A nasty habit



He laid the pack of cigarettes down next to her, along with the gold engraved lighter.

“You know how to get what you want,” he told her, sitting down at her feet.

She looked at the pack, menthol, the longest cigarettes you could buy.  She opened the pack, drew one out.

As she did, he reached up and dragged a finger from her navel, down, over her panties. The touch was enough to spur her on to pick up the lighter. She paused for a moment, so did he.

“Go ahead, put it in your mouth,” he told her, looking up between her knees.

She put the cigarette in her mouth, not in the center of her lips. He wanted it a certain way, in the corner of her mouth, her lips pursed around the filter. She flicked the lighter, it hissed and sizzled as she lit the cigarette.

“It’s a terrible habit,” he told her. “Trashy. You shouldn’t start.”

But, it wasn’t a habit. It was a means to an end.

As she sucked the end of the cigarette, he slid her underwear down her legs, gently pushing her knees apart, opening her up. He looked up, she put it in her mouth again, another drag.

When the nicotine hit her lungs, she refused to cough. When it her bloodstream, the dizziness set in just as his mouth started its path up her thighs.

She pulled the acrid smoke into her lungs, tapped ashes into the ashtray her had brought along with the cigarettes. It felt foreign, unnatural in her mouth. As another wave of disorientation swirled in her head, his tongue slid up her pussy, coming to rest on her clit with a soft kiss.

He paused and looked up at her, she looked him in the eyes, brought the cigarette to her lips.

He smiled. “Inhale.” She did. Held it in her lungs for a beat, two. Blew the smoke out toward him, it wreathed around his face.

He moaned, ever so softly, and put his mouth back to her cunt. As his tongue pushed inside, she forgot about the cigarette. Her head fell back, completely immersed in the sensations his tongue was creating.

He stopped. She remembered. Put the cigarette back in her mouth, sucked the smoke into her mouth, a wisp of it escaping as she pulled it out of her mouth.

“Yes baby, that’s it,” he told her. Coaching her, teaching her how to please him. “That’s perfect.”

As the words left his mouth, he returned to her pussy, juices running down his chin. A finger slipped inside her, causing her to catch her breath.

She tasted the tobacco, the menthol. She wondered if she tasted different when she smoked, if the bitter flavor of the cigarettes flowed from her lungs to her pussy.

“Do i taste like this Newport?” she asked him as his tongue made another slow circuit of her cunt, up, circling her clit, slowly back down and into her.

“No, no you don’t. Nothing but sweet pussy.”

He was licking her slowly, too slowly to make her come. He knew this. He knew as long as he was eating her, she would continue smoking. She came to the lipstick stained filter, crushed it out in the ashtray.

“If you want me to keep sucking your pussy …” She opened the box of cigarettes, slid another out of the pack, lit it.

He sucked her pussy as she sucked the cigarette, another wave of dizziness coming over her, unaccustomed to smoking. She blew the smoke out, peeking down as he lifted his eyes to watch her smoke.

“Don’t stop,” she asked as he found a rhythm flicking his tongue over her clit.

“I won’t if you don’t.”

She kept smoking, as he kept licking her. As she felt her orgasm building, she continued smoking. When she felt herself tumbling into it, she crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, shouting without words.

He smiled, came up to kiss her. She tasted herself on his lips, knowing he was tasting the cigarette on her tongue.

“It’s a nasty habit,” he told her. “You really shouldn’t start.”


House Cat



Have you ever had a cat? A well-fed, well-petted and loved housecat?

That’s how I feel when you touch me. The way a cat rubs her face against your hand when you stroke her, eyes  closed, concentrating on the feel of your fingers against her whiskers.

You hands on my thighs, your fingertips tracing my arm – I find myself closing my eyes, shutting out everything but the sensation of your touch.

You reach for me whenever I am within arms’ reach, simply to touch me, feel me. You draw me in, hold me, your hands roaming over my back, my ass, into my hair.

I feel like a cat that weaves itself around your ankles, wanting you to stroke its entire body.

From the first time you kissed me, tentatively, exploring, seeking to find if it felt as easy and natural as talking had been. And it was. Smooth, velvety, tongues curling around each other as perfectly as a kitten laps up cream.

When you slip your hands into my clothes, to stroke my thigh or gather a breast into your hand, it feels so perfect, I want to wrap myself around your hand, I want you to never stop touching me.

Your fingers find their way between my legs, sliding into the wetness there, and I feel myself squeezing, you are somehow both gentle and demanding, your mouth over mine. I just feel it, just enjoy the sensation.

