Like a shark, can't hold still.

Is it possible to have the same sex and still enjoy it? Can you do it with no novelty in technique or dynamics and get anything out of it?

I'm asking because my unconscious answer seems to be "no." I'm on a treadmill (or, less generously, a slippery slope) of sexual acts. If I was spanked last week, this week I want to be beaten. And the next week horsewhipped. Which will lead me, in about two months, to "We haven't tried disembowelment-play yet, honey..." (Everything is okay if you follow it with "-play.")

I have an iota of common sense, so that won't literally happen, although I may go further in the direction of disgusting and degrading than is good for me. What will happen is that I'll hit the wall. I'll get to the point where I've exhausted the possibilities and I can't have sex that I haven't had before.

Then I'm going to have to do one of two things (probably a bit of both, actually):

1) Learn to enjoy things besides novelty. There's phsyical pleasure and intimacy and you don't build up a tolerance to those. The seventy-eighth time you see a man's eyes roll up into his head and feel his muscles inside and out of you tighten and throb for an instant before exploding into orgasm is just as good as... not the first, maybe, but just as good as the third or fourth, and that's still pretty damn good.

2) Realiize that you can't cross the same river twice. The gross mechanics may be the same, but the fine details and the mental/emotional trappings never are. The moments never repeat. "I gave him oral?" Been there three hundred times.
But:
"I looked up and saw his eyes had been locked on mine. I also saw he was starting to lose his balance. I carried him down to the floor with me and as I got back into my rhythm of breaths and thrusts he seized my ass and pulled my cunt over his mouth..." That kind of thing is new every time.



There's a well-known sex/BDSM club with a relatively low skeeve factor in town and I've visited a couple times. I suppose I should join but I just never make the commitment. Partly because the median age is kind of "hi there, dad," but partly because I don't want a community. I like being a little furtive, a little unhealthy, a little freaky. Nothing ruins the illusion of being an outlaw like going to a "spanking enthusiasts social."

Prisoner of Love.

I got to Jon's house, said hi, and started taking off my boots.

"Take off your socks too," he said. I did. "Face the door and take off all of your clothing." I did. "Hands behind your back."

He handcuffed me, then blindfolded me, and started to lead me up the stairs.

One of these days I'll learn to take these things seriously, but that wasn't the day. "You've got all your friends up there, don't you?" I asked. And as I walked up the stairs slightly awkwardly, him pushing me along and me acutely aware that if I tripped I would land on my face: "This is just like summer camp!"

It was just like summer camp, because when we got upstairs, he had me stand still and for a second there was nothing. I couldn't hear him or feel him. Then suddenly he knocked me backward, and I fell down... about three inches and landed on a mattress, giggling my fool head off.

After that he switched my handcuffs out for rope and clamped up my nipples and beat me and fucked me and all that. But it was those first few moments, stumbling along blind and naked like some sort of sexy war prisoner, that stick with me. Not as the sexiest, but the most fun. There's something about the combination of childish roleplay and real vulnerability (and delicious, uncertain anticipation) that makes me feel just so damn lucky to have experienced it.


Unrelated Comment: People who express their sexuality through capitalization are D/dorks.

Casting the first stone.

"Come on, why are we judging her? You and I, we've both put things up our asses."
"Yeah, but not five Sharpies..."
"...And not on the Internet."

Hitting the wall.

The difficulty with keeping a personal sex blog, I'm finding out, is that sex isn't really all that interesting. How many variations can I find on:

"I went to a dude's house and we smooched then took our clothing off. Then he touched my breasts and I touched his penis, then he touched my vagina. Then he hit me some because I'm psycho. Then he put his penis in my vagina, then took it partway out, then put it all the way back in, a whole bunch of times until we were done. Then I had angst."

As far as acts, there's really only so far I go. (Well, I did get forced to eat my own menstrual blood last night [seriously, no joke], but do you really want to hear about that? Possibly you do. There was nothing physically unpleasant or horrifying about it at all except for the little voice screaming "WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!?" in my head. I think there's a tiny nun in there.) It's not possible for me to do anything that hasn't been done before, and unless you're eight years old and homeschooled it's not possible for me to do anything you haven't heard about before.

