What I Needed

Pushed to the floor, carpet beneath my knees; elbows
one hand on my back, pinning me
the other grinding my face into the carpet.
His voice in my ear
abrading me
inflaming me
inciting me.
His cock in my ass
impaling me
fucking me
tearing me open
staking me to the floor.

Rug burn on my knee in the morning.

I needed that.

Today I am in chains. Around my throat, around my ankle. I need that, too.

The Sensual Pleasures of Anal Sex

I write a lot about the emotional impact that anal sex has on me. It affects me on psychological and emotional levels in ways that differ sharply from other kinds of sex.  It’s impact is distinct and sharp and hits on submissive triggers and emotional barriers in a way that nothing else does.

I seldom talk about the purely physical sensations of anal sex, though.  Although I often talk about it in terms of pain and discomfort (because oftentimes that is what it is and specifically how W likes to use it–more on that in a bit) it is, none-the-less, physically pleasurable.  Sometimes even in the doing of it, not just the after-effects. ;-)

I mentioned how easily W’s cock slid into me the other day, when he took me down in the basement to reclaim me.  It was partly because his cock was slick with my spit (that always helps) but also because, when it comes to ass-sex, W has the absolutely perfect sized cock. He fills me entirely, stretching me out and making me just a bit uncomfortably full, without being unbearably huge and stretching me too much. In fact, if I am the least bit prepared by fingers or toys, and if he uses lube, fucks me in the ass after he’s been in my cunt, or allows me to wet him with my mouth before he fucks me, oftentimes there is no actual pain, just a deep pleasant pressure as he slides in and my ass slowly opens for him. There is always a tightness and a bit of discomfort as he pushes past my sphincter muscle, but again, if he has had me wear a buttplug, or used other toys on me before fucking my ass, even that muscle is more relaxed and receptive, and the little bit of resistance, that stretching, is, in itself, pleasurable.

Huh.  Trying to write about just the physical sensations is harder than I thought it would be. Anal sex has so many many emotional triggers to it that it’s hard to separate the physical from the emotional. The instinct of submission inherent in it, the exquisite feeling of subjugation, of being dominated in such a primal way, is hard to separate from the purely physical sensations of feeling his cock, so perfectly shaped and sized, stretching and filling me, making me feel full in a way nothing else does. They are part and parcel of the same experience.

And yet, I do think I could love ass sex outside of the paradigm of dominance and submission. There is pleasure in just the physical experience of it.

Perhaps that is why I love enemas so much.  Done in a sensual way, there is a deeply erotic pleasure in feeling my body filled by the warm fluid, feeling the gentle pressure build, almost soothing, until I am heavy and full with the warm liquid.

Such a very different physical feeling from the ass-raping I usually get.

I daydream about that–about ass sex or ass play purely for my enjoyment–actually. I wonder what it would be like to be able to simply ask for ass sex, for my pleasure, sometimes. I was thinking about it yesterday when we realized that we may have lost my Njoy plug. W’s immediate response was, “We need to get you another. But you need the mondo-really-huge one.” And I was like, Really?  REALLY? Can’t I have one thing that is actually pleasurable? I love my Njoy. The size (large) is perfect for wearing for long periods. No, it doesn’t make me miserable, and no, it doesn’t hurt…I actually like the way it feels inside of me. That said, it still makes me feel submissive and is a constant reminder that there’s something in my body that he has either placed there or told me to wear.  And that’s mentally hot, regardless of the fact that it isn’t causing me distress physically. So it does seem that there’s a way to have both, at times. Pleasure mixed with D/s.  Kind of like when he makes me fuck myself to exhaustion, right?

Another fantasy that involves the pleasure of anal sex: being given a warm enema (which is, in itself, an act that inspires my most submissive feelings) and then to have him stretch my ass slowly, lovingly, opening me with fingers and toys, one after another until I am soft and receptive–

–and then fucking the shit out of me. Using my ass, hard and deep and fast and long, with his cock and toys, combining aggression and discomfort with pleasure.

Seriously though, I have barely got to the point where I can ask for sex–sex just for my pleasure–from W, much less ass sex.  Many, many times I have wanted him to fuck me and not been able to ask. (I finally did the other night, even asking for a specific “toy”–okay not an actual toy, a trailer hitch, but whatever!–and then actually instructed him on how I wanted it done. It was pure agony to do!  But damn it was a good fuck.)  But asking for ass sex? As emotionally charged as it is for me? Probably not gonna happen.

