Another way to fuck me

I'm standing near your low-set table. Walk past me and look at my naked body. Look, and then look at me again. Come closer and shove me back onto the table. I'm bent now, with my eyes looking into yours. My legs are still straight, but my body is now supported by the table.

You stand inches in front of me. I know your expression; you're trying to decide what to do with me next. The smile you get across your face scares me some, but is still intriguing. I know that you know me well enough to determine what will please you and still allow me pleasure.

You take out your ropes. You rub the ropes on my body. Start with my stomach. You know that starting there makes me arch my back even more. Now, my tits are closer to you and my ass is farther away. It also means that my cunt is closer to you. You again stop to think.

You step closer to me, and use your thighs to push my legs apart. The look on your face means that I better spread them as far as I can. I do, almost uncomfortably, while you laugh at me. You then drop to your knees, and while you're wrapping the ropes around my legs, you're looking closely at my cunt. I can see you there, and my only reaction is to move my cunt closer to my face.

"Please," I say. "Please."

Yet you still watch me as you tie your knots. At least I still have use of my arms and hands. You stand again. You watch me again, for a minute, for two, until I have to look away. This is when you push my body back, so my cunt is closer to your cock.

I see your thick, hard cock in front of my face, in front of my mouth. I lean forward to take you into my mouth. God, I love sucking your cock. You're so hot and you get so deep into me. You're in my throat.

You use your hands on my clit. I know it's already hard; it's been hard since you brought out the ropes. You use the same amount of pressure on my clit as I do on you with your cock in my mouth. This is the bit of control I get.

As I take you in deeper, you finger me more. You're exactly replicating the actions I make. If I release your cock from my mouth, you take away your fingers from my clit. If I suck you back in, really pull you in, you use your fingers on my clit and your other hand tickles, and then goes into my cunt.

Now I know. If I'm a good girl, I get to come.

This is how I learn my limits.

One way to fuck me

I'm sitting on my couch, which is already turned out into a sofa bed. I am naked, as you requested. I see you in front of me.

Look into my eyes. I want to see the desire in your eyes. I want your look to match mine. Stand in front of me. Move closer; use your legs to push mine further apart.

Lean over me. Grab my hair in your hand and push me back. See my eyes, which show appreciation and fear. Push me onto my back, but don't let my legs move. With your hand in my hair, tightening into a knot, I can smell how close you are. I can smell your body and your breath.

Stare at me. I'm on my back. My legs are forced so open by you. I want to move closer to you, but you still keep me open. Now I can see your erect cock above my thighs. I wonder where you want me.

Put your mouth on mine. Lean over me and kiss me, and kiss me, and kiss me. Make me twitch and move closer to your cock as you enrapture me with your mouth and tongue.

You see what I have hidden. Reach your other hand past my head and grab one of my toys. The big one, that one that's perfect for my cunt. Grin at me as you pull back. Turn on the vibrator, my favorite toy, and let it wiggle in front of me.

You know I want it in me. You know I want you in me. Show it to my mouth. Run it, while it pulsates, down my neck, over my chest, and over one of my breasts.

Tease me. Run it around my breast. Watch me breathe deeply and raise my chest to you. Now, put it back toward my mouth, so I can get it wet. I lick it and put my mouth around it, to get it saturated in me. Tease me again. Before it dries, put that vibrator against my nipple.

My back arches. I love that feeling; I love my nipples being used. I rise because I want your cock in me. You're leaning over me, playing with me, and all I want is an orgasm. One that you cause.

Your mouth is on my neck, the toy is travelling down my body. I adore your focus. I try to direct you closer to my clit. Please put that toy on me, on my clit. I want to writhe under you. Push that toy into me, into my cunt. It takes no work; I'm already dripping.

Watch my eyes again; they will tell you what I want, and even more, what I need. Use your thighs to push me even more open. I push further down on the couch, so I'm ready for you.

Pull your hand from my hair, and drop my vibrator from my cunt.

I'm wet, and hot, and I'm already trying to pull your cock into me. Put the tip of your cock on my cunt; let me feel how hard you are. I sigh, and try to push myself down further so I can pull you into me.

My tits are high, my back is arched, and I'm looking at your face with gratitude. Now, please, now.

Then you finally put your hard, thick, erect cock into me. Not a little. You force yourself into my cunt, and your hands surround my hips, and I keep you there.