But sex was never about acts. Sex is about people and emotions and politics and creativity, and those are very deep wells, even within the boundaries of my own little life. "Hey he got it up my ass" may not be interesting, but "why do we feel the way we do about asses?" has endless potential.

Or maybe I should just post moar tits.

Laid-back friendly casual whipping.

Benny got some new toys. A very mean and pinchy set of nipple clamps (holy crap do I love that feeling), and a riding whip. It's like a riding crop, except that on the end of it, instead of a flat slapper, there's a little knotted string. It huuurrrts.

The first time he used it on me tonight was too much. He tied me spreadeagle, blindfolded me, messed around with me a bit to get me good and horny, put the nipple clamps on me, and laid into me... rather gently at first but even a little bit of that whip is a lot. It was the first time that I was glad we had a safeword, because I was yelling "No no no," "Please stop," just instinctually. I didn't mean it, or I'd have used the safeword. I just couldn't help saying it. And eventually, far too soon, I reached the point where I couldn't take any more. I wasn't physically worn out, I was just too freaked. I'd been yanking on the bonds, rolling as far away as I could within a tight spreadeagle, making horrible faces and noises and feeling far too much fear.

(I can't believe the above paragraph is real, by the way. A year ago it would have been a mere fantasy I never expected to realize. Five years ago it would've been horrifying.)

He stopped, of course, and we had a good time doing other things. Afterwards, though, I wanted to feel that whip. I suggested something we'd never done before.

"How about we don't do all the bullshit? Don't tie me up, don't make me submit, I'll just take my clothes off and you'll whack me with it, okay?"

I've long been a fan of hanging around chatting and idly fucking, but this was idly whipping. He was sitting on the big king bed and I was on my stomach beside him, and for something like a half hour we just talked and every few seconds he would swat me on my back or ass or the soles of my feet. It didn't hurt less, but being more free meant I could take more. It was heavenly.

We laughed at the long red welts on my ass and then we made more of them.

Anticipation.

"I might get laid tonight" is a much, much sexier thought than "I know I'll get laid tonight."

Young Love.

When I was fifteen, my twenty-one-year-old boyfriend told me he loved me. In hindsight I still believe it. It wasn't a very mature and healthy love, certainly (I tried to run away with him, it ended in missing person reports and restraining orders), but I really don't think it was a lie. He was my best friend and he was a giant creep, but he wasn't a liar. I loved him. Goofy fifteen-year-old "me an mah bf is soulmates!" love, but it felt real.

When he broke up with me (three months after the drama, no mere court order can keep a teenage girl from her Twoo Wuv), it was possibly the most humiliating moment of my life. I screamed, I threatened suicide, and I tried to seduce him into staying with me. It was Crazy Chick Greatest Hits. He had to literally pull my hands out of his pants and push me away to break up with me.

I met back up with the guy once when I was nineteen. We spent a weekend together in bed and then went our separate ways again. We didn't mention the love or the craziness at all the whole time. I didn't get "closure" (fuck, I still faintly miss him; it doesn't make me cry at night but now and then I think that I'd still take him back any day), but it didn't make me feel worse. At least we got to part on amicable grounds with a nice hug and kiss instead of hideous histrionics.

Am I over him? No, or I wouldn't be posting this. I'm dating other guys and I'm getting on with my life, but... man, I still believe it was love. There was a lot of sex mixed in (we took each others' virginities and fucked like crazy bunnies every time we saw each other for the next nine months or so) (he had a goddamn NINE INCH COCK), but I don't miss that. The guys I'm seeing now are more skilled and sophisticated about it anyway. The only thing they can't do for me is tell me they love me. And there are good, sane reasons for this--Jon is just a fuckbuddy, Brandon has only known me about three months--and I don't really want them to love me. I just want to be loved.