Wanton Wednesday – Grip

I have been working all week on a new post for W.  This is a “command performance”: W assigned me the task of writing about an event that happened while we were in Chicago.  He had invited an acquaintance of his to our hotel room and allowed him to use me.  And use me he did, in every way imaginable, while W took pictures (and occasionally participated.) Unfortunately for you, my lovely, faithful readers and friends, most of that post will probably be for his eyes only, for reasons I may expound upon at a later date.  But I think that I may bring tidbits of it out here, to use as Wanton Wednesday fodder and fuel, for the next several weeks.

This, then, is the first installment:

~click thru to see what the other hands were gripping~

Don’t forget to click on the link above to check out all the other Wednesday Wantonness!

First Orgasm

Once upon a time W put me in a cage and told me to write a list of all the men I have had sex with. The result was a list of ~50 men, written on a couple sheets of lined paper, that ended up in my computer bag, folded over and over and gradually, as time has gone on, getting longer.  The paper is worn and soft now, the creases in it deep from folding and refolding it.  As an assignment during his absence this past month, W asked me to transcribe “The List,” as we began to call, to a computerized document.

Actually, he asked me to do so a long time ago, but only made the request formal, a dictate, during this trip.

In creating the digitized list, he asked me to jot down at least one tidbit–a fact, a memory, something specific–about each encounter. He wanted me to “remember and think about every time that I was fucked,” as I wrote about them.  I was sure I wouldn’t remember a thing about most of them.  And, maybe, I won’t.  I am only up to number 9 or 10 (!)  But I have surprised myself by remembering a surprising number of details about the ones I’ve covered so far, and those were from my early teens. (Of course, later years may have been clouded by alcohol at times, so we’ll see how well I do on those. ~wink~)

There’s one story that I do recall in absolute clarity however, and it’s too long to relegate to the cell of an Excel spreadsheet, so I thought I would relate it here.

It’s the story of my first orgasm.

Actually, it’s the story of my first orgasm during sex.  Years before, at the age of about 14 or so, I’d discovered how to make myself orgasm by masturbation, but I was an odd girl, and once I started having sex (later that same year) I stopped masturbating. I assumed that sex would give me orgasms, and that I didn’t need (or shouldn’t need) to masturbate. Now that I had men to do it for me, that was all I’d need, right?

Wrong (of course.)  First of all, I get a lot of orgasms with my men now, and I still enjoy masturbating. But to speak more specifically to that young girl’s misconceptions: although I believed that once I was having sex orgasms would just happen, spontaneously, all the time, that (of course) wasn’t the case. The boys were young and inexperienced, or the men were selfish and didn’t care, or were simply unskilled, and I just didn’t know enough to know that maybe they needed some guidance about how to do it, about what I wanted and needed.  I just thought they’d “know” somehow.

I believe this is one of the great failings of teenaged sex, or perhaps of a society that has such taboos against talking about sexual pleasure. We’ve finally gotten to a place where (most) parents will talk about sex at all, but to actually talk about pleasure during sex? Yikes! Bad bad bad.

So, the sad truth was that, in the two years that I lived with my first boyfriend, and in the several casual sexual encounters I had had both before and after, I had never had an orgasm during sex, and damn few of them when I wasn’t having sex.

I had been with my ex for somewhere around 6 or 8 months, maybe a little longer, by this time.  This is not the Ex, as in my second husband, to whom I was married for 15 years. No, this was my first husband. I was…19 or 20 at the time. And our relationship…was a rough one. He was young, and when he drank he was violent. We had huge fights, and about every six months or so, he would get abusive, verbally or physically.  And then, for the next six months, he was the most penitent, remorseful, loving boyfriend ever, begging me to give him one more chance, swearing he’d changed, promising to never hurt me again.

Until the next time.

But there was a reason I was attracted to him.  There was a reason I couldn’t stay away from him, kept going back to him, over and over. I was fascinated by his violence. It terrified me–and yet, somewhere, deep inside, it thrilled me.  Now, I understand my needs much better, and I know whence that fascination comes–and how to get it fed in a safe way.  Then, I was as terrified of myself, of needing and wanting–and yes, instigating–that violence as I was of him.  I was attracted to the danger, to the wild ups and downs, to how desperately he loved me–and how violently he fucked me. I loved it that he took every inch of me: sweetly, gently, achingly, when he was in the honeymoon phase;  desperately, violently, holding me down and fucking me with a fury that bordered on–and may have been a manifestation of–hatred when he was in that other phase.