Thank you.

Mmmmm....

This isn't mine. This comes from Trollop with a Laptop. You can get it here. Still, He is a fantastic cook, and suddenly I wish I were on the menu:

Prego

By Alison Tyler

We have such a fucked up, twisted, we’ll always have (last tango in) Paris sort of relationship, that nothing fazes me anymore. I mean nothing in the bedroom. Even our most vanilla activities tend to involve accoutrements such as rubber dishwashing gloves, velvet blindfolds, and Wesson oil. So I suppose I shouldn’t have found it odd at all to walk through the swinging doors of our kitchen and discover Jackson fucking the jar of spaghetti sauce.

But I did.

Both find him, and find it odd.

On any other night, I would have seen him fucking that wide-mouthed jar, and thought, *Yum. Dinner.* I might have taken a seat at the counter and watched, or even have asked him why he’d chosen Prego rather than Ragu. I can imagine wondering idly whether Garden Variety worked better for fucking than Marinara. But we were currently hosting a dinner party for six, and I could see from the open cabinet, that he was using our last jar.

“Please, Carrie,” he said when he heard me enter.

With the very real knowledge of our invited guests waiting in the dining room, and the equally real vision of my husband fucking a jar of pasta sauce, all my thoughts came to a basil-fragranced stop.

“Please,” he said again, his voice as hungry as I imagined our guests to be.

Please what? I wondered. Please slip out to the grocery store and buy more sauce. Please go and tell our friends that dinner’s going to be late. Please…

"Get down on your knees,” he continued.

I was still in mild shock. Jackson had on a pair of black slacks and a black-fitted t-shirt. He looked dashing and normal, except for the fact that he was holding a jar of pasta sauce at waist-level. Water for the angel hair bubbled rapidly behind him on the stove. The sauce was the last thing, the most pressing thing left to cook.

How could he have…why would he have?“On your knees,” he said, and now there was no scusi in his voice, no per favore to his tone. I watched the way he was dipping his cock into the half-full bottle, and for a moment I forgot all about our guests. Forgot that we’d decided to host a dinner party in honor of our tenth anniversary. Forgot that sauce stains.

I dropped to my knees on the slick linoleum floor and waited. Usually, I know what I’m doing in this situation. On my knees, mouth open, Jackson’s cock slipping back and forth past my parted lips. The warm wet heat of my mouth enveloping him. But now, now what did he want from me? He had the pasta jar. he didn’t need my mouth, too, did he, greedy thing?

Apparently, he did.

“Taste this,” he said, smiling that sly Jackson smile at me, “And tell me what you think it needs.”

I looked at his cock, all covered in pasta sauce, and then I looked back up at him.

“Are you serious?”

I shouldn’t have asked. He pushed forward, grabbing the back of my hair at the same time, and suddenly, I found myself sucking Prego from his rock-hard shaft. I should say that I am a pasta-junkie. I don’t care if pasta is the cheapest thing for a restaurant to make, don’t give a damn if $19 for a plate of macaroni is obscene. Every time we go out, that’s what I order. I like red sauce best, what Italians mean when they say gravy.

And I should also say that I love sucking cock. I have gotten on my knees for Jackson in far stranger places than our kitchen. I’ve sucked him on the ferry from Larkspur to San Francisco, with the salt spray behind me and San Quentin to my left. I’ve drained him on an airplane, the red eye from L.A.X. to La Guardia, while our fellow passengers snoozed zombie-like beneath those thin gray throwaway blankets, and I worked hard to keep my slurping sounds to a minimum. And I’ve sucked him on our fire escape, overlooking Chestnut Avenue, as early morning commuters slogged toward yet another workday.

But I had never mixed these two pleasures before—sauce and sucking, fellatio and food. Not until now. Not until Jackson had finished slamming that bottle of sauce to death, and was ready for me to clean up every wayward drop.

For only a moment, did I worry about what the sauce would do to my face, my hair, my outfit. For only one sliver of time, did I hesitate, remembering my best friend and her fiancé out there, in the dining room, talking about the Oscars with Jackson’s college roommate, Eli, and his lover, Joe. What would they think if one were to push through our swinging kitchen door and find me on my knees, covered in sauce.

