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Archive for the ‘fuck’ Category

I find that I am never able to entirely lose myself in a moment. To the extent of about 90-95% percent, my mind is floating in the air, moored down only by a firm and reassuring arm. But that rogue 5-10% of my brain is racing, creating a potential future piece of writing in my head.

[One could assume that any erotic experience I had was merely fodder for my writing portfolio. Well, you know what they say about assuming. This is not the case, although a lawyer could likely argue the fuck out of such a presumption.]

My erotic experiences, once a veritable festival of carnal experimentation, are now carefully selected. For me, it’s about the meeting of minds. A chemistry rare, delicate and intricate, that, once established, promises to strew the path ahead with surprises and perspicacity. But there is no predictive map or legend for this path. It’s all pretty much a crapshoot.

******************

I stood, facing the window, head pulled back by my hair, and a comforting, warm arm secured around my upper torso, as if anchoring me to the ground. Tiny, almost imperceptible butterfly kisses were planted all over me, and suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt myself all but take flight.

Understand something very significant. A gentle touch is not what usually turns my knees to butter. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the feeling of tiny butterfly kisses is something I don’t even usually notice. And yet there I was, headed for the ceiling head first, as if I were filled with helium. (Ethereally speaking, of course.)

In my head, while 95% of the little man in my head was committed to the mental floatage, 5% of him was fiercely writing notes on “I never fully understood the meaning of the word “sensuous” before”. It’s true. Today I learned the real meaning of the word.

The invited touch of another’s hand on your skin is usually a good feeling. I speak of something that far transcends this. The sensuous feeling of his lips on my skin transported me to some far-off plain — and the only way I can explain it is that it was chemistry: the who (him) far more than the what (tiny, gentle butterfly kisses, cloaking me in gossamer as I flew).

His hand on my shoulder made me shiver. His arm around me suffused me with a delight I’d not felt in a while. And through all this — the kissing continued. And higher and further I flew, the feeling continuing to soar within me, the slightest touch sending ripples of ecstasy through my nervous system.

Was this how, or why, he managed to elicit ejaculatory orgasms from me almost non-stop? My still-wobbly knees are testimony to how thoroughly I irrigated the surface beneath me time and time again.

Was this why, as I sat enfolded into a tetrahedral bear hug, his body still entwined around mine, panting for breath and coming back down to earth, that I felt so comfortable and safe?  Was it why I could have stayed there until now?

Was this how he felt too?  Was my touch — be it from my hand or from my lips — sensuous to him in an equable manner? I so delighted in hearing his moans of pleasure; it enhanced my own pleasure tenfold, so I did my best to elicit as many as I could.

Was this why, each time I looked into his eyes, he was always looking into mine? Whenever I looked away, I felt him watching me, waiting patiently until I met his gaze once more– and each time I looked back, he smiled softly and I instantly understood what his smile was saying.

It would certainly seem that way.

There is sensuality, and there is that which is sensuous. I’ve now had the difference between the two proven to me without a doubt.

Everyone should be so lucky.

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Thank you for making me feel so relaxed and welcome. Thank you for liking so many of the same things that I do, and concurring on so many others. Thank you for the tea with milk, and for then rendering said tea irelevant as my mouth was busy elsewhere.

Thank you for stroking my skin, and playing with my hair. Thank you for being so much fun to be with.  Thank you for being a wonderful kisser. I could kiss you for hours, days even. I might end up looking something like Mick Jagger, but it’d be worth it.

Thank you for taking me from zero to tsunami in under 10 seconds — a feat hitherto only ever achieved (speedwise) by my glass friend. Thank you for taking me from behind; it’s my favourite position (see above “liking the same things as I do”).

Thank you for hugging me and holding me close. Thank you for making me laugh, and then laughing at my attempts at humour. Thank you for being so damn sexy. Thank you for making me feel so natural and happy.

Thank you for letting me pleasure you. Thank you for getting hard for me. Thank you for telling me to suck your balls — I’d have sucked them anyway, but I really enjoy being given, and following, (certain) orders in the bedroom (from specific people).

Thank you for the one for the road. It did indeed last the whole way home, the rest of the day, all of last night and is still going — not so much in terms of orgasmic buzz but in terms of glowing from the inside out. Were I to walk past a Geiger counter, I’d be surprised if it didn’t light up and dance all over the surface on which it stood.

Thank you for everything — and in particular, for thanking me. I can’t think of a higher compliment. As you said to me, it was wonderful having you, and I couldn’t agree more.

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He stayed where he was in suspended animation, remaining poised above me, and looking down into my eyes.