And I loved it.

And yet, still, I had not had an orgasm.  Some fantastic (and yes, I know, fucked up) sex; and had gotten pretty darn close to coming, but had never quite gotten there.

Then one afternoon K, my ex, came home. He’d had a bad day; we argued. He wasn’t drinking, but there was an edge to him that I recognized…and, truthfully, I really was afraid of him by that point. The thrill had worn off, and I was smart enough to recognize that while there was something that excited me in the situation, his uncontrolled violence wasn’t it, and wasn’t healthy or desired.  But still, when he grabbed my arm and drug me into the bedroom, then shoved me down on the bed and, holding me down with one hand, pushed my knees apart with one knee, I felt myself flood with heat.  I had a feeling that the kind of violence he was going to resort to was violent sex, not the other kind, and I was relieved and excited.

I was surprised, though, after he had pulled my panties down, when he pulled me to my feet and hauled me into the front room, then pushed me to my knees in front of the couch.

“What–” I started to say, but he shoved my head down, pushed my skirt up and got behind me.  I was already excited, and opened my legs eagerly to him as he shoved deeply into me with one thrust.  He fucked me that way for a while, pinning me down with his body and thrusting deep and hard into me, slamming into my cervix and making me cry out, before abruptly stopping and pulling out.  I gasped and instinctively pushed back towards him, but he shoved me down onto the couch again.

“I’m gonna fuck your ass,” he said, low, in my ear.

I’d never had anal sex, never even considered it.

“No,” I said, struggling suddenly. “Please–!” But he didn’t stop. He held me down easily (he was a large man, 6’3″ to my 5’2″) and I felt him pushing his cock between my butt cheeks.  His cock was slippery, and slid between my cheeks and nudged at the tight opening of my asshole.  I realized that he must have put lube on himself. 

He really meant to do this.

I began to struggle harder, but when I flailed back at him he grabbed my hands and pinned them down against my back, twisting them painfully.  I had managed to knock him out of position, but he was a lot bigger than me, and determined, and soon I ran out of strength.  And out of will.  I felt his aggression and his power and my own helplessness…and I knew I couldn’t win.  Finally I gave in and lay still beneath him, but I refused to aide him.  I closed my legs tightly, but knew it was futile even as I did it. And it was.  He simply pushed, and shoved, until the head of his cock was against that tight opening again, and then, finally, was pushing inside.

And to my shame, as he shoved his way into me, as he pushed and tore and forced himself into me, I began to get excited again.  I could feel the wetness dripping down between my thighs.  As he held me down and, for all intents and purposes, raped me, as the tears spilled and as he grunted and growled at me about what he was doing to me, I felt my body responding to him just as it always did. I found myself pushing back against him, wanting to take him deeper, and then screaming into the couch as he did so.

And then it happened.  As he thrust one final time into me, as he spilled his semen into my ass, I came, screaming and writhing and crying beneath him.

______________________________________________

Sometimes, when I am feeling philosophical, I wonder: Am I the way I am because of this first experience, or did I react the way I did to this experience because of the way I am?

Pretty Girl, Dirty Girl

Tonight I will go out to dinner with Ad.  I will wear a white and black party dress with velvet cut-outs and a wide, black bow.  It’s a sweet dress, not my usual vampy type of dress, a “pretty girl” dress.  And I will be a pretty girl, out on a date with my handsome boyfriend, dining at a lovely, romantic, roof-top restaurant overlooking the city.  The fairy lights strung all around the deck will twinkle above us and a crackling fire in the firepit will warm us if the air is chill.  We’ll drink wine, and eat delicious food, and flirt and talk and tease and enjoy.  I’ll be a pretty girl.

At least on the outside.

This morning, laying in W’s bed, he held me close and stroked his hand down my arm and back as we woke up. I told him about my dinner plans, and my dress, and he smiled and told me what a pretty girl I’d be—and how everyone there would look at me and see that “outside” image, and they’d think I really was just a pretty girl.

“They won’t know what a dirty girl you are,” he said.

They won’t know the things I do, the things I like, what a slut I am for him, how he can make do anything he wants me to, make me a beat-up girl, a fuckmeat girl, a ponygirl, a piss-drinking girl. How I’ll fuck anyone he tells me to and let them shoot their loads on me and come home with it dried on my shirt just because I know he’ll like it.  How I love it when he hurts me, and when he holds me down and grabs my hair and fucks me in the ass with my face smashed into the pillow, hardly able to breathe.