“Oh, prego,” Jackson murmured, and I had to fight off the giggles that threatened to spill out. We’d gone on our honeymoon to Italy. We’d learned all of five words during the two weeks we were there: grazie, per favore, scusi, and prego. We’d said the words constantly to each other, pretending we were having legitimate conversations, like the other couples in the cafes.

Grazie, grazie.

Per favore.

We’d spoken those phrases to each other in bed. Jackson stroking me, sweetly touching my hair, my face, then flipping me onto the mattress, spitting on his palm and oiling up his cock. Saying, “Per favore, Carrie,” before thrusting inside of me, sealing himself to me.

During our honeymoon, I hadn’t worried that he was the last man I’d ever fuck. Instead, I’d thought with pleasure that we would be fucking together forever. Just the two of us. In our twisted, kinky, we’ll always have Milan and Venice and Rome sort of ways. And now, we were adding to the repertoire, my mouth working hungrily on Jackson’s sauce-covered cock, my pussy twitching in anticipation of what might be next on the menu. When I cleaned off the sauce, would he bend me over our island and screw me? Or would he spread me out on our Corian countertop and drizzle olive oil all over my skin?

But maybe, I decided, I shouldn’t worry so much about secondo when we were still on the appetizer. I could feel the cool black-and-white linoleum through my fishnets. I was infinitely aware of the flavor of the sauce in my mouth, combined with the real scent of Jackson’s cock, Jackson’s skin.

My tongue flicked out to touch his balls as I brought one hand into play. I wrapped my fist around the base of his shaft as I continued to bob on the head. What had made him dip his cock into the sauce in the first place, I wondered. What had gone through his mind as he’d unscrewed the jar of the wide-mouthed bottle?

Unfortunately, I couldn’t ask. My mouth was too busy, too full. I could feel the sauce on my cheeks now, could feel the spread of it from my lips to chin.

He was groaning softly as I sucked him, and he pushed my hair off my forehead and gazed down at me. I wondered if sauce had splattered my dress. If my breasts, visible in the V-neck of my scarlet jersey, were freckled with the juicy tomato puree.

I continued to suck him even after all the sauce was gone, so that his cock was clean and shiny from the wetness of my mouth. Jackson tried to lift me up then, and I guessed he was going to fuck me, but I couldn’t let him. The sensation was so sweet, sucking him to the sounds of clinking glasses in the dining room, to the knowledge that at any moment we might be discovered. I could see the half-filled bottle of Prego on the counter, and that turned me on more than anything I could have imagined. Who would ever have guessed—forget oysters or ginger—this was pasta sauce as an aphrodisiac. Thinking of Jackson just screwing that bottle while the rest of us waited for our pasta course made me wetter than I could imagine. I fantasized about all of the actions he’d been doing while I had busily entertained our guests—envisioned him undoing his slacks and slipping his cock into the sauce-filled jar. The sound must have been intense. That sucking sound.

Oh, fuck.

I put one hand between my legs then, touching myself through the layer of my dress and the creamy white panties I had on beneath. I could sense right when Jackson had reached his limits, because first I tasted the salty-flavor of his pre-come, and then the liquid of his climax filled my mouth.

Practice has made me an expert at swallowing him down, at draining his cock without spilling a drop. I felt pleased with myself as I backed up to give him room, but my fingers didn’t stop their spirals over my clit.

“Show me,” Jackson begged. “Per favore.”Grinning like a fool, I lifted my dress, still kneeling on the floor. Jackson got on the floor with me, and his fingers took over. I looked down to see the red stain of the sauce from his fingertips mark my panties. How sexy was that? I couldn’t stop staring as he rotated his fingertips right over the placket of my panties. I have always loved being touched through a barrier, and this time was no different. Except, in a way, it was. Because there was sweet sauce on his hands, so that I could see the trail of his touches. See the path his fingers took. I wanted that sauce all over me. Wanted him to mark me with the tomato puree. Then suddenly, I was coming, his middle finger hitting my clit in the perfect rhythm. I clutched onto him, aware that we both smelled like basil, like oregano. Aware that the pasta water was rollicking now. That we had nothing to serve our guests.

My eyes were glazed when Jackson stood. I watched him, but I didn’t understand. He moved me to the far doorway, not the one leading to our dining room, but the one that led out to the hall. Moved me so that I was far away from him, and then, before I could say a word, he dropped the sauce jar so that it shattered on the floor.