Wah wah wah. I also want to be a doctor and have kids and buy my own house, and I'll wait for love and work up to it just like I'm working up to those things. Love is one of the big rewards in life and shouldn't be quick and cheap. At my age I have no more right to cry about being unloved than I do about not owning a corporation.


Why is all this going in my sex journal? I promise the next two entries will be nothing but steamy fucking with nary a girly whine. By way of apology.

"Subspace"?

Benny bent me forward, over the rail at the foot of the bed, thoroughly tied in place, blindfolded. I trembled in anticipation. Literally. I've had more than one man tell me that I vibrate when I'm excited.

He hit me. The first blows didn't really hurt; it was his open hand on the tough side of my ass, it's hard to make that painful. It's just plain sexy. I can get damn close to orgasm from being spanked.

But what came next was more complicated. He got out the flogger and started hitting my back, my legs, anywhere he could reach, and not just little sexy swats. It just plain hurt. And there's always a moment of panic. I know he'd stop if I told him to, and I know he watches me very carefully to make sure he's not dishing out more than I can take, but there's this instinctual split second of I'm being hit and I can't protect myself!

Once the panic was over, I closed my eyes under the blindfold and started to go deep inside my head. The pain wasn't on my back, it was pain on me, and the source didn't matter. It wasn't sexy exactly. It was something I needed, something I was eating. Even as one blow made me flinch, I was desperate for the next one. I wanted to be marked, to be bruised, to fucking bleed. The pain didn't magically turn into pleasure. I liked it because it was pain.

Up to that point, it was all relatively routine, something I've experienced a few dozen times. But then something different happened. I gave up. I stopped flinching. Stopped worrying about where and how hard the next blow would be. It didn't stop hurting, but I stopped caring. He could have used a steak knife on me and I wouldn't have stopped him. The feeling wasn't just anesthesia, though. It was bliss. It was a high. Was it even sex? Sex came before and after, but at that moment, I wasn't pleasured exactly, I was... elsewhere.

I have a back so bruised I have to sleep on my belly and a horrible craving to do that again.

Gross/Sexy/Goofy/Geeky/Gross.

"I was jerking off the other night and I suddenly realized my penis still smelled like your mouth."

Aftereffects.

My nipples are still all bright pink and stingy. Well, not all the time, but when I touch them.

That's basically all the time.

Well, not when I'm in class. And only sometimes at work. Can't do that in front of patients.

Well, conscious ones.

Rough.

Alan can't be kinky in the formal ("formal?" sheesh) sense. Won't use toys, won't call it dominance and submission, won't play the goofy Sir Master Daddy word games.

But I'm finding he can be rough.

Last night was fun. I came over between school and work and we just relaxed for a while, watching "America's Most Deadly Explosions" type shows and saying very hypocritical things about the morality of showing real deaths on TV for entertainment. Things progressed as they frequently do, from sitting on the couch next to each other to cuddling on the couch to slipping clothing off.

Then he turned things around. He shoved me down on my back, held my hands above my head, and pinched and bit my nipples. Hard, and getting harder, so that it felt so fucking good and hurt so much I could barely stand it and then he stopped and shoved his fingers up my pussy, just as hard and staring me in the eye the whole time while I squirmed. He didn't let me go until I came and when I had barely caught my breath he pushed my mouth down onto his cock, holding my head and forcing me to take more of it down my throat.

He didn't let me finish him, and in a moment, when I could taste clear salty pre-come leaking from the tip of his cock, he pulled me off, threw me back down, said "are you ready?" but answered himself with "I know you are," and started to fuck me. He was forceful and when I tried to take any control of the rhythm or even push up against him he shoved me down, fucking me his way and that way was hard and fast enough to hurt.

I can never remember fucking as it actually happened. Just details; my hand wrapped around his shoulder, his eyes open and locked on mine, the sweat in the small of his back, the muscles in his legs tightening just before he came, and little gasps from both of us in unison before I just started screaming.

