There’s a white towel on my bed that we laid down last night so we wouldn’t stain my sheets, but by the time that occurred to us it was too late (of course).

I’d been after him for sex all day – grabbing his ass, informing him of the myriad handholds his range vest gave me for sex standing up, telling him his balls belonged in my mouth right as we were about to head out for dinner with friends.

We fed each other sushi and maki with chopsticks and shared in the latest news and it was all very sweet. I behaved throughout dinner (which surprised him), only squeezing his leg and ass under the table a few times. I behaved throughout the movie, and throughout the planning of our own movies, which thoroughly shocked our friends.

They called it a night early; thank Gods.

Bright pink lace thongs aren’t enough these days. The computer’s very tempting, late at night.

Apparently looking slightly forlorn accomplished what the pink thong didn’t and I got KISSED.

This man kisses like most men fuck. It’s a treat in itself. Rough, firm, slow, sensual, slippery with just a hint of bite… Rrrowr. If I could bribe him to quit his job and kiss me all day it’d be worth every penny.

We made it to the bed; I rolled over and straddled him, nipped his neck, let my long red hair fall over his face and buried my own in his chest while I ground my lace-thong-covered ass down against his cock.

I didn’t move… I didn’t want to move.

But you know I didn’t hold still.

Lips against lips, pressure yielding to pressure, tongues teasing and breath puffing into each other’s breath… My body undulating on top of him, slowly and deliberately snaking over his skin, his own toned and tan and holding firm beneath my squirming curves…

At this point we’re still teasing each other. I’m running my hands through his hair, tracing nails over his wrists and collarbone. My pink nipples pop free of my bra. His lips are right there and I’m holding my breast out to him… brushing the nipple over his lips… feeding it to him.

(I saw bite marks this morning in the shower.)

Rubbing my panty-clad pussy over his cock feels incredible but I’ve moved past horny into hungry for it.

I love to grip his biceps while I thrust back against his cock, use his muscle as leverage to drop my hips down and pound my body against his. There’s no hesitation – just fierce and rhythmic. It’s holding on while my hands are shaking, feeling my ass bounce off his tensed thighs, his thick cockhead pressing insistently against the wettest spot of my panties, right where they indent.

His hands are on my nipples now and oh my God. They’re sensitive. They’re very sensitive. I don’t always like having them toyed with but he knows just how to time it. Play with them when I’m warming up, leave them alone, then come back when I’m almost there and push those buttons to send me over the edge. There’s this thing he does where he presses them inward and tugs and vibrates them right in time with his thrusts.

He matches his beat to my pussy walls trying to squeeze his cock through my underwear and his.

Fuck yeah I came. Over and over. It went like this:

please

He doesn’t say anything, just looks up at me, watches me intently, and squeezes my tits together. And thrusts right in time with me. And my shaking thighs wrapped around his hips.

please, I need…

I need to come around your cock

He doesn’t stop. Not for a heartbeat. It’s an incessant wave crashing through me, over and over, not evenly timed, not enough that I could anticipate, brace for it… I’m pressing my lips to his neck, kissing his open mouth, stifling a gasp. Trying not to dig my nails into his skin.

Failing.

pleasepleaseplease

I try to look him in the eye, earnest, pleading. My face scrunches up and I throw my body back to push my full weight down onto his cock. My tits are bouncing free of my bra. (He’s getting a show.) Somewhere deep in the part of my brain that formulates thought, I want to feel his naked balls slap against my skin. My body just wants, just wants him pistoning in and out of me, driving his thick cock in so hard I can’t catch my breath, so deep it almost hurts, so my poor pussy won’t be like it is now – orgasming around nothing but air, milking every last drop of cum out of absolutely nothing.

And I’m repeating:

pleasefuckmepleaseIneedyoutopleasefuckmeplease

please

babyIneedyoutofuckmepleasejustfuckme

p-pleasepleasefuckmepleasfuckmepleasefuckme

Like it’s some kind of chant, like if I beg him while I’m coming over and over he’ll make it stop by not making it stop, he’ll pull my panties aside and slide his underwear down and press it into my pussy inch by inch while I’m clenching and unclenching around his perfect cock.

I’m almost crying just from the need of it, I’m shaking all over, and at times I’m not even able to form words, I just lie on top of him and hold still, and then shake, and pump my hips in time with his.

There’s this slow wicked smile that curves across his face when I go back to begging him. He’s savoring keeping me in this state, having this kind of power over me. Seeing what he’s doing to me.

His hands go back to my nipples and just before it’s all blasting through me again he says yes.