He told me all this while we lay there, snuggled together.  I started to think about getting up to get ready for work.

He had other ideas.

One moment he was talking quietly to me, still running his hand gently over my skin, the next he pushed me over onto my stomach and shoved his cock between my legs, poking at my tight, resisting asshole.  I tried not to struggle but couldn’t help myself, so he pinned one arm behind me with his body, clenched my hair in his fist and held my other hand down by the wrist.  And then, slowly, inexorably, he forced himself inside of me, forcing me to open up to him, made me accept him, stretch around him, as he stroked his cock into me, slowly, deeper and deeper, until, finally, there was no more resistance, in my mind or my body.  Soon I was rocking back against him, open and grasping and greedy, wanting him as deep as he could go, loving the feel of his hand fisted in my hair, my arm twisted up behind me, his weight on me, my own struggle to breathe.  And loving the feel of his excitement, of his cock swelling in my ass as shot his load into me, growling that I might wear a pretty dress, and everyone might think I was just a pretty girl, but inside I was a dirty girl, and always would be.

His dirty girl.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Edit: This was written yesterday but I got busy and forgot to publish it–so “tonight” was actually last night.  More on my birthday day and night to come…


Plugged

This weekend W and I played with my two glass plugs that I got from Eden Fantasys awhile ago.  Or I should say that W used them on me–I didn’t really have a choice in the matter and wasn’t a terribly active participant, as I was tied up at the time.

Coincidentally, I had just asked the Twitterverse about buying another glass plug earlier in the week.  I love play with the two I have, but W frequently talks about having me wear one out, and I wasn’t sure they would work for long-term, comfortable wear.  In the end, I chose the large Pure Plug.  W is an industrial guy, and I know he will dig the thought of me being plugged with stainless steel, and my guess is that the steel will prove just as comfortable as the glass, if not more so. Plus the little handle looks like it might be good for tying it in…I don’t know about that, but we’ll see.  I think the experimenting part is going to be just as much fun as the actual using it part.

Sunday morning started out fairly normally…eh, well, make that abnormally, for us anyway. Normally I wake to find W’s hands on me, pushing, pulling, fucking me, or a wrist getting wrapped in rope, or his arm around my throat as he pushes me down and takes me from behind.  This morning we laid in bed and talked and dozed, lazily, just like two vanilla lovers, til after 11am.  It was only when I made to get up that W pushed me over onto my stomach, grabbed one of my wrists, and then the other, and tied them behind my back. Next he tied my ankles together, and I was fairly immobilized: the lamb waiting for slaughter, as it were.

Or the slut waiting for fucking.  Later, he said to me, “I couldn’t just let you sleep all night in my bed and then get up and go in the morning without a good fucking.”

It’s so convenient that he has rope hanging from a rail above his bed, isn’t it?

So I waited, patiently, straining to see/hear what he was doing, as he got up from the bed and rummaged around in his chest of drawers.  I know many of the toys that he has in his drawers, but had forgotten about the plugs. And besides, he is always coming up with something new and…fun…yeah, that’s word…to torture/abuse me with. And sometimes even to pleasure me with. The “fun” part is I never know which it will be, though usually one involves the other.  It’s just the degree of one or the other that I don’t know in advance.

Then he was back, his hands on my ass, opening me, pulling my cheeks apart, exposing me. That was almost as delicious as the feel of his fingers, slick with lube, beginning to probe me. And even more delicious because having my ankles tied in that way, together, so that he had to open my legs, added to the humiliation of it. To feeling like I was just a piece of meat he was manipulating.

Ass play is such a wonderfully quixotic mix of humiliation and pleasure. It is as much headspace as physical sensation, and the act of being opened up, examined, looked at, in that most secret, embarrassing of places, is a huge turn on. It’s making me wet sitting here writing about it.

Or maybe it is the email conversation I am having with W even as I write this, talking about playing with the new steel plug.  Maybe it is thinking about sitting across a restaurant table from him with a pound of stainless steel in my ass, or reading about him telling me about how he will want me to wear it to work on a semi-regular basis, and about how hard it makes him just thinking about it.

How could I ever have let myself fall into that asinine headspace of the past week?  In his bed, bound by his rope, there is only he and I.  No one else and nothing else matters.

And in his bed, tied ankles and wrists, he was soon pushing something smooth and hard against my asshole, and as he pushed it in, past the tight band of muscle at the opening, I first resisted (because I just can’t help myself) and then relented, opening myself to the aching stretch of the cold, hard glass. But that’s what I love about glass, it is so smooth, and once you open yourself to it, it slides in so easily, so deeply, and then settles inside you, warming to your body temperature, like it was meant to be a part of you.