I went to work afterwards, sore everywhere under my uniform, feeling little twinges from my nipples when I moved.

The "naughty" clinical rotation is optional in nursing school these days.

"You should dress up as a naughty nurse."
"Um... you mean I should wear my scrubs?"
"No! Yeek! That's not what naughty nurses wear!"
"I'm a nurse! I'm naughty!"


(Technically I'm a nursing assistant, but Alan has never grasped the subtle difference between a two-month night class that teaches you to give bedbaths and drain catheter bags and a four-year course of schooling that qualifies you to assist with surgery. He wants to call me a nurse, I'll roll with that.)

(I have a set of "Spider-Man" brand scrubs. Little webs on them and everything. Any man who would let me be his Naughty Nurse in those puppies would be my hero.)

"It's all over the Internet."

I guess I could rant about how I've got an education and happiness and I'm going to have a family and Jesus Christ my fucking tax dollars went to this and so on, but the clip speaks for itself, doesn't it?

Also, in a universe where birth control and condoms are really quite reliable, and marriage is supposed to mean something deeper and more adult than "we can bang now!", I don't even understand why kids shouldn't. It's not just ineffective and goofy like DARE; it's ineffective, goofy, and wrong like the part of DARE where they told us that smoking pot would lead us to shooting black tar heroin between our toes.

Apple and Orange.

Alan is 5'7" and can kiss me without stooping. Benny is 6'1" and can beat me in a fair wrestling match. Alan is 27; Benny is 21. He's the first lover I've had who's younger than I am.

Both of them work at the same company. It's an enormous one and they don't know each other. Alan is a lower-level contract employee, drives a Civic and lives in a studio apartment. Benny is a precocious (and rather overprivileged) fast-tracker; his apartment is huge and his car has leather seats.

They live within a mile of each other. They are both huge geeks. They both have mothers in high-status professions (Alan's mom is a published author) and disabled fathers. Alan is a snotty liberal atheist and Benny is a snotty liberal Jew. Alan smells of cigarettes and whiskey; Benny always smells slightly like semen.

Alan has a slightly bigger cock and unlike Jon he's uncircumcised. Benny lasts longer although both last plenty long enough. Alan is utterly vanilla; his answer to "what do you really want, what is your deepest fantasy?" is "um, sex." Benny is a huge fucking pervert. He's a switch, a fetishist, a porn collector, a freak for butts and feet and leather and rope. He's a dirty old man thirty years early, and I love it.

I didn't realize until I wrote this how much more suitable Benny is on paper. A tall rich kinky Jew? I should be angling for marriage, dammit, not telling him "you know I'm doing another dude, right?" But I like Alan more.

He hugs more.

Wanting it more.

So far as I know, neither Alan nor Benny has any partners besides me. (While they don't explicitly know about each other, they do both understand that they're not my only.) I always want to see them for sex more often than they want to see me, and when we're having sex, I usually initiate and they always end it.

The reason, I'm fairly sure, is just that I have a ridiculous libido. The guys are normal humans who have the time and desire and energy for sex some times and not others, and I'm... not always up for it, I'm human too, but a lot more willing to shift my priorities around to get some.

It wounds my ego. If I were superhot, if I were a babe, they'd make time, dammit. When I have to beg, sometimes I feel like they're just humoring me by fucking me. They're enthusiastic enough when we're doing it, but every time they say "I'm going to bed early tonight," or "I have to work late," or "I don't think it'll work a fifth time," all I can hear is "You're not pretty enough for me to strain myself." That's immature and self-centered of me, but it's what I think, not what I know I should think.

I'm getting what I want. I want sex and affection, and I've got 'em, and that's a damn sight more than a lot of my friends can say. I just don't know how to be satisfied.

I think it's an age thing. I'm 21 and not an experienced or powerful 21 either. I'll get older, I'll get more confident, and my libido may not change but I'll learn to take a "no" as a "no" rather than an insult.