And I’m so far gone I actually ask him… “You promise?”

…

When I can finally dismount I look down at the outline of that deliciously prominent cock. That I’ve just drenched. In blood.

The hot pink thong? No longer pink. The sex immediately following? Well worth feeling almost guilty enough to wash his underwear.

Of course this makes me wonder about whether or not I can convince him “salt etching” has ruined my glasses…

I’m reading erotic post after erotic post and the naked pictures turn me on in a way they haven’t in months. Stray sexual phrases catch my attention where I would’ve ignored them before and I know it’s because I’m too sick to fuck.

I fall down walking up the stairs. I won’t get to see him this weekend, and if I will it’ll be briefly, and we won’t have time. I don’t want him to catch this.

I know if I filled my mouth and throat with the thickness of his cock right now I couldn’t breathe. Not sexy struggling couldn’t-breathe, serious couldn’t-breathe. A part of me doesn’t care.

There is nothing at all sexy about me right now. That’s the worst of it. My lips are chapped and I look like a girl with a cold, which is what I am.

What I want is to get underneath my fluffiest blankets, warm my hands on his skin, and once they’ve lost their chill wrap them both around his shaft and stroke, and lick, and tease until his head falls back on the pillow and his eyes roll back and close and his lips part just enough to let that last breath of release out.

I don’t want him to get sick so I’d have to kiss only below his neck.

The medicine has me fading in and out of consciousness. I know soon after I rest my head on his chest I’ll pass out. Maybe I’ll have a chance to lick his come off my hand or maybe I’ll fall asleep with one hand still curled around his cock. The drugs will wear off in six hours and I’ll be ready for more. I’ll roll over onto my belly; my ass looks good, sick or not. It’s a head cold. There’s nothing wrong with my pussy.

This post is for all of you who criticize sex bloggers for only showing the “perfect” side of sex. To the rest of you, I apologize.

I like to remember.

Right now it’s like this:

Tonight I just went back to the first place he gave me an orgasm.

…Kissing in the kitchen – all over the kitchen, up on the counter, bent against the stove. I was bent over against the table and I don’t know if his hand was down the front of my pink capris or over them but I remember thinking they could all hear me from the next room, even though I bit my lip…

…And he just lay on top of me, and kissed and kissed me until I came…

…That was the first time anyone had ever facefucked me. I mean, grabbed my hair and just used my mouth. And I liked it. The next time he stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I looked like that (on my knees, licking the underside of his shaft) and I believed him.

…When I saw the lightning, I looked over, sure it was a camera flash and we were caught with our pants around our ankles, in the woods, with me bent over presenting my ass to him. Oh my God, I twined my fingers in the grass and clutched at the earth and the thunder sounded, and the lightning crackled overhead, and I know the earth didn’t move but we were shaking and sweating and I fell forward and all I could think was I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk, I’m holding onto a blade of grass and I haven’t fallen off the earth. The rain didn’t start until we were clothed and out of the woods…

…He holds me down and spanks with his whole arm. Mmh. And waits for me to safeword, no matter how I squirm.

I told him I liked leather. I like to smell it, touch it – I just love the way it looks. He put on a leather jacket, leather pants, leather boots, a leather belt, and a skintight spandex shirt. All black. I creamed my panties right there and I was so obviously in his thrall… He looked over his shoulder at me and said, “You can call me Master now, if you want.” So I did.

I wore a little red plaid skirt and fuck-me boots up to there. And he did. Up to there. In the backseat. Pray for us sinners now, indeed.

…”Have you ever done it on your computer before?” Clearly cybersex doesn’t count. Neither does masturbating to internet porn. Neither do naked pictures, or recording orgasms… So, no. And damn.

“We’re running out of places to have sex in this town. Soon, it’ll be like, ‘Oh, look, it’s yet another place we’ve done it in _______.’”

…Can’t keep his hands off me long enough for me to install this damn case fan. Curses! Another screw lost. Can’t… fumble for screw… Hands on clit… clit on fire… Oh holy gods what is he DOING?…

…He bound my wrists together above my head with the pantyhose. Brand new pair. Silky, tan, reinforced toe. The nylon tightened around my wrists, and he gagged me with my own lace panties… He took the gag out of my mouth once. “How many times did you come?” “I… I don’t know?” “Wrong answer.” Then his fingers slammed into me and oh. my. GOD. My panties were filling my mouth and the lace scratching on my tongue kept me here holding on for half a second before I was just gone.

…Exhilirating, that’s what this has been. A fucking mental rollercoaster ride, but not in the moody sense. I love it.

