Sunday, July 12, 2015
Funny how things change.
Squirting happens more often than not these days, with varying degrees of intensity. More often than not I am not fully aware of it immediately; it happens during a hard fucking and only until I withdraw and look down and see the soaked sheets am I aware. It is not all L, of course, I am rather copious when I cum so the aftermath between the two of us is rather messy.
Which I love, because the messier things are, the more I love it. I am quite in love with the rawness of it all, of all things sexual between L and I, the tastes and the smells, the sounds and the feelings.
It causes me no greater pleasure than to put L through a physical session and have marks and bruises appear on her ass. Last week I used her collar as a spanking implement and the buckle on it broke skin her ass, producing a small trickle of blood, which I happily licked up.
L will often times apologize for her wetness. She does get wet. Very very wet. Before I penetrate it her she will reach down and wipe out with her panties, removing as much of her wetness as she can and making things tighter. That is fine, I like her tightness, but I like her wetness even more and even more so when my head is in between her thighs and I am experiencing it on my tongue and mouth and fingers.
Because I enjoy those things. The rawness of it all.
It is why I like other things as well, the highly taboo things. Treating L to a golden shower, having her rim me, having sex on her period. Rawness mixed with passion and fire and hunger, fueled by cravings.
I like raw words. Cock and cum, fucking and sucking.
I care not if these cravings are normal; I have long since cared about what my desires mean about the nature of my soul. I am quite comfortable with myself and who I am and what I love, and what I love more than anything is to crawl into bed each and ever night with a companion who is just as raw as I am.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
It didn't take me long to read it...about four nights with it by bedside. I plowed through it not because of love of the characters or being spellbound by the exceptional writing of E.L. James; it was moreso, after horror after horror unveiled itself through a grotesque assassination of the English language, because of morbid fascination.
It was really, really bad.
Let's start with Christian Grey and his cock, shall we? I start there because his cock is to him what Anastasia's inner-goddess was to her. Case in point some of the following passages:
- "Lifting my hips, I grab my cock. “I want you to become well acquainted, on first-name terms, if you will, with my favorite and most cherished part of my body. I’m very attached to this.”
- I have never slept with a woman. I’ve fucked many, but to wake up beside an alluring young woman is a new and stimulating experience. My cock agrees.
- Her face is no longer blotchy and puffy, she looks radiant. My cock agrees, and stiffens in greeting.
Ludicrous passages are not just limited to Christian Grey's cock, however. James manages to stun through the book.
- I strip off all my clothes and from a drawer pull out my favorite jeans. My DJs. Dom jeans.
- I ask, “Are you hungry?” “Not for food,” she teases. Whoa. She might as well be addressing my groin.
- People like me like inflicting pain ... I am used to making women cry – it’s what I do.
And, despite the rampant silliness, I managed to get out of it (believe it or not) some reminders of why I like the things I like with L. Those four or five nights I read the book were all followed by sessions with L, and perhaps (if you ask her) a little rougher than they normally are.
And perhaps...just perhaps...the book made my cock twitch a couple of times.
Even though it was confined inside of my Dom jeans.