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.

Sex Is Funny

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

"Oh... you ate corn."

'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.

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.