Messes I Have Made

There I was—a few feet from my well-stamped passport, which was in my trendy Fendi clutch, which rested under a painting I had correctly identified, near the remnants of a gourmet cheese and melon platter I myself had arranged in subtle muted tones—there I was, a young woman of the world, a student of one of our nation’s finest institutions of higher learning, on my knees and realizing I knew shit about cock.

“Does that make it a little clearer?” he asked helpfully.

“Yeah, I think I got that,” I nodded, wiping semen from my eyes. “Clear as a bell.”

I wasn’t a virgin when I first met my man. That had been taken care of in high school. I was dating Liam at the time and so I was having sex pretty much whenever I wanted. Still, if I thought about it, I could probably count on my fingers and toes the number of times I had been in the same room as bare-naked cock. And while I had made these cocks come, I had never actually witnessed the money shot. Of course I had seen spurting cocks in porn but never in the gooey flesh. When cocks came for me, they were always hidden inside my body. By the time I saw boy juice, it was a sad little puddle dangling in a limp condom.

Even before we met, the man who would become my man had given me a few guidelines about being with him. “You’ll do fine so long as you do whatever I tell you to do,” he wrote. “But if you want something, you should ask for it. I do a great many things well, but mind reading is not among my talents.”

We’d been together for about a month when I mustered the courage to ask for something. My man had come in all my holes (turns out there were still plenty of virginities left), but always inside me. I wanted to watch him shoot. I wanted to watch and feel hot wet jism land on my skin. When I asked for this, he stopped mid-fuck and replied, “Tell me you’ve seen a boy come.” I told him I couldn’t say that, as it would be a lie. “Well, now, that won’t do.” He pulled out of my ass and shook his head. “No, that won’t do at all.” He untied me and grabbed my hair. “Come with me, girl. I want you to have a good seat for this.” I stumbled behind him as he led me by my hair to a nearby chair. I tried to sit, but he yanked my hair hard. “No, dear. That’s my chair. You take the floor.” He released his grip and I fell, as if he had been holding me up.

He tossed a pillow on the floor. “Kneel,” he ordered. I knelt. He sat in the chair and rested a foot on each of my thighs. “Palms on the floor,” he went on. “Eyes forward.” I did as instructed. He reached for lube and glanced at a clock. “In one hour,” he said. “You may lick my come from your face.” With that, he began to stroke himself. At first, I didn’t lower my eyes from his. I didn’t want to be rude, and he was watching my face very intently. “I don’t ejaculate from my tear ducts,” he finally said. I nodded and looked to his cock. I watched as his hand slowly traced its way up and down the shaft of his cock, watched as he twisted his wrist to scoop his palm under its head, watched as both hands went down his cock, never up, just down, like it was continuously entering and never leaving. He shifted his touch now and then—sometimes faster, sometimes slower, sometimes rougher, sometimes lighter—and I realized he was giving me a silent tutorial in handjob techniques. I nodded again to show I understood and was grateful. After all, I was a cock novice at the feet of a practiced master.

At the back of my mind, I wondered at his final instruction: I would be able to lick my face clean after an hour. I hoped there would be something left; I was sure most of it would drip away as I sat waiting for the time to elapse. I put that thought aside to focus on the show before my eyes.

My clit called to me—“touch me, Sara, touch me, please!”—but my hands followed directions well. My palms never left the floor, even as my arms tingled and my legs grew numb. I concentrated on his cock (already, I was in love with my man’s cock) and the touch of his feet on my thighs.

Soon, there was nothing in the universe except my eyes and his cock. His voice reached from across a void. “Right,” he said. “That was an hour.” With that, he stood and came immediately on my face. His body twitched and convulsed, just as when he came inside me, only now I could experience it with my eyes, not my pussy. Now, my eyes were my pussy. As he came on my face, my cunt was burning and aching. “Okay,” he said, his voice husky and low. “Free one hand and come for me.” My hand leapt free and my fingers furiously rubbed me to release. I cried out. “My name!” he ordered. I gasped and said his name, so loud, so clear.

“Good girl. Now clean your face.” My fingers, sticky from my own come, reached up to touch his, to push it into my hungry, grateful cock-starved mouth.

It was clear to me now.