That’s when he used it like it was a part of me.

Honestly I had no idea what he was doing as he did it.  All I felt were his fingers, inside of me, pressing, probing the walls of my cunt, filling me, stretching and pushing on me. At times, I thought he must have pushed the other plug inside my pussy, or perhaps the steel balls he inserts in me at times, I felt so full of non-organic hardness. Later he told me he was using his fingers and hand to press against and roll the butt plug against my flesh, through the thin barrier between my ass and vagina. But at the time, I didn’t care what he was doing, I just wanted more of it.  I wriggled against his hand, moaning; I pressed back against his fingers; I pushed myself to orgasm as he teased and ground his hand into me and against the plug, as he kissed and bit my ass and thighs.  At one point he spread my thighs wide and licked and sucked on my rings and clit from behind.  Finally, when I was completely exhausted, he did push the large plug into my cunt, untied me, and rolled me over against him. I lay there for a few minutes, exhausted, my head still buzzing in that emotional space that being bound and anal sex always puts me.

But he wasn’t done with me yet, or maybe I simply wasn’t done, because the feel of both those plugs in me, filling me impossibly full, heavy and hard inside me, had me whimpering and grinding myself against him again in a sort of mindless, animal need.  I didn’t even think of the consequences: as I started to come, my pussy started to clench around the big plug, and my asshole around the small one and I realized suddenly it was going to hurt like hell, but by then I couldn’t stop it.  All I could think about was those two beautiful pieces of art glass in my ass and my pussy, sealing me closed until W decided to open me up again.

What an exquisite, painful pleasure it was.

Ferocity

I have mentioned before the different D/s dynamic in my relationship with W and my relationship with Ad. With W, it is about control, whether that is through the more subtle emotional control that runs like a current beneath and through all our interactions, or the more direct physical control–the subjugation–that comes with ropes and restraint and physical domination; with Ad it is not about control but about pleasure. Sometimes that pleasure comes in the form of BDSM activities, sometimes he hurts me or uses me in rough ways, but it is still and always about pleasuring me.  It’s all good–I need both in my life. I need a man that will force me down, bind my wrists, grab a handful of hair and fuck me in the ass; I also need a man that I can turn to and ask to fuck me in the ass for the express purpose of getting me off.  Although I may love the ass fucking in the end in the first instance, it isn’t so much as the physical act of it that I crave but an emotional release.  In the second it is all about the acute pleasure of the act itself, and of knowing that it turns him on to turn me on that way.

Occasionally, however, Ad crosses that line into outright dominance.  Into controlling me physically in a way that has nothing to do with my pleasure. Into ferocity.

Today was one such day.

It’s been a rough few months with the rings healing. I’ve had sex with them a couple times, but mostly the guys have been careful and circumspect in their use of me (rightly so: as W says, it’s an investment.) But I am a pouty girl, and I want to be fucked, and I am tired of being good. (Yeah, so what’s new?)

“Please,” I say this afternoon, “please fuck my ass? Gently…I just…I just want you in me, I want to feel full of you, stretched and opened by you.  Please?”

He obliged me, and of course, though he wanted to be gentle, I was soon pulling him into me, begging him to fuck me harder, to ignore the rings–pleas he largely ignored, giving me enough to make me come, howling like a banshee, but not enough to hurt the rings.

I was a satisfied girl, and curled into his side when I was done.  I was snoozy, warm, sated. I knew he wouldn’t come doing what we had, and since he’d come that morning I assumed he would let me go to sleep and maybe nap with me.

It was not to be.  As my eyes drifted closed I felt his hand in my hair.  Not an unusual occurrence, but…there was a difference to him this time.  I’d felt the tightly-held control he exerted over himself as he’d pushed slowly into and out of my ass, and I’d felt him swell with excitement inside me as I’d lost my own control. I’d seen the strain in his face not to do what he wanted most: to slam into me, over and over, until he exploded into me.  A leashed aggression, barely contained.

He seldom fucks my mouth. In the years we have been together, I know what it takes to get him off with my mouth. I know his body’s responses almost as well as I know my own, and he appreciates that, and allows me to service him, to pleasure him, knowing it pleases me to do so.  Today, though, he wanted nothing of me pleasuring him–he wanted to take his pleasure from me.