I turned to suppress a small sob, but he wasn’t having that.

“No, look at me, Tabby. I need to see your eyes, and I need you to see mine.”

Ever the obedient submissive kitten, I did as I was told, even in the knowledge that the look in his sparkling baby-blues would be too much and I would likely dissolve.

Very quietly, he waited until my sobs had subsided, and then bent down gently and kissed me on the nose.

“I love you. I love all of you. I love fucking you. Your cunt, your ass, your mouth, your boobs…. your mind. I love every bit of you. What we have is ours. It’s special. Nothing that goes on anywhere else can ever touch what we have.”

I felt a tear wend its way down the bridge of my nose, and then fall sideways onto the pillow.

He continued.

“Look into my eyes. No, don’t turn away, look into them. What do you see?”

A trifle sheepishly I looked into his eyes again. It’s often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but I’ve never been very good at interpreting a “look”. As a trained actor, I’m far more adept at deciphering the strange convulsive ability of the facial muscles than the somewhat nebulous quality of pupil, iris and retina.

However, this time, to my astonishment, I saw love. In his eyes. Almost tangibly radiating out of them — I could see it, feel it, sense it.

“Well? What do you see?”

An all-purpose sniffle, a deep breath and then, very quietly:

“Love.”

“Yes. Know that this is true. That this has been true for… how long is it now? Since we met and fell in love? Know it. Internalize it. Believe in it. You are not a dalliance, you are not tertiary, you are my sub, my Pink Tabby, you are someone I care for deeply, respect enormously and love very, very much. Nothing else has any effect on that. Nothing, ever.”

Through my tears, I felt the sincerity of his words resonate somewhere deep inside me. Trite though it may sound, I felt a peace spreading through me, emanating outwards from where I imagine my soul to live, nestled somewhere snugly behind my heart and ribcage.

He finally lowered himself onto the mattress next to me, and gathered me close to him, stroking my hair until my tears subsided, planting tiny delicate kisses wherever he could find skin that wasn’t obscured by my tangled mane of pulled and disarrayed hair.

As tight as he held me, I held on to him even tighter, wanting to absorb his inner peace and calm into me, wanting to meld with him, wanting the moment to be endless. He held me tighter, winding his fingers through my tangles and pulling my head back, eliciting the requisite squeal of pleasure-pain that it always does, and causing a potential pool to collect down south.

We kissed, a kiss of intensity and love and pain and pleasure and longing and lust and meaning and feeling and deep, deep desire. And then, even more intensely than we had kissed, we fucked. Fucked hard, fucked long, fucked each other until we sweated, panted and cried out in ecstatic joy. A fuck, in other words, to write home about.

And a vanilla one at that.

Post-orgasmically, I roused myself from our tangled stupor to laughingly note this to him.

“We just had vanilla sex! That’s hilarious!”

He cackled in his most evil, rotten, flower-wielding feline manner.

“Not exactly vanilla, dear. There was kink.”

“If you say so, darling.”

“There was, definitely. And as you well know, once you kink you can never go bink.”

“Well, I’d hate to go bink at any rate.”

“Zigackly.”

There you have it, people. Once you kink, you can never go bink. In case that was your dread fear in life. 😎

(I love you, evil, rotten cat. <3)

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Time spent apart only increases the intensity when we re-connect.

On the rare occasions that the time between our special times together gapes wider than usual, the joy of re-connection is virtually tangible. Like two randy teenagers, our skin is always in contact; his body all over my body, entwined and intertwined, wound around each other like softly tangled strands of suede leather.

The passion rises, skin on skin, leather on skin, moulded kitchen plastic on skin, hair tugged, wrists and ankles cuffed, eyes covered, and then revealed — I reach my apex again, and again, and again. My body writhes and gushes, my inner child screams a release, and I soak everything within a four foot radius, then collapse in a heap.

The afterglow — the panting regrouping of our embrace that is part-cuddle, part-rest, and all about physically being as close together as we possibly can be — is one of my favourite rituals.

Pulling me up from cuddle-position, he peruses me from his lazy and relaxed stance, yanking my head back by my hair every so often to look at my eyes. Each time he smiles and says the same thing.

“That look, that wonderful look in your eyes. I love that look. Are you here, my sexy tabby? Or should I leave a message?”

Then he smiles that killer twinkly blue-eyed smile, and oh-so-gently kisses the top of my forehead, or the tip of my nose — with a gentle grace that belies his evil, flower-weilding nature.

“My gorgeous little perverted kitten.”