On our next date, my man was fucking me when his doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock and pulled out. “Excuse me one moment,” he said and left the bedroom, his erection leading the way. He had left his clothes in the bedroom. Was he answering the door nude, I wondered? A few moments later, he returned. A man followed him. I grabbed a pillow to cover my nakedness “This is my friend David,” my man said, taking the pillow. “He’s here to come on your face.”

“How do you do?” David said, offering his hand.

“I’m okay … “ I said as my man returned his cock to my pussy. “How’s … how’s your day?”

David laughed. “Considerably improved,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. David was handsome, older, late twenties, and dressed in office clothes.

“You won’t be eating David’s come,” my man said. “From now on, you only taste mine. And you can’t touch his cock. He’s married.”

“Okay,” I nodded, trying to register these instructions, trying to glance at David’s ring finger. I looked up into my man’s face, waiting for more information.

My man took my face in his hands and turned it away. “Watch David undress. Pay attention to his body. Let him desire you. After he comes on your face, he’s leaving. You’ll never see him again. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Now come for David.” My man pulled up my legs and plowed me, knowing it would yield the result he wanted. I came.

After watching us fuck for a while, David came on my face. When he was done, he bent over to kiss my wet cheek. He gave my man a brotherly hug and my man hugged him back, never stopping his thrusts into my ass. David picked up his clothes, waved cutely, and went into the next room to dress. I heard the front door open and close a few minutes later. True to my man’s word, I never saw David again.

But I did see many men come. Many, many times. Many more cocks than my fingers and toes could ever have imagined.

My man knew how amazed I was by the sight of ejaculation. He later told me I was free to find cocks online and make them come. “One caveat,” he said. “You think a great deal of your beauty. It makes things easy for you. I’ve told you that I refuse to be impressed by your beauty. It means nothing to me. Still, it’s mine and you can’t use it without permission. When you make men come, you have to use your wits. Be smart, my girl, not simply pretty.” I took his words seriously, because he has made me so much smarter, because he has made being pretty so much more complex and interesting.

I recently met a man online. He’s married, and he and his wife are new to kink, just like I was. I asked him to turn on his cam for me. He’s super good looking. He’s lean and pale, like my man, and he’s got a really fine cock, like my man. He’s got thick red hair and a beard I’d really enjoy running my fingers in. He keeps his pubic hair trimmed, which is a real tease, because what little remains is also red and that is so rare and sweet to see, so of course I want more of it.

He agreed to come for me. He couldn’t see me, but he could read my words. My man has taught me well. I can make a man come with my mouth, with my body, and now, with my words. I told him what I wanted, just like my man taught me, and this boy gave me what I asked for. Because I’m a smart girl, and because he’s a good boy.

He came for me, just when I told him to. He said my name when he came, because that orgasm was mine. It will always be mine, forever. He licked up his come like I told him to do. If I ever meet him, I’ll be able to kiss him and taste the orgasm I made.

He also gave me these pictures that he made for me, because I asked for them. He said it will excite him to see them on my blog.

His wife also reads my blog. She’s got a super special husband. I don’t know if he told her what I wrote that made him come, so I’ll tell her now. I told him that I wanted to watch my man fuck his wife. I wanted to see my man take his ass virginity. I wanted my man’s cock to be the first one he tasted. And when my man came, I would kiss him and his wife and we would pass that magic flavor back and forth until it was gone and in each of us.

(Ok, and maybe I said I would want to suck him!)

My red headed friend isn’t allowed to fuck any women other than his wife. That’s fine. I don’t want to fuck any men other than my man.

Still, I do enjoy making this handsome man come.



Before ...




... after ...



... and after after!!

It Was Only A Tiny Mark ...

Julie and I had lunch yesterday at Noche Mexicana (heart the chunky guacamole) so I told her I was blogging sex again, after my man said it was ok. She’s the only friend of mine (well, not counting my man of course) who can chase my online trail. She knows about my “real” blog, Facebook, Twitter yadda yadda yadda and even my embarrassingly emo LiveJournal of eons past, still active if only for the sheer horror of it all.