And after you have made me come, I feel as content as that cat that has had its food, and is curled up in a puddle of sunlight streaming through the window. I am content to bask in the feeling the endorphins flowing through my body, the satisfaction of being well fucked. I stretch, sleepy, full, happy.

But, as we all know, a cat is never completely satisfied. You fed me, and I will be back.

Taking It



There are never declarations of love. No promises or comparing what we have to anything else. No discussions of our pasts, or future, or our present, except what happens when we are together.

He doesn’t give me sex or orgasms. He just offers it. It’s there for the taking. And I take it, greedily.

He touches me everywhere. My hand, my elbow, the back of my neck. His hand runs the length of my leg, up my thigh, then down to repeat the motion. It feels good on my skin, it feels good on his hand. But, it is not urgent, it is not demanding.

We both know we have as long as we want. We can see each other all night, or for an hour, or tomorrow. So, we take our time. Long, velvet kisses. Pauses to talk or laugh or listen to a verse of a song.

Everything is soft and easy, languid in its lack of demand. I can do with and to and for him what I want. And take what I want as well.

I feel guilty about it – about the way I am in bed with him. I tell him this after ride myself to one more orgasm. Because, usually, it is a two-way street, I give as much as I get. But, with this  man, I simply take.

His fingers plunge into me, and I find myself fucking them. I know, on some level of consciousness, that I am doing this. Some part of my brain realizes that I am simply making myself come on him. But, I keep doing it.

Often, after I come, he asks, “Are you alright?” This puzzles me, but I think it is because it is apparent I am lost in a world of my own.

I am using his body. I straddle him, I suck him, I taste the skin on his throat and grab handfuls of his hair, grind against his leg.

He finds the spot inside me that creates the tension in my pussy, that makes my thighs tighten, that pulls an almost burning sensation from my belly down. And I realize I don’t care if it is turning him on, if it is what he wants. I know it is what I want, and I reach down and shove his fingers even deeper into me, knowing tomorrow I will be raw and sore to the touch.

And when he is inside me, I know I am being a selfish, greedy lover, something I don’t think I have ever been before. I do what feels good to me, I put his dick where it feels the best, move the way that I like, grinding on him until I get what I want.

I tease my clit, I put my fingers inside me beside his cock, it is all about me and what I like. I’ve never touched myself so much when I am not alone. I suppose I could stop, not be this way, pay more attention to what he wants.

But, I do not.

I go to his bed knowing that my orgasm is there, I go after it. It is not him making love to me so much as me masturbating, using his body, fucking him in the way that makes me come, the way that makes me happy, the way I want.

I feel guilty, not enough to stop doing it, but still, I feel as though I should do more for him, be giving and selfless in bed. I shouldn’t be so determined to just do what feels good to me, I should ask what he wants, what he likes, what he fantasizes about or what he wishes I would

I tell myself that, I plan to, I really do. But, then we are together, and my mind simply doesn’t go there, to a sexually altruistic place, to the place where I try to be a good lover. I just get myself off.

I’ve never been a user of people, for any reason. I don’t like that part of my personality that would want to do that. Yet, I do it with this man. It is a confession – that I am being a selfish woman. But, I find that is what I need right now in my life. I want, I need, to paraphrase the song, be the sistah who is doing it for myself.

And as long as he will let me, I will keep getting what I want from him.

Taking it.

Who is in Control?



