike the cliched male reader, I liked them for the articles. The pictures were vaguely interesting--I always stared at the close-ups of the women's pussies, pink and glistening, and wondered what it would be like to touch them--but what I liked most were the stories and letters. All that breathless confession (I was too naive to consider that it was probably 98% fantasy) and filthy fiction. I read them all, the raunchier the better, and beat off surreptitiously while telling myself that the violent and degrading ones, the ones that turned me on the most, were disgusting and wrong.

There were so many stories about prostitutes, almost always written from the whore's perspective. She was picked up by a cop and forced to submit to his twisted whim to avoid going to jail. She was picked up by a maniac and kept hostage for a prolonged period, raped repeatedly and kept in a secret room in the basement. She was picked up by a handsome man and fell in love a la Pretty Woman, or loved his cock so much, she gave her body for free. She was an innocent young thing corrupted by a manipulative older man to turn tricks. She was hooking her way through college/Europe/her bored suburban housewife life. In some slight variations, she was a sex spy, a terrorist, a criminal mastermind, or a prisoner, paying for information, privilege, leniency or power with the most valuable currency she had.

My dad had pretty kinky tastes. I don't know if he knew I was stealing his porn; maybe he thought my mom was throwing it out. Every once in a while my stash would disappear from under my mattress, but they never reappeared in Dad's magazine rack, so I suspect Mom was finding and dispensing with them. They didn't communicate much back then.

I always wondered what it would be like to turn tricks, but to this day I haven't been brave enough to try it. I've had a lot of trouble with self esteem and body image; I never believed I was thin enough or pretty enough or in whatever way desirable enough to be overtly sexual growing up; I didn't ditch my "precious" virginity until I was in my mid-twenties, and by the time I realized that I had enough of the things that appeal to men to be able to get laid pretty much any time I wanted, I had decided I was a dyke anyway.

I tried role-playing a prostitution scene once, but it didn't get very far. Neither of us had a clue what we were doing, and we ended up laughing hysterically and giving up. I think about it sometimes now, with more sexual experience behind me--I have bottoms who would be more than happy to play whore for me. Some of them even have actual prostitution experience. The trouble is, I don't think that buying a whore is what I want. When I top somebody, it's all about that person. All of the action happens to them and in them. I get off on manipulating someone else's experience--making them scream, cry, beg, moan, wriggle, and come. And come. And come. I fuck them, they don't fuck me. Getting fucked is a very bottomish thing for me; demanding that someone service me does not turn me on in the slightest... ninety-nine percent of the time. I've demanded it of the Boyfriend maybe three times in all the years we've been together. Otherwise, when it's my turn to get fucked, I roll over and give it up.

I read the blogs of a number of intelligent, literate sex workers these days--whores, escorts, pro-doms, pro-subs. These women are in more or less complete control of what they will and will not give, and they do it because they like it. Or at least because they consider it an acceptable way to pay the bills and they believe they're good at it. They are not, as a group, drug-addicted, homeless half-wits wasting their bodies and their lives at the hands of a street pimp. They're educated, middle class, empowered women.

I don't want to be empowered. I want to be used. I'm not sure I'm emotionally hardy enough to turn an actual trick with an actual stranger, but who knows. Right now my fantasy runs toward a butch dyke or transguy with a hard and hungry cock who hasn't been laid in a while... but whom I know well enough at least to trust that s/he won't damage me.

She's a friend of a kinky friend, and we meet at some vanilla party thrown by that friend; we end up thrown together, both of us awkward, searching for common conversational ground. The "So how do you know X?" conversation reveals to us that we're both scene denizens, but she's local to another part of the country and I haven't heard of her before. Or maybe I've heard of her, but never met her. Or I've seen her, but don't know her well. We play the name game and eventually that leads to talk of exes. She's cynical, burned too many times, harboring a lot of anger over her last few breakups. Damaged goods. She doesn't want any damned girlfriends anymore, but by god she misses sex. I consider it. She's not half bad looking, but her anger is off-putting. These days I like my lovers and playmates to stick around. I ask her whether she's ever considered paying for it.

"Why? What's your price?" she asks me.

"Uh... um... I didn't mean...!" I stammer and blush. She looks at me impassively and I squirm, at a loss for words. She reaches into her pocket, comes up with a card, and hands it to me. Her cell phone number. She tells me the name of the hotel she's staying at, in case I change my mind, and we drift apart.