Julie read my old sex blog (really, my only friend to read it, again, other than my man). She reminded me today to tell the story of the end of things with Liam. I guess that is essential background, but it feels like that story is so old, so told. But maybe that’s how this blog will be for a while. New stories and some of the old stuff as it comes up. There’s just so much to tell (she smiled, contentedly). We’ll see how coherent this all is. Anyway, there are plenty of sex bloggers, but no one else to do my other writing and school stuff.

This is the story of how things ended with Liam, brought to you by the letter “J.”

Liam was waiting for me. He sat on a bench, looking like he had always been waiting for me. He looked up when I entered the cafe, his face surprised, and I half expected him to call out my name. Except that he didn’t know my name. We had never met. So I walked over and changed that. “I’m Sara,” I said. “You waiting on me?” He stammered and looked embarrassed, which was really sweet. He didn’t have to know that I was putting a brave face on my own incredible shyness. I’m confident that when I open my mouth, something clever enough will come out. I know that I’m pretty and, when I try, pretty devastating. I know to use that to my advantage, which gets me at least this far with boys I find cute. Liam was cute and I didn’t know many people in the city. So I sat down and started talking. He sat down and started listening.

That lasted for about a month. Actually, it was almost six weeks. Also, it wasn’t a “café,” it was a Starbucks. This story will only improve with the fading of details like those. I’m already cooler in this version than when it actually happened. I may eventually forget how handsome Liam was, in the moments before I knew him and even longer, into the days when we first kissed, first laughed, first made love. Already when I see him, I just see “Liam,” the bland kid who takes up the space once occupied by the cute boy I thought I loved. Or maybe did love, the way kids love one another.

We got along and were soon walking around holding hands and kissing between classes and doing the things we learned in high school that boyfriends and girlfriends do. We were cute together, and already people we met were calling us “Saranliam.”

Then I was reading, wasting time online, and met this other guy. God, the stuff he wrote about the stuff he did … it really took my breath away. I’d never seen the world that way even though it felt immediately like I always had seen it that way and no other.

I wrote him. He wrote back. He was nice and funny. I was clever and worldly (I already knew how to do that, thanks Mom and Dad!). When he asked if I was seeing anyone I told a lie that would become true. I said, not really. He said we could meet if I wanted. I wanted. We met.

Story gets compressed here. Like I said, I’ll probably circle back many times if I keep writing this blog. But the short version is that this man did things to me I didn’t know were possible. He was ... incredible. I fell for him. I told him about Liam, tho I didn’t tell Liam about him. He asked good questions, caring questions, and said it wasn’t really fair to Liam, tho he respected my decision and discretion. He knew this thing with him was just not like the real world. But he said I’m sorry I can’t mark you. That would reveal our romance (he used that word, “romance,” which made me melt, still does) and screw up things with Liam.

It’s true, I was still making out with Liam. He saw me naked, making love to me, sometimes even when I was fresh from the other man. Only now, Liam was starting to feel like the other man in my life.

So I did a bad thing. I told my new man that I had told Liam about us, and said he was cool with me seeing him. I told my new man that I wanted his marks on me so I could feel him with me all the time, not just when we were together. (I barely knew what I was saying then, I was such a kid, I now realize.) That night, I stayed with him. We had sex, we talked a lot, it was the way things now were with us, the way things never were with Liam.

I was on him, riding him, leaning over him, kissing him with my hair in his face. “I’m so glad you’re my man,” I whispered. He growled up into my mouth and lifted himself, flipping us to fuck me really hard, his hand on my throat. “I’m your man, huh?” he sneered. “That’s presumptuous of you. Who told you that I was yours? What prove do you have?” I was there, stupidly getting the living love fucked out of me. I don’t know how to answer him except to come under him. “That was so meek,” he said. “Come again, like you mean it. Do it for me.” Do it for him? How could I come for someone else? Isn’t coming something you do for yourself? How did what he asked even make sense?

I looked up at him, feeling his hand on my throat, his dick in me. I saw the rough look on his face, he was so hot, but then I looked beyond that. I saw the soft blue of his eyes. I thought of how we had just been talking and laughing. I closed my eyes, felt him, felt him, felt him … and I came for him. He slowed and relaxed his hand. “Good girl,” he smiled. “Now I can tell that I’m your man. Next time, say my name when you come, okay? That’s how I’ll know you are giving it to me.” I nodded. “Good girl,” he repeated. My nipples tingled when he said those two words.