I raise my eyes to his, knowing that the look in them says much, much more than that of which I am currently capable. Speechless as I am, I can only be thankful that my eyes do the talking for me, and convey how I feel.

Diana Krall employs a more verbal method of communication, but she gets it. She understands. She knows.

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Is there anything better than lying in bed, naked, spent, cuddled up to the biggest, baddest, rottenest feline in the yard, as he breathes softly into your neck and strokes your hair, and kisses teeny tiny butterfly kisses along your shoulder and up the side of your neck?

What’s that you say? No?

Well, there is, but the only differentiating factor is when you are doing this listening to the most fabulous music, that just happens to be one of the basic tenets of your connection — the common denominator that you discovered when you were first getting to know each other.

That is pure heaven.

So today, on the worldwide designated day for showing love and affection — which I confess I have no real need of because I show and am shown the depth of love and affection on a constant basis (and sorry if I sound like I’m bragging, I’m not, I’m just so happy with Purrrrvert) — I share with you the latter part of our last session.

No words are needed, since none were spoken, other than “Oh my god, I LOVE  this song!”

And “I love you so much.”

And “Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, angel. No massacres, only love.

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UPDATE: Fleshbotted by the lovely AAG… happy holidays to you too, lovey.

The wail that bursts forth from me at the point of complete surrender is almost primordial in its nature.

Orgasm was not always a noisy experience for me. Borne of a combination of immaturity, and having my sexual learning curve experienced under mostly dormitory conditions, silence was a skill I learned to equate with reaching my orgasmic apex.

Not any more.

It used to be all about pleasure. My pleasure. Regardless of how much I enjoyed pleasuring a guy — and I really do take great pride in making someone else happy — my orgasm was about me achieving those pinnacles of wailing ecstasy.

This was before I discovered my G-spot, before I knew of female ejaculation, and loooooong before I knew what it was like to experience such a thing — and even longer before I knew what BDSM really was.

My first orgasm — my first real, hit-that-spot, “holy FUCK what was that?” moment, was with a boy from the States who I met on kibbutz. Until then, masturbation had been a comfort thing for me. This guy hit the spot, and had me shuddering silently into his shoulder, amazed that what had up until now been a passable way to spend a quiet afternoon could have such incredibly cataclysmic results.

In a good way.

But my reaction, while real, and quite noticeable to said boy, was silent. Like I said, dormitory life had a strong influence on the ease with which I allowed myself to express myself vocally. Or lack thereof.

Fast forward to my first fisting. Also my first ejaculation — well, the first that emanated from within me, as opposed to being sprayed in me, up me or over me. My verbal expression was less muted, but still more of an occasional grunt or cry.

Fast forward (again) to today.

Orgasms — despite the ritual fetish of denial that accompanies them — are abundant, lavish and — well, put it this way. there’s not a dry eye in the house. Or a dry anything, come to that.

But the vocal appreciation of same is on a whole new level.

The wails that burst forth from me come from a place that could be described by archeologists as newly discovered. Hitherto I had been completely unaware of the depth of emotion within me that was accessible.

The sounds I make now are an abandonment of consciousness, a wail directly from my soul. They seem to last forever, although of course they don’t — but an untold and unfathomable length of wailed joyous expression goes by before i am silent again, save huge, shuddering gasps of air that reinflate my lungs.

It’s a whole new level of ecstasy. A new experience on every level. I think it’s as much about with whom I experience this pleasure as the nature of the experience itself. The pleasure that the achievment of my orgasm gives the the one who permits me, encourages me and draws it forth from me, is palpable, fundamental and almost tangible in its nature.

Which makes the whole experience a hundred times better.

A thousand, even.

🙂

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Update! Fleshbotted by the lovely Always Aroused Girl, who, I daresay, was kept aroused by tales of my squirtage and so forth. Heh. Thanks babe!

Much of my time spent in the company of the Big Bad Feline is intense and wonderful. Well, all of the time spent with him is wonderful, but it’s the intensity upon which I wish to focus today.

He brings me release and relief. Not just when re-energising the Elegant Slut within, but also as a matter of course.

Here’s a great example:

The other day was a reunion, and consequent celebration, since i’d been away with the small people for a couple of weeks, sans feline.  It had been very tough to lock the elegantly slutty part of me away for a whole three weeks and concentrate on being “Mommy”, but I managed to do so, little realising quite how much it affected me. Until, when I came for the first time on that day, I burst into tears. The release, the very felineness of him, the love, affection, lust and passion that he showered upon me, and just being with him caused me to bawl like a baby, while simultaneously shuddering to a magnificent climax.