His hands were hard, implacable, on the back of my head. His cock, so long and thick anyway, was impossibly engorged with his excitement.  He lay on his back, but he fucked my mouth, forcing me up and down his shaft as I gagged and choked, with a ferocity he seldom displays.  And when he came, it was with his own howl of pleasure, a sound that was torn from deep in his chest and spilled forth into our bedroom, echoing off the walls.  Ferocious.  Triumphant.

I woke with him snuggled into my back, warm and secure. I had been dreaming…  “Let’s grow old together,” I said into the predawn dark. “Let’s do this forever.”

He chuckled, his breath warm against my neck, and squeezed me tight.

“What?” I said.

“You wake up thinking about forever, I wake up thinking about fucking you in the ass when the kids leave.”

Men can be so romantic.

Later, after the kids had gone over to their father’s house, we are alone.  The house is finally quiet again.  I am moving about the front room, straightening up, picking up a stray bow from the couch, putting away the detritus from the day’s festivities.

“Come here,” he calls from the bedroom.

I walk in and find him standing by the bed, tiny candy canes and camera in hand. “We have some pictures to take for W,” he says.

I climb up on the bed and spread my thighs obediently, showing off the new jewelry. A grin spreads across his face as he looks down at my newly pierced labia–I think he, too, was surprised at how much he likes my new rings.  He hands me the candy canes.  The piercings are still new and tender, and he knows it will be easier for me to hook the candy canes in the tiny hoops.

We spend a little while arranging me and the canes, laughing, taking pictures.  Eventually, we are done and I undo myself, carefully, carefully, the piercings more tender now after having been manipulated and moved around.  I start to get up to go wash, but he pushes me back down.  “Not so fast,” he says.

He takes my legs just above the knees in his big hands and pushes my thighs back, opening them and exposing the rings even more. “Such a pretty pussy,” he says. “But it’s your ass I want.  Your beautiful ass, with its dark hole, so tight…”

I am not sure I am ready for this. To have my piercings mashed, to have his body grind into them. But I want him…damn how I want him. I’ve wanted him since I felt the first sharp, pure pain of the needle pushing into my flesh, back there at the piercer’s.  Since that moment I’ve wanted him between my legs, between those piercings, sliding between them into my wet, swollen cuntlips…but I know I can’t have that.  My ass will have to suffice.

He starts out slow, letting me grow accustomed to his size as I begin to stroke my clit.  Ass sex is always a challenge for me…I love it, but it takes some work to get me relaxed and open enough for deep thrusting.  As he begin pushing into me, I start to think about the new toys I finally ordered, and Ad joking with me at the piercer’s when I said that I hoped W wouldn’t mind not being able to fuck me: “You have two more holes, Jade,” he’d said.  “I have a feeling you’ll be getting your ass well-used.”

“Maybe I should rethink this whole piercing thing…!” I’d said. But I didn’t. And now I have these lovely (tender) piercings, and Ad is pushing into my ass and my fingers are relearning how to make myself come with my newly reinserted hood ring. The piercings pull as I rub my clit, but the pain is also pleasure.  And as he gets more excited, as I get more excited, he pushes his weight into me and onto the piercings and the grinding is pleasure and pain as well, and the feel of him, so deep, so thick, in my ass, that is pleasure and pain, too, and I come, finally, gasping, pulling my hand away like I’ve touched fire, because it kinda feels like that, now.

“Be gentle on them,” the piercer said, “they’ll heal faster.”  Uh-huh. She doesn’t know me very well, does she?

A Stretch: Do I Have to Choose Just ONE?

So most of you know that I write articles on poly relationships and kink here and there on Eden Cafe (if you’re not aware, you can check out a list of the stuff I’ve written here.) While it’s not a paying gig (at least in “real” dollars), I do get some remuneration: I get paid in Eden Fantasys gift cards.

I’ve never been one to buy a lot of sex toys. My ex and I went through a brief period where we bought a dildo, my beloved Hitachi, a set of anal beads, but most of the toys we’ve purchased have been of the whips & rope variety, or toys that would lend themselves well to that kind of play.

Even after I left him, I didn’t go in for a lot of toys, although occasionally I went crazy and bought a whole slew of things just to see what they were like (reading others’ blogs and reviews actually instigated a lot of that. I’d never known there was such variety and joy to be had!)  So I’ve wound up with a couple different, yummy, g-spot stimulators, a clit vibrator that I don’t love (I’m pretty well sold on Baldy) and some other miscellaneous things that we use occasionally. Part of the reason I didn’t buy sex toys was, honestly, that spending money (sometimes a lot of money) on toys to enhance my sex life never seemed all that imperative. Let’s face it, I have a pretty fucking awesome sex life as it is. If I’ve got extra cash, it’s gonna be spent on shoes, okay?