This time he let me, or rather I did, well…

He was in the chair and I was tugging at his hair and kissing him slow and I decided to have some fun, so I did, and he got sort of still and passive and receptive and I think this boy could really dig on a little T&D.

Also being bitten and manhandled makes him twitch down low and YUM.

That’s promising.

Goosebumps on his neck when I kissed it, and held his hair back, tugging his head back, running my teeth along his neck, and he liked the vulnerability, he didn’t have to say a word. My tongue licking right where his pulse was, the goosebumps when I ran a nail down the side of his neck slowly, the little moans when I just straddled his thighs, fully clothed the both of us, and didn’t touch anything below his collarbone except his arms and back, but touched everything above his collarbone with fingers and lips and teeth and tongue.

I swear we went into a trance when we kissed. It was very sensual and still and sacramental…

…Bent over doggystyle on his bed and I can’t walk right for a week after, he’s pounding me so hard, and it’s worth every limping step…

And there are so many times he’s just gone to town on me, and I’ve become nothing more than a bundle of oversensitized nerve endings and jumbled rushing feelings, and I’ll just lie there with my arms bound above my head and twitch, and rise up toward his touch, and whimper, and moan, and scream into the gag because it’s all I can do, just respond, as he overwhelms my body with sensations of warm breath and wet lips and strong hands and thick cock…

There you have it, chronological order be damned. The juiciest parts, of course, I’ll keep to myself. I’m not going to regale you with every saucy detail – he likes his privacy and my face is attached to these posts. I’m just going to start keeping a private journal, so that my private life can inspire my public fiction. And vice versa.

Guys always say they want an insatiable woman, one they can’t keep up with. A nympho. Someone as addicted to touching their cocks as they are. A woman who’s wet and ready just about any time, day or night. A vixen who prefers belting out a hoarse “YES!” to just saying no.

Go ahead – admit it.

This chick will invariably get on your nerves. I don’t care how high your sex drive is: She’s going to drive you crazy. You’re going to find yourself saying, “I’m too tired!” and even the dreaded “Could you please just stop grabbing my cock?”

She’ll try to warn you most guys have a hard time keeping up with her. You’ll tell her you have the same problem. After all, you have a pretty high sex drive. Most of your previous lovers haven’t wanted it three, four times a week like you do.

She will wear you out. She will want it, crave it, no – need it – more like three times a day.

There is one trick to handling the near-nymphomaniac: exhausting them with orgasms.

It worked on me; I’m a recent victim.

Yeah, some days when I’m not blogging it’s because I can’t walk straight or stop shaking long enough to type. Damn, life is good.

(Next post: the heartbreakingly kinky sex.)

Lots of us sassy sexual intellectual types (okay, perverted nerdy girls) have a leetle problem. We’re independent. Very independent. To the point of being dependent on independency.

We’ve got a near-phobia of the idea of becoming The Girlfriend – the needy, clingy, stereotypically feminine, weak woman who mistakes sex for love and starts picking out china patterns on the second date. That kind of woman makes too many demands and we’re not all about that.

We’re cool. We don’t need you, your love, your care, your time, your emotional support, your money. You’re not going to make fun of us to your guy friends. We’re the kind of chicks who think porn and pizza make a great date. We’ll spring for the pizza (and probably the porn). We won’t expect dinner and roses before we put out. Hell, we won’t expect anything. At all.

And if we find ourselves wanting something, we’re going to have an awfully hard time asking for it without feeling like horrendous needy, clingy bitches. If we start falling in love it’s even worse. Girls like us weren’t built for traditional love. We were expecting a lifetime of casual dating and dear, treasured… fuckbuddies. We want to cum and go as we please and are happy to extend you the same courtesy. If you don’t want it you’ll only confuse us.

(I am, thusly, very confused right now.)

There are a lot of girls like that out there now who don’t feel right asking to be treated like some kind of chaste princess, because we’re not chaste and we’re not princesses. We’re Just One of the Guys, only with great boobs. We’ll be happy if you remember our birthdays and we’ll notice when you do favors for us. We’ll bend over backwards to make you happy (while giving you head, of course. And girls like us always swallow.). We’ll think it’s thoughtful to send you obscene text messages. We’ll worry you’ll think we’re falling too fast when we plan special stripteases for your birthday.

We go in looking for sex, not love. Maybe friendship. Not love. We want someone who’s interesting in and out of bed. Mostly in bed. And frequently. We need adventure, we need to be an adventure – we’re terrified of being domesticated.

We don’t need too many attachments, we don’t like to get too close – but when we fall, we fall hard, and it confuses the ever living fuck out of us.