Kashmir. The rhythm of the song, slow, steady, is all I hear. I see nothing. I feel the ties that are holding my arms above my head, my legs to the corners of the mattress. I smell the the liquor on my breath, the joint in the ashtray. I smell him, the mix of whiskey and cigarettes I have come to know is him, and something else. A sharp, almost metallic taste that is always there. Is it bitterness, seeping out his pores? Is it desire? Demand?
He does demand this. Of course, the power, he tells me, is in the submission. In allowing him to tie me to his bed. To blindfold me, play music so loud it drowns everything else out but that beat, the rhythm, low, marching forward.
I know the lights are on, I know he is watching me, looking for signs of weakness, of  submission. I know if I tell him, he will stop. But I don’t want him to stop, even as I pull against the ties that bind my arms to the headboard
He leaves me, I hear nothing, see nothing, I don’t know where he is or what he is doing.
Then I hear ice clinking in a glass, and I realize he has paused. He is pouring a drink. Stopping to have a smoke perhaps. Yes, I smell a match, the acrid smoke of his cigarette. He is sitting, from the sounds he makes, on the chair in the corner of the room, looking. Biding his time. Planning perhaps? Does he have a plan?
He always has a plan. He is always in control. He orchestrated this entire evening, from the drinks to the music to the choice of material with which to tie me to the bed.
Tinkle of ice, drag, exhale smoke. He is watching me, I think through the haze of my buzz and the almost electric charges that are arcing over and through my body. I want more, I want his mouth on  me, more than the kisses on my mouth, the biting of my breasts, the almost casual licks and sucks he has made all along my arms and legs and pussy.
I realize I am twisting in the bed.
I feel the mattress sink between my feet, he is on the bed. Robert sings for someone to let the sun beat down upon his face. I feel his hands on my knees, I want to wrap my legs around his hips and pull him to me, but my legs are tied, the leather straps giving just enough to allow me pull my thighs up ever so slightly, fuck I want to lift my legs!
He climbs up my body, straddling me, I realize he has taken his clothes off, I feel his legs, on each side of me. I want his cock, goddam it’s right there, I can feel him, smell him, fuck.
He brushes my lips with his cock. I try to reach toward it, guide it into my mouth, I can feel the straps as my hands try to grab him, fuck I have never been so fucking frustrated.
Why don’t I have him untie me, I know he would if I ask. He made sure I knew that before led me in  here, before he poured the drinks, took my clothes off, kissing me after every article came off. I knew before he put the Zepplin on.
So why don’t I tell him to let me go? Why do I pull against the soft yet so strong leather that keeps me from reaching down and grabbing his ass, pushing his dick into my mouth? I don’t know, I only know that I want to grab his cock, shove it into my mouth, feel the shape of it push past my lips and onto the back of my throat, swallowing him as I reach behind him, making him fuck my mouth.
But I also know I that I love the fact that I can’t.
He makes an “uh-uh” noise, as if I am a cat greedy for a treat. He waits, as Robert sings of the songs that have caressed his ears, and then I feel the head of his dick on my face, and I suck him into my mouth, and feel grateful that he has done what I could not, shoved his cock into my mouth.
He pushes in, I feel the restraints on my ankles and wrists as I strain against them, I feel my pelvis lift off the bed, oh my god him in my mouth, on my tongue, down my throat. He stays there, giving me, finally, what I want, I can feel my pussy dripping down on the the bed. Fuck yes, oh my god yes.
Then, he is gone.
Fuck! Please, my mind screams, maybe I say it outloud, I can’t really hear myself over the sound of Kashmir, but he is gone, off the bed, not touching me anywhere. I want him back, I can feel myself reaching for him, but he is gone.
Then I feel him, again, on the bed, between my legs.
“Please,” I say.
“Fuck me, please fuck me.”
I ask this, but I don’t ask that he untie me. I could make him fuck me, I could be free to pull his body to mine, but I  don’t ask him to untie me, instead I plead for him to fuck me.
He stops moving, as if he is considering whether he will give me what he wants. He has the power, who is he kidding, even if I have him untie me. The he will have made me choose to stop, and fuck that.  I’m not a pussy.
I feel him crawling closer between my legs, his hands are on each side of my head on the bed, he is on top of me, but not inside of me. What the actual fuck. I pull and pull against the leather holding my arms and legs, I cannot think beyond how close he is, his dick touching my pussy.
Robert is singing about what he feeeee-eeeels as he plunges into me, I lift myself to him, pull at the leather, fuck yes, and I am coming, riding an orgasm so hard I think I may actually die. I feel myself clenching onto him, down a spiral, my hands grasping at nothing, screaming along with as Robert Plant begs for me to let him take me there …  and the beat back, on and on ….

The next day, they are still there, the restraints, I see them when I walk into the bedroom. I realize I can hear echoes of what the fuck ever happened here last night. The sight of the leather, peeping out from under the mattress, sends a bolt to my pussy as my face gets red.
He says I had the power to make him stop. But I didn’t. So, who is in control?

And I hear the opening chords of Kashmir, demanding that I return.