Then, suddenly, I started getting these gift cards in the mail. For doing what I already love to do. And they can only be spent on…sex stuff. Toys, lingerie, etc. There was a moment when I got my first one that I thought, “It’s a shame this isn’t a more generic card, because then I could, you know, spend it at Target or something, for stuff I really need.” And then I did one of those mental headslaps.  “Hey, dummie! Here you have the opportunity to buy stuff you never thought about buying because you didn’t want to waste the money…  Duh.” And I was off.  It was like a whole nuther world had opened up.

My first purchases were two glass buttplugs, which I may have mentioned a time or two, like here and here.  And oh yummy, I love those buttplugs.  I love that I can wear them for extended periods of time (a few hours, at least) and not feel the acute discomfort that I did with the other sort…those rubberized or latex or whatever material they were.  Ouch and ick!

And lately I’ve been contemplating buying a stainless steel one, the Pfun Plug or possibly a Pure Plug, but, well, I am notorious for being unable to make up my mind, so I haven’t purchased either yet.

But then, the other day, while poking around there, I ran across these gigantic dildos, huge, molded-from-real-men’s-cocks dildos, and I was like…oh my god. Yummm.

And yikes!  These things are HUGE!  But, I started fantasizing.  Fantasizing about being stretched wide, filled up, pulled open, stuffed by a huge cock-shaped dildo.  Ass and cunt.

This isn’t a new thought for me.  A long, long time ago, when I first started exploring kink online, I started emailing this chick and her Dom. On her AFF profile she stated that he liked to insert large objects inside her, stretch her out, fill her as full as possible.  At the time I pretended (to myself, because I wasn’t yet ready to face my own desires) that that wasn’t why I was attracted to her profile, or why I had messaged her.  I never did meet with her, but from time to time (okay, more often than that) my mind has drifted (oftentimes while my hand is drifting downwards) to images of women with their legs spread open, often forcibly, as huge things are shoved into their cunts.

And then one day W told me about this guy he knows, that he calls “The Tool,” who has a gigantic cock, and who he’d like to have fuck me, impersonally, just use my holes as W tells him to do.

Yowza.  More fuel for my fantasy-head.

The John Holmes: Length: 13" Insertable length: 10" Circumference: 8" Diameter: 2 1/2" Weight: 2 lb (!)

Anyway. Now I am trying to decide if I should buy one of these dildos instead. And if so, which one? Do I start out smaller and work my way up? But they are expensive, so it may be awhile before I could buy the next size up.  Course, who knows if I can even take a “small” one. And am I more turned on my length, or girth? Does it matter if it looks like a real cock–do I even want it to look like a real cock?  Ad laughed when I was looking at them, because the ones that are “named” are more expensive than the generics. “Do you really have to buy a dildo named after John Holmes?”

Um, no, I could fuck “Bam” apparently, whoever that is.

"Bam": Length: 13" Insertable length: 10" Circumference: 8 1/2" Diameter: 2 3/4"

Or maybe even (Good lord) Ty Fox’s huge cock (three pounds o’cock!).

"Ty": Length: Insertable length: 8" Circumference: 7 1/2" Diameter: 2 1/2" Weight: 3 lb

I wonder if other women, while they are fucking themselves with one of these, or being fucked with one of these, is saying, “Fuck me, Ty! Fuck me!”  (And would I?)

Of course there are always the generic ones, as Ad pointed out. Poor little…er…giant cocks, with no name! As is the  case of this somewhat smaller but still impressive dildo called the “Realistic Cock.” Kinda sad not to have a name, huh? But still, a nice-looking piece o’cockmeat, if you go for that sort of thing (looking realistic.)

The Generic: Length: 9" Insertable length: 8" Circumference: 6 1/4" Diameter: 2"

I can’t decide if the wrinkly balls on these gak me out, or if I’d care.  I mean, I like my Guys’ balls…but rubberized ones? Cut in half the way they are?  I dunno.

If I was going for length rather than girth (which I think I might if it was going to be an anal toy), there’s always this beauty.  Not quite as fat as ole JH’s, but still respectable.

