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.

Sex Is Funny

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

"Oh... you ate corn."

Handball As A Contact Sport

I was lying on my right side with my left leg in the air. The dozens of clothespins on my breasts and labia hurt, but I barely noticed them because every iota of my attention was focused on my asshole. That was where the Boyfriend was directing his attentions--his right hand slathered with Crisco, shoving more and more of it inside me, slowly working his fingers in past the inner sphincter. I wanted to rub my clit, but I couldn't get to it around all the clothespins, and anyway, my left hand was busy holding my leg up and my right hand was trapped underneath me. My eyes were closed and I wasn't seeing anything but swirling colors, my own private light show broadcast on the backs of my eyelids.

Every time I thought I couldn't take another moment of it, he'd back out just a little and then I'd be begging him to come back. I was moaning and and writhing under his hand, my breath coming in jagged little gasps, wanting this to be the time that his fist finally slid into my ass. Periodically he'd rotate his hand so that he could wiggle his fingers against a different bit of internal geography and I'd scream.

I don't know how long we were at it; we'd already been playing for an hour or more and I was so wet, I could feel my inner labia sliding together, all slick with my juices. Suddenly I felt his hand slide in just a tiny little fraction more, and just then, I was sure it was the moment of truth and that he was going to slip past that thumb knuckle and I'd feel his fist pressed up against the wrong side of my backbone--and I was terrified.

"I'm scared! I'm scared!" I opened my eyes and sought desperately to connect with his for reassurance. He slid his fingers back out and immediately I missed them and wanted them back, even with the tears sliding down my cheeks.

He fucked my ass a while longer, eventually bringing out the big black cock that always takes so much warmup: it slid right in without the tiniest bit of resistance. He told me afterward that he hadn't been anywhere near close to slipping the last knuckle in when I'd gotten scared, but it doesn't matter. I'd sure thought he was right on the brink.

Someday, maybe.

Butt Seriously

The blood on the toilet paper doesn't scare me anymore. It used to. I remember panicking more than once, sitting home alone, afraid, wondering whether I should go to the hospital but worried about embarrassing myself. Wait a little while, I'd tell myself, and if it gets worse then go. Words like perforated rectum and peritonitis and horrible death would run through my head. In the end, I'd always fall asleep eventually, and by morning there would be no more blood and I'd feel sheepish but relieved to realize that it was nothing serious.

I've been sticking things up my butt for as long as I can remember. In childhood, anything from a Q-tip to a pencil to the handle of a pair of scissors was fair game. I didn't know there was anything unusual or taboo about it--I just knew it felt good. As a teen, deeply embarrassed about my sexuality, I tried to force myself to stop... but within a week, or maybe two, I'd always end up giving in. It was like a compulsion.

As an adult, immersed in a sex-positive culture, I'm not shy about most of my proclivities anymore. Oh, I have one or two that I'm not ready to shout from the rafters, and I'm sure they'll find their way into this blog eventually, but I no longer hesitate to tell people I like it in the rear.

I've been awfully horny lately, and today the magic 8 ball in my brain kept turning up anal. I couldn't wait to get home. I daydreamed the workday away, rushed impatiently through errands, and finally found myself at home, alone, free to indulge my desire.

There's this thing that I do sometimes, when I'm by myself and the the mood strikes me. Partnered sex is always more self-conscious to some degree, but solo I don't have to worry about what anyone else thinks of me or the mess that I make. I like to lay out a big towel and a lot of toys, grab a bottle of baby oil or a bowl with a big gob of cold Crisco, and see just how far I can stretch that little pink pucker.

The more I play with my ass, the hotter I get. Tonight I started with a little acrylic dildo, slim and slick, baby oil squirted along its length. Once things were slippery, that toy practically fell in all by itself. I moved from that to a string of anal beads, then to a larger rubber dildo, then to an acrylic bloopy toy, then back to the first dildo, then to a glass Coke bottle I perverted years ago. I filled the bottle with two inches of baby oil and tried to pour it into my ass, but the oil stayed stubbornly in the bottle even when I upended it entirely, so eventually I trotted to the kitchen, where I found an empty plastic soda bottle. I poured the oil into that, stuck the neck up my ass, and squirted it in. Feeling the cool liquid fill me, I nearly came right then.

Suffice it to say that I made a hell of a mess. I was at it for an hour and a half, and by the time I was done, the towel was smeared with baby oil and shit and mashed banana and perhaps even a trace of blood--and so was I. I was slippery and smelly from my tits to my ankles and I didn't care. By the time I finally allowed myself to come--clothespins on my nipples, a two-inch-thick wooden truncheon up my ass and cradled between my feet, a vibrator on my clit--nothing nothing nothing else mattered.

A long, hot bubble bath, a book, a bowl of spaghetti and a lewd phone call to the Boyfriend... it's been a very nice evening. I may have to produce an encore before bidding this night adieu.