The next morning, I went home with bruises. He had spanked me and caned me for the first time. He had also used a needle to carve a small “J” (his initial) into my left calve. Just a little letter but it was clearly a deliberate mark, not just a scratch.

I tired to avoid undressing with Liam. But it takes a week or so for bruises to fade, and that would have been a weirdly long for us to wait for sex. I got naked in the dark and stayed on my back when he fucked me. He fucked me again later and we went to sleep. Stupid of me, I should’ve gone back to my place. He was staring at my ass when he woke me the next morning. “Jesus, what happened to you?” he asked. So then I told him about my man. He was really sad about it. I had cheated on him, so I can’t blame him. I was really sorry, I said, and wanted to be friends. “Whatever,” he said. I felt like a whore.

I told my man about that. “You hurt someone,” he said. “You might hurt people now and then without meaning to. That can happen. But you knew this might hurt Liam, and he’s a good boy to you. Plus, you lied to me. You might have known I’d be done with you after that. That was a very foolish risk.” I agreed, really scared that I’d managed to hurt Liam and lose my man, all at once. But then, my man kissed me. “Go figure out what you want. Then you should take care of Liam and let me know what you decide. I’ll wait.”

I had a lot of thinking to do, though it was all compacted and small in my brain. I had already decided, obviously, before I fucked Liam. But I hadn’t known what to do. I hadn’t meant to lie, but I had hoped I wouldn’t be found out.

Liam told me he really didn’t want to see me anymore, not even as friends. My man said that wasn’t enough for him to take me back. I needed to want him, not just go to him because it was over with Liam. I cried when he said that, saying I wanted him like I hadn’t known was possible. He kissed my tears and said I could be his. I was grateful. I learned not to take that for granted.

Why Liam is still around … well, that’s another story.

HNT

Don't look for me to post for every Half-Naked Thursday, but I do like the new undies . . .

Homecoming

The flight took forever. There were delays taking off, delays landing and even taxiing to the gate was torture. It was worse knowing that my man was waiting at home, ready to use me like the fucktoy he’s turned me into. He told me I couldn’t get off all day so I would be ready to come as soon as he entered me (as if that wasn’t guaranteed anyway).

When we finally reached the gate, I was first to stand and get my bag from overhead. If I had to chew my way off the plane and run down my grandmother to get a cab, I was ready to do it. But I didn’t need to do any of that. Because after I joined the crowds beyond the security gates, I heard someone call my name. I looked and there he was, with all the limo drivers, holding a sign with my last name. “Miss? Miss? Need a ride?” I ran over and kissed him. “I’m glad you spotted me,” he said. “Not hard to do,” I said. “There aren’t many blond limo drivers in New York!”

I didn’t check a bag so we went right to his car. He opened my door (sigh, southern chivalry) and kissed my check as I sat. I grinned like an idiot watching him walk to the driver’s seat. I was buckling my seat belt when he gave me an order. “Lift the skirt.” I don’t question him (I’ve learned not to) but simply wiggled my hips to raise my skirt. I wasn’t wearing panties of course. I’m smarter than that. “Did you miss your pussy?” I teased. “It’s missed you.” “Yeah?” he said. “Do you remember how to come for me?” “I sure do, Daddy.” “Good.” He put his finger against my clit. “Do it.” It didn’t take long. He let me lick his finger clean, because I’m a good girl.

After we left the parking lot, he let me suck his cock all the way home. He drove with one hand, keeping the other on his pussy. My man is so good to me. He knew I was so hungry for him. He had me sit up and fix my skirt when we passed through toll booths and again when we got to the garage. Once we were in his building and on the stairs, he stopped me. “Open your mouth,” he ordered. I did and he put two fingers at the back of my throat. I didn’t gag (I don’t anymore). He took back his fingers and rubbed the slick spit between them. He smiled and reached behind me. I lifted my skirt to help (I try to be helpful) and sighed as his finger entered my ass. “Why don’t you walk ahead?” he grinned. “I think that’s a good idea, Daddy,” I agreed. I walked carefully ahead of him, arching my back as he twisted his finger inside me.