"Kevin Dean": Length: 13" Insertable length: 9 3/4" Circumference: 7" Diameter: 2 1/4"
"Kevin Dean": Length: 13" Insertable length: 9 3/4" Circumference: 7" Diameter: 2 1/4"

And last but not least, what about non-realistic (at least in color) dildoes? Like this little – er, not-so-little – number? This one is smaller comparatively. And obviously, I am doing my comparison shopping here.

Crystal Jelly: Length: 9"  Insertable length: 7 1/2" Circumference: 6" Diameter: 1 7/8" Weight: 1.5 lb
Crystal Jelly: Length: 9" Insertable length: 7 1/2" Circumference: 6" Diameter: 1 7/8" Weight: 1.5 lb

And this, my friends, is why I can’t make a decision to save my life. (And possibly why I like to sleep around.) There’s just too much variety out there. Too much to choose from. How can a girl choose just one??

Bendy Red

A while ago I bought several toys just for me. At the time, I was having a lot of solo-sex, because A’s and my schedule was screwy, and he’s a morning sex guy and I am an afternoon-sex girl, and a lot of times the only time we saw each other was late in the evening when neither of us had the time or energy to engage in actual, for-real, sex.

Besides, I think toys are a fun way to enhance actual, for-real sex too, although it took me some years to get over the idea that if sex was “good” between you and your partner(s), you didn’t “need” toys.

Anyway, over a period of weeks and months, I eventually used all the toys (and in various and myriad bendybeads_38103ways both intended and probably not) – except one. The BendyBeads. I don’t know why it took me this long to get them out. I’ve said it before: I’m an anal slut, I love anal play, and, well, this should have been a natural.

Okay, I lied. I do know the reason. Because I may say I’m an anal slut here, I may say I like anal play here, but, in real life? Out there? Umm, not so much on the words coming out of my mouth. In fact, simply being made to say the words is pussy-wetting, acute-embarrassment-engendering humiliation-play all on its own. And anal play really needs someone else doing it to me for it to work.  It’s the humiliation factor that gets me.

Usually.

There’s been a time or two that I’ve gotten that itch and scratched it myself. But usually that is accompanied by visions of them, one of the guys, doing those things to me. Forcing me. Violating my ass, using me, using my hole, making me feel like a hole put there for their use.

Sometimes, though, A has anal sex with me, or uses his fingers or toys in my ass, and even more occasionally W does, in a way that is about pure pleasure, about pleasuring me. It’s still humiliating to me, I can’t get past that. I can’t get past the humiliation I feel for liking it, for wanting it. That’s part of its (twisted) pleasure. But also there is real physical pleasure, if done right, that has nothing to do with dominance or humiliation or being used. Many times I want that…but I can’t get up the nerve to ask.  I wish I could ask for it more often.

On this one occasion, though, I did.

“Please,” I said, looking everywhere but at him, “can we try my BendyBeads?”

He was more than happy to accommodate me, as he usually is.

I straddled him, facing away, so I could get at my clit and he could get at my ass. He lubed up the toy generously.  I think I was still embarrassed, because he had to lift my ass from where I was trying to hide it against his groin. I was acutely, absurdly shy at having my ass open and waiting for him that way, but that only made me wetter. The anticipation of feeling it slip inside me, one bulbous knob at a time, was excruciating.

And…it did feel…pleasant. But one bead wasn’t going to be enough. I wanted to be filled with it, to feel heavy and full and opened wide…

I never really got that with the toy. But what I did get was almost as good.

Ad is patient. He pays attention to the signals my body is sending, he experiments until he gets it just right, until I am moaning and pushing and writhing against him, even if it takes a couple different tactics to get there. Just pushing the toy into me, even to the hilt, wasn’t doing it for me. Before, with regular anal beads, the pleasure in them was in having them pulled out, right at orgasm. With the Bendies, I was almost there, but when he went to pull them out–nothing. It was disappointment enough to chase the orgasm away. So, he did what any enterprising person would do: he pushed them back in. And lo and behold, instant pleasure. Me, saying, yes yes yes.  So, he pulled them out again. And pushed them in again.  And soon he was fucking my ass with that thing, hard, shoving it all the way in and pulling it back out over and over.  Later, he told me he was twisting it around too.  All I know is that that is what did it…soon, I was exploding into an incredible orgasm; shaking, laughing, screaming.

And seeing red.

Next, I’ll tell you about this kind of red:

mjw06970e

Meanwhile, don’t forget to hit up Alison over at A Trollop with a Laptop and send her a story for her Scarlet Tour.