He has made a great impact upon me, what can I tell you? And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

********************************************

I call him a couple of hours ahead of schedule, on a day when we had planned to meet anyway, and  inform him that I feel the need to push a limit.

“I feel the need for intensity. I need a release of some sort, and I’m pretty damn amazed that I can even recognise and articulate that, never mind that I have a legitimate and flexible outlet in which to do so. Will you help me? Does that fit with your evil, mean and rotten feline plans for the day?”

There is a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone, and then a question.

“Intensity, hmm? I’m surrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre I can think of something that will help you. Would you be willing to improvise with me according to whatever roleplay i come up with?”

I nod, and then, realizing that a nod is not audible, affirm this verbally.

“So, it’s OK with you?”

No answer, save an evil feline snigger, and a low, ominous purr. (I love when he gets ominous.)

Fast forward to later that day. As always, I have stripped to his command, and then lovingly and carefully removed his clothing, and we are naked and facing each other. After the usual preliminaries, and an extra hug or two, just because he wants them, he grabs me by the hair, and twists my face to look at him.

“You have been abducted by the Big Bad Cat from the Great Ship Feline. You are my captive.”

Our eyes met, and I smile widely.

“I’m your captive? OK. So you’re my captor.”

“That is correct.”

My love of wordplay gets the better of me. Captive? Captor? An abductee of an evil, mean and rotten feline? Surely it would better read a “Cat-piv” taken by a “Cat-por”, or, to stretch the rules of spelling completely, “Catpaw”. I mention as much to the man holding me by my hair, looking deep into his crystal-blue eyes, and am rewarded by the twinkling smile that makes my senses tingle.

“OK, then Catpiv — get on the bed. On all fours.”

Fastening leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles, he secures me to the bed with canvas tapes.

“We alien Felines need to probe you for information,” he purrs, sliding his fingers into me. I gasp — usually he’ll start with two or three and work his way up through four to a whole fist. Today, there are four fingers curling into me and i can feel his thumb exerting exquisite pressure on the nubbin of skin covering my clit, moving it gently up and down but not actually indulging me by stroking the clit itself in any way.

The pleasure factor is immense, and it’s so early on in the game! I asked for intense, and intense is what I’m getting.

Once he has worked my cunt into a bubbling frenzy, loosening and relaxing the muscles enough, he slides his fist into me, and begins to pound my G-spot. I gasp, and cry out, and it only increases his efforts. Leaning over me, he reaches underneath and pinches a nipple until the pain crackles through me from stem to… well, clit, and then I feel him nibble on my ear. I gush, hearing the splatter onto the quilt, amazing myself at the quantity — I sound like I’ve let loose the fucking Hoover dam!

I struggle to maintain my all-fours position, as his weight is entirely on me. He senses this and removes himself, only to untie two of the four restraints and flip me over, so he can access my soft, white, under-side with greater ease.

And then he really goes to town.

I lose myself. Initially, I lose my first two or three layers of reality, and slip into a subspacial haze of happy bliss. He flogs me, not so much harder than before, but more. Just more. Then the subspace engulfs me and I float away, aware of all that is occurring, and yet detached in the best kind of way.

He beats my lily-white (though fast reddening) ass with a bendy cane, real cane, not bamboo, and then applies lavender oil and caressing strokes to ease the effects. He holds me tight, and kisses me, and generally plays an appasionata furioso, using me as though my body were a Stradivarius violin, and he were Yehudi Menuhin.

Lovingly he leads me over to the bed, and gently rubs the tender spots. Then, with no time to even think he snaps me out of my subspace, and orders me to bend over.

“Like this?” I ask, feet on the floor, hands down on the bed.

“Almost. Spread those legs further. Yes. Wider… yes.”

I feel the ice-cold glass slide into me before i register what it is. My glass friend, the handmade glass dildo… and he’s frozen it, god bless his evil cattish heart. I never stand much of a chance around my glass friend. Three or four thrusts into me and I’m moaning, a further couple (pound, pound) and I wail as though I’m a banshee, and the girl-juice (“cunt-juice” as he likes to call it) hits the floor with an immensely splashy clatter.

A pause for effect, as the thrusting slows, then stops, and he hugs me from behind.

“I’ve wet the floor,” I murmur.

He smiles, and the blue eyes twinkle at me

“Yes, but at least that means that there will be a dry spot for us to lie on, on the bed.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes. Time to indulge in the Cat-por’s favourite ritual. The post-coital cuddle.”

Intensity doesn’t get any better than this.

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