Contemplation of the Lower Navel
I have a hard time opening up to people.
The double meaning is fully intended.
There are a few linked ideas swimming through my brain right now.
One is a couple of posts, and their attached comments, by the divine and transcendent Ms. Lena (namely Praise the Goddess and Pass the Lube and Sodomites in Room 101). One is my slight – but persistent – submissive streak. One is the song “Stinkfist” by Tool. It uses anal fisting as a metaphor for transformation, crossing into the otherworld, and trust.
It’s that last word that links these ideas and this experience.
I’m a pervert, not a slut. I’m short on experience but long on ideas. That said, I’ve done my share of experimenting, but haven’t had the opportunity to do so in much depth.
On Saturday my depths were plumbed.
That was… new.
It’s strange to realize you’ve been in situations, romantically involved with people you’d trust with your life but not with your ass or your thoughts. It’s even stranger to realize that sometimes to win you have to surrender, to protect yourself you have to expose yourself.
I’m not very good at expressing my emotions (I have emotions? Wait, what?); I’m primarily a thinker and a doer. When faced with things I don’t want to say I have to find out how to say or show them without coming out and actually doing it. Subtlety is a form of perversion, and we perverts have some pretty strange ways of saying things.
So bent over, on my hands and knees, wet thighs apart, virgin ass in the air, with my kiss-swollen mouth muffled in the pillow I was saying, to someone who’s just barely not a stranger, I trust you. I’m no good with English so I used the most basic language I knew, the only one I speak, for $1.99 per minute.
Spirituality is the experience of God; mysticism is the ache for, lust for, love of and submission to Hir.
Relax, turn around, and take my hand.
I wasn’t hearing those words – I liked the ones he used better – and they didn’t even come to mind, although that song’s stuck with me for a while. I’ve used it, every word, as an extended industrial mantra.
I’m not stuck on romance. Romance wears out when two people realize they aren’t each other’s love cartoons, and the beloved might actually have expectations and moods of their own. Romance has never been my craving. But experience, intensity, adventure both mental and physical – those are what I need and those are (to me) what the lyrics suggest.
To get those you can’t close off, tighten up, close your ears and forget how to breathe; you have to relax and open up, and it hurts at first, and it feels strange, it always does. You have to breathe, and focus, and listen, and accept accept accept and concentrate on not squeezing yourself tightly like you always do, no matter how much you enjoy it, because there’s a process…
And there are always points in that process when you hit a wrong angle and wince but if you relax and accept when new things try to push their way into you… sometimes you’ll be surprised how deep you can take it, and how good it feels.
It’s strange to put yourself into a situation knowing: I have no choice. I must submit or this is going to hurt like hell. But I want this.
It’s even stranger how easy it was.
Cold lube circled the rim of my ass and dripped down, jolting me out of my trance. Relax, baby. Breathe, breathe, breathe… Focus. Relaxing took focus, just remembering not to tighten that ring in time with the shivers running through my pussy. Remembering to hold still and just let things happen. I listened to his voice and the weight of his body on my legs and back and his finger sinking in slow and it was like going under, honestly, except no one’s ever been able to hypnotize me. Good girl and I opened up all over and bent my head down, arms folded, and raised my ass, and just held that feeling…
One fist pressed tightly against my slippery, just-fucked pussy, one clutching the pillow, then (desperately) the rug, then his hand, and I think I was touching his legs with my feet, or something… My hair was in my mouth and it helped muffle the mewling noises I think were coming from my throat.
And it felt good. Different. Intense. When you’re having a dick pressed inch by inch into an ass so tight one finger inside feels like stretching, til it’s almost buried to the base, and he finally gives you a real thrust for that one last inch, you truly feel fucked.
(HNT coming shortly but this post is much more than half-nekkid.)