“What?” I stammered. “why?”

“What do you think?”

The remaining sauce went everywhere—perhaps the red juices wouldn’t have covered my panties on its own—but the breaking of the bottle served to give us both a reason to change. To apologize to our guests for the slight delay in their meal. To head to the bathroom down the hall for a quick cleanup.

And a quicker fuck.

Jackson took me for real in the bathroom, took me against the shower, the scent of soap washing away the last remnants of the Prego. I was sad to see the water turn from red to clear, I must admit. And I think Jackson felt the same way. As we dried off together, I saw him lick the last drop of sauce from his top lip.

“Delicious,” he told me. “We’ll have to cook for guests more often.”

When we returned, Eli was in the kitchen, whipping up a sauce from frozen pesto. He and Joe had taken it upon themselves to clean up, and Joe was gingerly sweeping the shards of the bottle into our dustpan.

“Grazie, grazie,” Jackson said with his usual buoyant charm.

“Prego,” Eli replied easily as he stirred the pot on the stove.

I felt my cheeks turn as red as the sauce, still clinging to the shards of broken glass.

Monogamy

This post will be outside my norm. That's fine; this is my blog, after all.

I've never been any good at monogamy. I really don't understand the traditional definition of it. Well, yes, I do understand the traditional definition. I just wonder if it really works. Just about every relationship I've had, and just about every relationship my friends have had (hell, I'm going with just about everyone now) has involved some sort of cheating.

Cheating is certainly relative. From what I've gathered, cheating to men means that their woman has had sex with another person. Cheating to women can mean that as well, but also, often, means that her man is emotionally involved with another woman.

I'm not tackling gay relationships here. Those are beyond my experience.

From my own experience, I know that I've never had a serious relationship where I could stay faithful. The interest, the desire, the need to be needed is too strong. I hate that I've hurt those people.

Now I have Him. He told me from the beginning that He would not be faithful. I protested at first. He asked me when the last time I was faithful was. I had to be honest. He smirked. (We've known each other for a long time, long before we're finally trying to get this right.) I realized what He meant. I always wanted to have my boyfriend around, but be free to do what I wanted to do. I now realize that I can't have it both ways. This means I have to allow the freedom to explore for Him and for me.

He's too important to me to not let Him. I know that He loves me. I know that I love Him.

Now, finding people who understand this free, honest relationship is a different matter. I want more others who are willing to engage with me, knowing the parameters. My friends already think I'm crazy for agreeing to these terms. Does it seem strange? It doesn't to me. I know I am occasionally jealous. That's usually because He's getting more attention than me. I've seen the pendulum shift when I get more attention. All He and I have to do is be sensitive to it.

PS - Don't expect to read a lot of posts like these. This place is about raw animal sexuality.

My Favorite Morning

As I've told Him, I often awake empty. I mean empty in both the physical and emotional sense. It seems strange when I awake and He's not next to me. Even worse, I hate waking up without Him in me. I want each and every morning to awake with His cock in me. That's how I know I'm alive. That's how I know that He loves and desires me.

Emotionally: He can make me laugh more than anyone else. He makes me feel gorgeous and wanted. He loves me for my mind as much as He loves my body.

My favorite morning is awaking with Him in me and on me, kissing me. He then cooks, and I crawl and beg for Him. He feeds me from His fingers. The we go back to bed.

Tonight I miss Him.

I wonder how many times in a day I can come. Sometimes I want to push Him away. Still, I want to come at least 3 or 4 more times. The day/night is early, and I know I will be used. I know that I love it.

Cravings

Lately, I find that when I'm going about my day, I pay more attention to the people around me. I watch each and every one and remember that they are all sexual beings. Just about all of them are fucking. This is both amazing and disgusting to me. Like it or not, I have a type.

Still, as I watch them all, I walk a better walk, a stronger walk, one where I'm sure to move my hips more and arrange my ass for the best view when I know someone's watching me pass.

Sometimes I crave all the people I see. I want to tell them what I know. And what I know is that sex - raw, involved, filthy, make-me-beg sex - is amazing. It reminds me that I'm alive. It reminds me that I'm free.

I would love to walk up to a stranger and tell him that I am a possession. Once I explain what He does to me and for me, I can imagine the look on his face. I want that person to crave me, to wonder what I would do at his request.

So far, I've found nothing I won't do. Try me.