And until I do, I have a sudden rush of sympathetic understanding for date rapists and date over-pressurers. Because it really isn't sex, is it? I can do that my own damn self and I don't even like it that much. It's the trust and approval and validation that come from knowing someone else thinks you're fuckable. That's the drug.

And I'm a fucking junkie.

Satire, not paranoia. Well, a little paranoia. A skosh.

Suppose that there's a method of chemical castration that is 100% reversible and has no side effects except the total (temporary) loss of libido.

Some parents will want to administer it to their children until the age of 18. (If that's not sufficiently scary, let's compare it to Ritalin, and consider that schools will actively recommend to parents that problem kids be put on it.)

How many adults (especially politically credible square types) will be willing to publicly speak out against it?

Is there any way to stop it?

(Extra credit, even though you've probably already felt the answer: should it be stopped? Remember, it's not compulsory, no one's forcing it on you or your kids. It's something other people are choosing to give to their own minor children. Why would you feel like this is your business?)

What I Learned From Google Analytics.

I put Google Analytics on this blog to track the traffic, partly for fun and partly to feed my narcisism. Because if I were estimating my own readership, I'd say it consists of Dorkiewitch, Aebhel, Bruno, and a startlingly diverse array of people named Sam. (The new "I'm big in Japan" is "I'm big with Sams.")

But apparently no, apparently 247 different people have read this thing a total of 1593 times. Which is by web standards very close to zero, but it's a lot for little ol' me. Here's some fun things I learned about them: (disclaimer: these may all be robot hits or something, I have no way of knowing how many are real people actually reading)

-I've gotten hits from around the world, mainly the US, Europe, and Australia, but with at least one hit from Saudi Arabia, Ecuador, Thailand, Turkey, Argentina, Peru, and India.

-Within the US, the most Pervocratic states are Washington, New York, Virginia, and California. I have no hits in New Mexico despite knowing someone in Los Alamos reads this, so I'm not sure what's up with that. There are a lot of hits from Arizona though. Maybe that's her.

-Of people who visit this site, 77% are repeat visitors. 21% have been here more than 50 times. 3% have been more than 100 times, and I'm fairly sure that 3% is mostly me.

-My top referring site is figleaf's awesome Real Adult Sex, followed by my own Livejournal.

-Someone del.icio.us'ed the page with pictures of my vagina. You're kinda creepy, someone. Unless you're, like, a Vagina Monologues feminist, then... I guess it's okay? I sort of think Vagina Monologues is creepy, though.

-Search keywords used to find this page include:
•"did it four times" (We sure did, buddy.)
•"touched a guy's" (This person is either young, or looking for young.)
•"blogspot masturbation or masturbate -mental -intellectual -teen -amateur" (Very specific.)
•"flaccid when bottoming" (Valid question, but sorry, I'm not what you're looking for.)
•"grope his cock" (Good idea!)
•"http://pervocracy.blogspot.com" (That's not how you use a search engine.)
•"nympho "catch his breath"" (Huh.)
•"read erotic paragraph lust thrust the cock" (Huh.)
•"she my catheter tied bdsm" (HUH.)

Dominating.

I'm getting better at it.

I undressed Benny completely and left my own clothing on. Just a t-shirt and slacks, not exactly skin-tight black leather. I tied Jon's hands together above his head, his legs tight together. I blindfolded him, which is a bigger bondage than the ropes; not knowing what's coming drives me crazy.

I didn't say much to him either. Just started by feeling up his whole body. Not harshly really, just sizing him up. I like to get the feel of a man, it's more fun than looking and it's very easy to do when he can't move. Squeeze the muscles, stroke the skin, find the birthmarks. And my hands ended on his cock, stroking him to erection, going a little beyond that until the point where his hips started making little involuntary thrusty motions, and then stopping.

The point isn't just to get him turned on, it's to get him turned on enough that he can appreciate a little pain. I slapped his thighs, pinched his nipples, rolled him over and hit his ass. I'm a pretty sturdy girl; I can hit as hard as I need to, and the real game is judging his reaction. If it's not hard enough, he's stoic; hard enough, he gasps and moans; too hard, and he'll yelp. Being on the very edge between gasp and yelp is a lovely feeling. I took off my belt.

