Jan 312015

Going downI wake up to him going down on me. My body responds before I am really awake – legs wrapping around him, back arched, hands making fists against the sheets. In the tent under the blankets the scent of his skin surrounds me. The darkness is soft and warm. I focus on the feel of his tongue passing over my clit. When did I get so wet?

I need this man like water in the desert. I’ve been so horny lately, so stressed. In the very early morning he comes to me like a river. He flows over my body. His tongue says, “Be hot for me Baby. Go ahead and burn. I will ease your fever.”

I let go. Sleepily, blissfully, I melt into him. The whole huge complexity of the world narrows to one point. Love. I can forget about everything else for a while. My burdens will wait. I exhale and release all my tension. I’m floating, but his body anchors me. This is the safest I have felt in days.

Heat builds under his mouth. I realize that I am making loud moaning noises and I try to be quieter, but it doesn’t matter. I am pressing myself against him as hard as possible. He pins my wrist to the bed with one hand and captures my soul. I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, but this small decisive action tells me that he owns me. I give him everything of me. It’s all his.

Making loveHe is still licking my clit with quick intense motions that make me twitch. Now his other hand roams up to my nipples. He gently pinches and my sounds get louder. I want everything all at once. I want to be right here forever. I want to come. “Harder,” I tell him.

He tweaks my nipples in earnest and my body stiffens as pleasure lances through me. Oh my god. I am gasping with each small jolt of pain. I am overwhelmed with love and flooded with lust for this man. I want more!

I love the weight of him on top of me. It feels secure, like a seatbelt. His is my shield against despair. I writhe under him, swollen with desire, blazing with need. He kisses me deeply and it is like diving into a lake on a summer’s day. His face is moist with my juices. I thrust my impatient tongue between his lips. His mouth is firm on mine. I invite him in.

I feel like a volcano heading for eruption, all lava and pressure. The feel of him inside me, pressing against my g-spot is nearly enough to make me explode. He hands me the vibrator.

That moment just before orgasm is the best – the slow build to powerful peak, poised at the edge of incredible intensity, striving both to slow the inevitable and speed the climax. I find it compelling and excruciating all at once. I think I live there.

He fills me. I am rocked by his motions. Suddenly, like seeing a waterfall approaching, I know I’m going to come. I get swept over the edge, and I am tightening around him in powerful waves. A flood of emotion Connectedovercomes me and then evaporates. I am awash in love. Sweaty, steamy love.

We snuggle in stillness for a few moments. Maybe this is the best part. I feel grounded, connected in a way that has been elusive lately. There are no words here, no need to talk, just us. In the early morning, in the warm quiet dark, we lie in each others arms and we whisper, “Let’s try that again in a few hours.”

Jan 242015

KnifeCourtship works in different ways for different folks. Harold and I took our time, flirting heavily and making out at parties for years, but when we finally decided to go to bed together it was serious. The first time was exploratory. I naively asked why we would need four hours to make love. The second time was wild and raw. We were animals together, no words, just rutting and frolicking. But the third time was magic – in the forest, in the moonlight, with a very sharp knife.

The moon hung low, radiant and swollen with desire, embraced in the naked limbs of the trees. My blood raced as I contemplated my plans for the evening. In the warm air, I felt the moon calling me like a siren to come swim, the water’s fine. And it was. Bathed in moonlight, Harold and I stood at the crossroads.

I took his hands, noticing his tidy nails, strong slender fingers, and finely furred forearms. The sleeves of his red button-down shirt were rolled up to the elbow. I’d asked him to wear something old. I didn’t know then that he’d chosen a shirt that had been his father’s, dark red for passion and blood. I looked at him for a long moment, feeling the power of possibility.

“Do you trust me?” I breathed into his ear.

He didn’t even hesitate, although he had no idea what to expect, “I trust you completely. I give myself to you.” Maybe he had some idea of what to expect. He knew me.

I laughed softly, “It might be dangerous.”

I filled my lungs and slowly exhaled, grounding some of my nerves, but I still felt dizzy with desire. I wanted to do this right. I pulled a silver knife from my pocket and let him see it. The razor-sharp blade was about as long as my hand, the hilt wrapped in red leather. It glinted in the moon’s fierce light.

“Is this ok?” I asked him softly. Taking his nod for consent, I cut a long strip from the bottom of his shirt and blindfolded him with it. The simple act carried an aura of rightness, yet I felt awkward. Unsure of where to put the knife, I momentarily held it between my teeth like a pirate.