Silly Wine



He is a serious man.
His music, a mixture of death metal, heavily orchestrated rock and classical, is serious. His books, Poe and Sagan and math texts, are serious, as is his outlook on matters, from politics to culture to the environment.
His eyes are serious. He doesn’t just look at things or places or people, he examines them, he observes and registers and commits to memory. If he is looking at you, you can feel it. His gaze gives you a sensation not unlike the feeling certain tribes have about being photographed, that the look will take something from your soul.
His drink is serious – whiskey, straight, no ice, no chaser, usually straight from the bottle. When he does drink wine, it is red, dry. No fruity swill for this man.
So when I poured him a glass of my champagne, I knew he wouldn’t drink it. It was very cold, and very fruity, and very sweet, a celebratory drink for a happy evening. When you are in a long distance relationship, you celebrate every moment spent together. We are seldom apart when I visit him – I go to the post office with him, we sit outside together when he smokes, he stands behind me in the bathroom as I dry my hair, kissing my neck.
I put his glass down in front of him, and there it remained, undrunk. Which didn’t surprise me. A silly drink for such a serious man? Never gonna happen.
We sat in silence, occasionally touching each other, each in our own thoughts, knowing it was our last night together for what could be months. It is always a bittersweet evening, the last night of each visit.
So his glass sat, untouched, on the table along with the detritus of the day: a plate from our snacks, the dog’s toy, sunscreen and a towel from the beach. We were relaxed, our skin tender from the sun, buzzed from simply being together. I was on my second, or was it the third? glass of wine, starting to get giggly and silly, which always makes me a bit self-conscious, being so very goofy around such a very serious man. I’m laying on the couch, my feet in his lap, just soaking in the moment.
“Lift your hips,” he tells me, and at first I don’t quite get what he means. It’s not a request, no, it’s not a demand, you get every day.
So, I lift my hips, and he pushes my sundress up, and lays the towel underneath my ass.
“Why? What are you going to do?” I ask. I have no idea where this is going, but any scenario which includes him pushing up my skirt has my instant attention.
“I’m going to drink my champagne,” he says, a gleam in his eyes, his very serious face belying nothing.
He pushes my knees apart, picks up his glass, pours just the tiniest bit on me, which trickles down onto my pussy, cold and bubbling. It takes my breath, everything about it, the cold liquid with its effervescence, the fact that he is doing this, his eyes being on me down there.
He licks it off, sucking the wine off me, savoring the mixed flavors of my juices and the sweet champagne. He pulls away, grins up at me, and pours some more on me.
The fizzy wine almost burns while it is cold, a sensation like nothing I have ever felt. Then his mouth, warm and soft, sucking the liquid off me, kissing me, then pouring more wine.
“Oh my god,” I utter the cliche, but even as it echoes in my head, I’m beyond caring. I am simply floating away on sensation. His mouth, the wine dripping down on the towel, my head swirling with all this, this moment.
Then, his glass is empty.
He has sucked all of this silly wine off me, making serious business of it, befitting the serious man he is, the intense lover, this man who can quote Plato and claims to be a distant cousin of Shakespeare.
He slides his body up mine, I feel his hardon through his jeans, huge, as it presses into my stomach, I feel my pussy twitch, wanting, begging, dripping.
He kisses me. I taste myself and champagne, and him.
“I will never drink champagne any other way,” he tells me, a silly thing to say. I giggle, wrapping my legs around him.
“I promise you, I won’t let you”
That shit is serious.

#erotica #sex

Whiskey in Wonderland



“You want another?”
And I do. What happens here is, after all, not reality. I can drink to my heart’s content, fuck a man within moments of first laying eyes on him. I can say outrageous things, be this brave woman, this is not real. So he brings me another, pours himself another whiskey.

“Hey, I could stir it with my dick,” he says, eyes mischievous.

I wonder if he would, know I would drink it anyway, would suck the liquid off him, it would taste like our sex. The thought of it sends a tiny shockwave down through my stomach into my pussy.

He brings me my drink, walks the few feet from where I’m sitting on his couch (am I really sitting here? The last day seems a blur, this can’t really be happening.) I am barely dressed, and of course, I don’t care, don’t care he can see me, I’m not real, this is not real. I don’t do this kind of thing.

I see him, looking, his mind working, always toward the evitable destination – sex. He gets a smirk on his mouth, one that will become familiar, but now, is just another interesting quirk.

“What if I want you in mine?” he asks, and I’m not sure what he means. So he clarifies. “What if I want my drink to taste like your pussy?”

Which takes my breath, but I’m all cool, as this isn’t real, so I am not going melt. The liquor, sleep deprivation and endorphins from some long awaited sex have me loose, I just laugh, yea, what if he does want his drink to taste like pussy. My pussy.

His smirk turns into a walk, putting his drink down on the coffee table, there is no hesitation, he knows what he is going to do, and he does. He doesn’t ask, he spreads my legs and puts his mouth to me like a starving man. I lose myself in the sensations, his tongue ever so slowing tracing every crease and fold, his fingers reaching up into me, my god, I am thanking every woman who ever told him ‘here, yes, that’s how’ and I am lost.

But, he stops, and I am slammed back into my unreal reality. I slowly open my eyes, he is standing over me, grinning, picking up his drink from the coffee table. Looking me dead in the eye, he uses his fingers, the fingers he just pulled out of my dripping pussy, to stir his whiskey.

He sucks the liquor off his fingers, drinks from the glass. Closes his eyes, as if savoring the flavor.

I like this unreality. I think Wonderland is just the place for me.