I had to feel in his pocket to find his keys. He pulled out his finger once we were inside and feed it to me to clean. I sucked it hungrily as I hurried to undress. I knew to expect wild, rough sex when we’ve been apart. Of course I was dripping down my thighs.

But I was wrong. My man made love to me that night, so intimate and good and slow and romantic. He whispered to me. He held the back of my neck as he rocked into me so I would remember I was his. Still, he was gentle as my lover, not assertive as my possessor. He didn’t issue orders or direct my orgasms. “Hey, you really did miss me, didn’t you?” I asked. “Yes, my baby,” he said quietly. “You’re my girl, but you know, you’re also my love. Thank you.” I laughed a little. I’m supposed to thank him when he gives me what I need. Now he was thanking me.

That’s what I was thinking the next morning as I pretended to sleep, watching him on his computer. He was drinking coffee, listening to BBC news very low and writing; he was probably answering emails from his other girlfriends, which he does before starting his day. I would get up in a few minutes, I knew, to make more coffee for him, to get my own, and to open my own work before class. But for a bit longer, I wanted to look at him and just revel in being happy in his bed, in his scent, in his life.

Fleshbot!

Sweet! My cake post was Fleshbotted! Thanks, AAG. You rock my floral world.

Welcome, new readers. More sweets to come.

Drills Before Coffee? Srsly?

One holiday tradition I could do without: the annual reinstallation. The ‘rents don’t only buy big stuff but that mostly what they hang downstairs to “showcase.” They have a lot of parties for the holidays and so everything gets moved around.

There’s a ginormous Brice Marden in the foyer that gets put in storage so we have a place for a tree. They put up a big crow instead. I think it’s creepy but Mom likes the “nature theme.” I get it, but this evil creature looks like she’s going for your eyes! Like Christmas with Tippi Hedren.

Anyway, things get moved around and some holiday art comes out of hiding and that’s all good. Except that it takes all day to do and so the art handlers are already here making as much hella noise as humanly possible. I guess I’m up for good and that means espresso needs to be in me now, but I’m not going down to the kitchen until I comb out this rat’s nest. Hey, some art handlers are cute!

Speaking of cute, here’s Brice Marden’s daughter, Mirabelle. She’s the girl in the brown dress. I don’t know the kid that’s macking on my sugar but she better back off! Seriously, Mirabelle, you’ve got my digits, right?



Coffee . . . .

In Which I Have My Cake and I Am Cake Too

I hate people just a little now. Shopping was fun so long as it was just me, sis and “sis” in our little girl bubble, but too many fuckers popped it. My best friend was pushed away from a display of sweaters. I mean literally pushed by some obnoxious lady. Did she apologize? No. Did she hear my friend whisper “phuck face?” We hope so. Ass.

I’m hiding in my room for now, trying to relax and bask in the glory of new shoes, a cute coat, more underwear and three new skirts I can wear for my man. He likes me in skirts (“instant access,” he says, so hot!) and anyway, I wasn’t about to buy jeans with today’s swollen tummy. Way too many thanks were given last night. Now the ‘rents are downstairs heating it all up again. It looks like we barely made a dent in the ham and the turkey is not ready to admit defeat.

I lit a candle when my playlist found Au Revoir Simone. Of course this makes me think of him.

For my birthday last month, he said he would turn me into a cake. “You only enter new decades a few times in life, so twenty is a big deal.” When I got to his place, he stripped me naked, as usual, because I’m not allowed to wear clothes around him at home. He kissed me so deep and bent me over in his hallway to fuck me (“just twenty minutes,” he promised). When I came he said, “Can you guess how many more of those I want?” “Let me guess,” I said. “Nineteen?” “No!” he spanked me. “Twenty! You need one to grow on.” He got another one straight away for that.

I was about to come again when he pulled out. “Time,” he said and grabbed my hair. I dropped to all fours (I know to do that) and he led me to his dining room. The table was cleared with a sheet under it and there were candles everywhere. There was jazz music on. It looked so romantic. He ordered me on the table, on my back. I did what he told me to do. I know to do that.

He put a blindfold on me and tied my wrists to the table legs. He put two fingers into me and got another orgasm. “That one was fast!” I giggled. “You’re a good birthday girl,” he said. His voice was so soft. He makes me melt. His hands rubbed my skin, all over my body, slowly and lightly. I smelled baby oil and sighed at its soft slickness, so warm in his hands. Maybe twenty minutes went by. I was lost in time.