A belt is something you really have to be careful with, especially if your bottom is, like Benny, not so psychotically commited to masochism that they'd enjoy any amount of pain. I used it in a way that felt light, like I was barely touching with it, and it left long red stripes and made him groan like he was getting fucked. His cock was hard as hell.

Before the pain could tire him out, I got undressed and I got on that cock. I didn't do a lot of kissing and I didn't need a lot of foreplay; I planted my knees around his hips, my hands on his shoulders, and I rode him hard. He was begging. I was fucking him already and he was just begging for more, whatever that even means. He was begging to come. I made him.

Afterwards, when he was untied and I was collapsed next to him on the bed, he told me it was the first time he'd had sex to completion in two years. (Kind of a picky point on his part since we'd had tons of sex and tons of orgasms, he had just technically not had an orgasm during intercourse.) I hadn't known that.

In some strange abstract way it made me sad.

Butt.

You know, at least for Benny and me, I think our interest in anal play is based more in the symbolism than what it really is.


Butt sex is the only remotely mainstream sexual activity we haven't done yet. It's forbidden. Supposedly painful and dominating. Supposedly the greatest and darkest of pleasures. It's the Last Frontier.

But when you get down to actually trying it, the chief objection isn't "oh my god the pain" or "oh no the pleasure is too intense," it's "I think I might poop."

Yes, no one said traversing the Last Frontier was easy.

Expectations.

Before I had sex, I got the impression (from where I'm not sure, probably media more than humans) that the main difficulty was that men came much faster than women, the expected position was man on top, and that men focused too much on their own pleasure and forgot the woman's.

In my actual experience, it's been exactly the opposite. Maybe I've been running into a weird sample or I'm doing something wrong, but every guy I've fucked has taken roughly one million years a half hour to get off. I need about five minutes. Two if you're trying really hard. And unless we explictly agree on something else, guys expect me to get on top during sex.

And as for pleasure... well, I wonder if this has something to do with the fact that I've never slept with a guy who didn't have a "lucky" d20, but the guys usually expect it to be all about me. Their typical sexual script seems to be that they'll kiss me, then suck on my breasts, then finger me, then go down on me, then fuck me, and my job is to enjoy it. I try to be a little more giving than that, but it always seems to come as a suprise when I am.

I wish I knew where I got my weird expectations, because I'd like to tell it, whatever it is (probably some amalgam of 70's era sex manuals, Cosmo, and American Pie), you are so wrong, buddy. Now stop filling the kids' heads with that nonsense.

Because really, if I were Missy Eliot, I'd be singing "I don't want no two-hour man."

Voyages of Discovery. (Fuckups.)

Most of my partners have been about the same experience level as me. I lost my virginity with a virgin; my first one-night stand claimed to have "never done this before" (lol?); my first time in serious bondage was Benny's first time tying someone up.

The good part is that no one need feel inadequate, and it's kind of fun. The bad part is that the blind are leading the blind.

Last night Benny lay me down on my back on the bed, and tied my hands to the headboard. Good, good. Then he tried to spread my legs as wide as possible, bend them all the way back over me, and tie my ankles to the headboard. I can see how it would be hot in theory/porn, but my reaction was less "your slave-slut is fully exposed, Master" and more "OW YOU ARE A CRAZY PERSON LET ME GO OW." (After some futzing and an embarassing amount of whining he fixed things, and we had plenty of fun.)

I'd've been angrier, except that the last time we played, I turned his hands blue. I thought I'd only made it secure-tight, not crazy-tight, but I'm not a knot expert and I forgot to check in once he was tied, and I guess it tightened up while we were playing. Literally ten seconds before he was about to come, I realized his hands were freezing cold and horrifyingly blue. I didn't think that was the most appropriate time to stop everything for a Safety Timeout, so l brought him over the edge and immediately started ripping the ropes off. He was shaking out pins and needles for the next half hour.