Ignoring the slight tremor in my hands, I proceeded as though I knew what I was doing. I slid my blade into the gap in the front of the shirt and sliced through the thread holding onto each button. I slipped around him, letting my breasts brush against his arm and my breath caress the back of his neck. I thrust into the fabric, divesting him of his protective layers with a flick of my wrist. We both knew I was removing more than a simple shirt.

He stood before me, bare to his soul. The moon wrapped the gift of his vulnerability in glowing shadow-light. Needing to feel his skin, I shed my own clothes. My nipples hardened against his chest. He was breathing faster than normal when I pressed my lips to his, and although it took him half a second to respond, his embrace was ardent. I hoped that, like me, he felt the danger and the magic of the moment. His body was taut with expectation.

“I have you, “ I told him, touching his chest softly, “I can hurt you and I can heal you.”

I pulled the dull edge of my knife gently across his back, knowing that the weight of the blade would still feel intense in this state of arousal. I made pass after pass, never really breaking his skin, creating a web of lines across his back. He stayed relaxed under my hand, but I could feel that he was achingly present, waiting for the next stroke.

I paused, knife extended. I wanted him so hard. Everything about him turned me on. I had not known that sharing trust like this would be so hot. His utter faith laid me open. I pulled the cloth from his eyes. With a steady hand and an indrawn breath, I let the keen edge penetrate his flesh. I exhaled. Small dots of blood beaded along the lines I had drawn, forming a heart that glistened in the serious moonlight.

It was a night of surrender and bonds were formed. I know we must have had amazing sex, but I don’t remember the specifics. Isn’t that funny? It was an incredible night, and all of the many nights since then haven’t changed the fact that at the core of our relationship, Harold and I, we are still standing in the woods, under that moon, with a very sharp knife.

Jan 182015

Harold at our getawayThe power is out and we have no way to make coffee. This is close to epic tragedy, or national disaster. We are cut off from the rest of the world. I can’t even get a text message out. I am drinking leftover champagne in lieu of coffee. It washes last night’s excesses from my mouth, but it’s not the same.

This is our get-away. We try to go away like this as often as we can. The stresses of everyday life wear us down. With four kids still at home, we barely get a minute for ourselves. We spent all day yesterday talking through some relationship problems that have been plaguing us for a while and then wild, riotous, kinky sex. The kind of sex that we could never have at home because someone could walk in any minute. The kind of sex where we just let go.

This storm is glorious. At 2:00 in the morning, the wind was fierce, driving the rain hard against the windows. The nearby rattle and screech of trains going by seemed to be one with the weather. We are staying in a flat up in the mountains, the peaks obscured by clouds now, but white with snow yesterday. The gusts howl as they travel down into the valley. The trees still dance and sway outside the window. I am entertained.

I tried to sleep as long as possible this morning to stay warm. I didn’t want to wake up Harold. Finally I woke and he was gone. This place we are renting for the weekend is small. I called for him and he came immediately, naked, to snuggle with me. I rubbed up against him to warm his cold body.

I may have given more attention to some areas than others, because we ended up making love again. Not the wild drawn out sex of last night, just simple love making – kissing, fingers in hair, quickly trying to find the battery powered vibrator in the dark, my legs high over his shoulders… Fucking just because we love each other and it feels good, not even to orgasm.

Of course I’m on my period. It happens every time we get a chance to go away for a few days. I don’t mind, but it makes for such a mess. I’d rather not make a mess in someone else’s space. And now we don’t have hot water to wash in because the power is out, but I have an idea.

There’s a hot tub outside, in the storm, that may have retained enough heat for us to soak in. Harold ventures out to check and reports that it is still as warm as a bath. We run naked through the garden, mud squishing through our toes, and submerge ourselves in the warm water while the rain comes down and the snowy mountains hide behind mist and the trees wave wildly. We laugh and look into each other’s eyes. We kiss.

A loud crack from the trees on the hill above us startles us out of our love haze. I scan the surrounding trees but I don’t see any imminent danger. The thrill of it all makes my head buzz. I take a deep breath of cold air and laugh. It feels good to be alive, but maybe it’s time to go in all the same.

I can’t see the mountains at all now through the haze of the storm. Lack of coffee is making me feel dull and slow. I need to eat something to ground out my champagne buzz. I think maybe I’ve gone from Mary Poppins to Hunter S. Thompson in the space of a single lost weekend. As much as I hate to leave, I think it may be time to pack up and head back to reality coffee.