I'm horrified. I can't take my mind off the exchange all night. I look for her here and there, curious, but I don't see her again. She's given up and gone back to her hotel. Maybe she got lucky. After a while, I realize I'm not having any fun and I'm sick of looking for her around every corner, so I say goodbye to the host and head out the door.

I'm surprised to find myself driving away from home. I know where her hotel is, and I'm headed straight for it. What am I doing??? Oh god. I'm a big girl, right? I haven't had a casual fuck in so long... but it can't be possible to forget how to do it, right? I tell myself it's just sex. I'm good at deceiving myself.

In the lobby, the man behind the counter asks if he can help me and I tell him I'm meeting a friend. He eyes me suspiciously. I take out her card, my cell, punch in the numbers... three rings... four... "Hello?" I almost can't find my voice. "I, uh... are you busy?"

Inside her room, door closed and deadbolted and chained, I try to make nervous small talk. "Shut up," she says. "I'm not paying you to talk." She motions toward the bed and I walk toward it, fighting the urge to bolt as my self-deception is blown all to hell with one sentence from her. She follows me, then with one motion, spins me around and shoves me onto my ass. She rummages in a bag on the night table, comes up with a condom, and throws it onto the bed next to me. Her hands move to her fly. I don't think she was packing at the party, but she is now... it didn't take her long to strap it on between the time I called her cell and the time I got to her room. "Pick it up," she tells me, rolling her eyes a little as if I'm stupid. I jump slightly and pick up the condom. I don't know what she wants, so I tear open the package and wait.

Her cock juts out at me, black and insistent as she tightens the strap holding it around her waist. Stepping in closer, she pushes it toward my face, and before I can react, she slaps me hard. "Put it on!"

I should be pissed off, I think, but instead I'm so hot I can't see straight. I fumble with the condom but manage to get it rolled down the shaft of her cock, and without ceremony, she grabs the back of my head and shoves her dick down my throat. I gag. She shoves harder. She throws her head back, closes her eyes, and starts chanting, "Suck me, suck me baby, suck me, come on, take it, take it..." all the while holding tight to my head, my ears, my hair, thrusting against my mouth and throat mercilessly while I fight for air. There's no room for finesse, no demure looks from under my lashes, no shy smiles or licking of my lips--there's just her grunts and the monotone of her personal pornographic soundtrack and the desperate, humiliating noises coming from my throat as she slides her rubber battering ram into it again and again.

She takes a long time to come. I try to reach up and help once, but she slaps me again and pushes my hands away. "Don't touch me!" she growls, and I get it: she's stone, and she's going to get off from fucking me, and I'm going to do whatever the fuck she tells me because she's calling the shots. I forget about the money then and let myself become a thing for her pleasure: a toy, a tool, a masturbatory device to be used and discarded. By the time she finally comes, I'm so weak from exhaustion, repeated gagging and lack of oxygen that I can barely even react when she rolls me over and pulls my jeans off my hips.

It's a good thing I drooled all over her cock, because I don't get the benefit of lube. She's a real lover. She kicks my legs apart, spreads my asscheeks with her hands, and shoves her dick in to the hilt. I scream. It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts! She doesn't give a shit. It feels like she's shredding my asshole as she pounds away inside me, and after a minute or two, there's enough mucus or blood or both that it really doesn't hurt much anymore. She comes hard with a strangled groan and I think she's done, but she's just getting warmed up. I think of the smart sex bloggers who've written about getting their johns to get off and get out as quickly as possible, and I wonder how she'd react if I told her I charged by the orgasm. The thought makes me laugh convulsively, but she doesn't seem to notice, and it's funny, you know, it sounds a lot like I'm crying. Damn, I am crying. Shit. I wonder if she'd let me up if I asked. I decide I'd rather pretend that I have that power than try it and find out I don't.

After she's had some number of orgasms that seems like thirty but was probably five or six, she pulls her bloody, shitty cock out of me. I don't dare move. I'm not even sure I can. I hear her strip the condom off her dick, then jump as I feel it land on my lower back. The buckle jingles, there's a bit of rustling and then I see a wad of cash land on the bed next to my face. "Get out," she says, already walking away toward the bathroom. "I don't want a fucking girlfriend." And then she's gone, the bathroom door closed behind her, the water already running in the shower. I pick myself up, gingerly, throw the filthy condom in the trash, trip over my jeans which are turned halfway inside out while still hooked on my ankles. Somehow I figure out how to dress myself again. Halfway to the door, I pause, turn back, and pick up the money, and then I go.