Suddenly, something heavy fell on my belly. My whole body jumped. It took me a minute to catch my breath. “What was that?” I said, shocked. “Chocolate,” he said. “With chocolate frosting.” “Omigod, did you put a cake on me?” He didn’t answer me in words. He let his hands talk for him, smearing my torso with broken cake. Cake crumbled across my chest and broke over my shoulders. He rubbed it into my arms and hands to the ends of each finger. He started over at my hips, rubbing cake down my thighs, calves and feet. He put cake between my toes and ate it off. He chewed at the cake on my little breasts.

He stepped onto the table and lay on top of me. He was inside me again and I came. “Again,” he said softly and again I came for my man. He chewed at my neck and I squirmed. “Open,” he ordered. I opened my mouth and cake fell into my mouth from his. “Swallow,” he said. I swallowed and opened my mouth like a baby bird. He spit liquid cake into me. I came again. “Are you keeping track of those?” he asked. I nodded because I know to do that. “Six, Daddy. That was six.” He told me I was a good girl and then it was seven.

He got off me and was gone for a minute. I heard him return and stand above my head. “Take a deep breath and open your mouth.” I did and suddenly my mouth was filled with a heavy gush. I coughed and spat, tasting milk. He kept pouring, and so much of it! God, it spilled all over my face, went up my nose and in my hair. I coughed and realized I was laughing my ass off. “Such a happy birthday girl!” he said. He sounded so happy. I love to make my Daddy happy.

He was on me again, this time pushing back my legs to pound inside me deeper. Eight, nine, ten, eleven. I was laughing so hard I could barely count. He was laughing too. I was sure we’d fall off the table. Twelve.

He left me again. Then he was leaning over me, pressing his chest to my face. “Lick it, girl. You made a mess of me.” I licked and licked as he moved his body over my mouth. He fingered my clit while I licked. I lost count so he slapped me. “Fifteen.” I nodded and repeated. “Fifteen, Daddy. I won’t forget.” He slapped me again and spit on my lips. I licked it into my mouth.

“Now, be still, birthday girl,” he told me. I nodded and did my best to relax. I breathed deeply like he had taught me to do.

The first drip stung and burned. My clit tingled from the familiar sensation. “Oh Daddy,” I blurted. “I love you so much.” “Shh, birthday girl,” he said softly. “Daddy loves you too. But you need to be still.” I really felt like I might cry. My man was waxing me on my birthday. I knew he was making me so beautiful. Wax puddled on my belly and ran in streams between my legs. Drips fell on my chest. I was blindfolded but I could see his face in my mind. I’ve seen it so often, studying me by candlelight while he draws on me in hot wax. So many colors. He makes me so pretty.

I felt little points pressed all over my body. I heard his lighter. “There, now I’m giving you twenty-one pretty birthday candles,” he said softly. “You get one to grow on.” When the candles were all lit, he fingered me again. “You made me eighteen, Daddy.” “The last birthday before you were my girl,” he said. “Now, be still and let’s let the candles melt.”

I nodded and breathed. I was so relaxed, knowing he was close, watching over me. The candles melted into my skin, and into the wax all over me. His fingers gently removed my blindfold. “And then you were eighteen, and you came to me. Remember?” I blinked, looking up. “Forever, Daddy. I’ll remember that forever.” He smiled and bent to kiss me. He stood again and raised a hand mirror so I could watch the candles flicker. My body was a mess of chocolate, milk, wax and sweat. I was so many colors and I was on fire. “My girl is so pretty.” “You make me pretty.” He kissed me again.

“Come on, let’s clean you up.” He took a knife to my skin and gently scraped away the wax. He wiped me with a cloth. He untied me and took me be the hand, leading me to the bathroom. He carried a candle in his other hand. He filled the tub and washed me in the candlelight. He made a drink and sat talking with me while I soaked. When the water got too cold he helped me up and dried me off. He took the candle and led me to the bedroom.

He fucked me slowly and I came three more times. “Two for the birthdays we shared, and once for our next birthday,” he said. We kept making love, but he told me I couldn’t come anymore, so I didn’t.