Since then I've been more careful about checking everything repeatedly through a scene, and the next position Benny came up with was considerably more reasonable. But there's still a lot of things we don't know, and we're going to go through a lot of awkwardness finding out. It's going to be an adventure.

(P.S.: It always bothers me when BDSM players come off really detached when they describe their play--"so, okay, we set my pussy on fire again, but the interesting part was..."--so I want to add that these nights were not mostly composed of complaints and clinical readjustments and awkward apologies. They were mostly composed of leather tight over flesh, of feeling a flogger crack hard on your skin and knowing there's worse coming and you can't escape it, of being fucked until you stopped begging for more and started begging to stop, and then fucked one more time just to show you who's boss. The futzy parts are just setup and surrounding.)

*cat macro*

"I do want to try buttsex. Just not when I'm tied up and... not by surprise."

Ow.

I fell down Benny's stairs.

We'd spent the evening having amazing and very complicated bondage sex, and my head was swimming a little, and I was wearing socks on a slippery floor, and... wheeee bump bump bump THUD. I didn't get badly hurt, just felt ridiculous.

Is it funnier that I'm a top who can be trusted with a naked helpless human body but not basic walking skills, or that I'm a bottom who goes "bruise me, bruise me... OWIE THE STAIRS BRUISEDED ME"?

Either way I'm just glad I didn't crack my head open.

To Blove.

The new taboo is love.

Sex is fine. I can tell Alan or Benny I'd like to have a particular kind of sex and they might say yes or no, but it's a discussion we can have. Short of the unethical or the disgusting, nothing about sex frightens them.

The slightest suggestion of love does. I'd be crazy, some kind of weird boundary-impaired stalkergirl to even think about falling in love with one of the men I fuck. For all the time we spend together, as close as we get, for me to say "I love you" to Alan would, I think, horrify him as much as if a random stranger said it. In this sort of relationship, love is so inappropriate you can't even joke about it.

Makes me kind of sad. Not because I'm in love--gosh, you think I'm some kind of freak?--I'm really not. But I want the option. I want the ability to talk about it, think about it. I don't want us to fear it.

I want "I love you" to be a sweet thing to say to a lover. Not an atom bomb.

Rhythm.

"Are you ready?" he asked. I wasn't; we'd had no foreplay at all. Fucking me now would hurt. Good.

I know he likes me on top so I started to straddle him but he pushed me back, onto my back, down under him. I felt his finger in me and an instant later his cock. It was... uncomfortable, my mind wanted him but my pussy was clenched tight. I couldn't tell if he could feel it, I was too amazed by the pain/pleasure from his thrusts.

At first it was ordinary, thrust thrust thrust; I could feel myself opening with each one and he grunted softly in his rhythm. Then he paused for a second, just barely teasing. and suddenly slammed the full length of his cock inside me. Ow, and ahh. He did it again. I'm a noisy fuck; I was certainly moaning and probably screaming and the fucker did it again. I had my legs wrapped around him with my heels crossed on his ass, my hands gripping his biceps so hard there would be marks afterwards, and pushing up into him as best I could I begged him to not play any more games. Just fuck me.

He did, and I came, and while I went limp and panting he was still hard and still going. I didn't ask for a chance to recover, didn't say "I'm too sensitive right now," just braced my legs against the mattress so I could fuck him back. I had clarity for a moment and he didn't, and I watched him get fucked. His eyes were locked somewhere above me and to the left, a thousand yards away. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead and he had an oddly determined look on his face.

The gameplaying was out of him now and he was just thrusting as hard and fast as he could manage; the rhythm now was what he needed. He started moaning and I could feel the muscles in his legs tighten. His orgasm lasted a long time; it wasn't one explosion but a series of spurts, each one making him squeeze his eyes shut and gasp.

He collapsed on top of me, and we fell asleep like that, sweaty, entwined.