Missing the pain

So far, the only knuckle that hurts is that on the third finger of my left hand.

Lovely, eh?

I need...

... A punching bag. A real one. Sturdy, solid, and canvas. The sort of thing that I can hit as hard as I can and scrape my knuckles raw and bloody.

My husband play-fought with me just now, and it was such an extraordinary relief that when I tired I immediately collapsed against him and burst into tears. He let me hit him pretty hard, though I kept my punches to his defensive forearm for the most part. He said he won't be bruised from it tomorrow, but I think I will. I hope I will.

H never lets me play like that. He made me promise a long time ago that I would never take a swing at him again, even in play. Not even in play! But he let me just now. When he left me to go upstairs to bed I thanked him, told him it makes a big difference to me to be able to let loose like that from time to time. I told him it was fun. He gave me a smile full of tolerance and sadness and said, "It's not fun for me."

I wish my knuckles stung more right now.

Hairy HNT

I don’t wash my hair every day. There’s too much of it, and it’s not necessary. On the mornings I do wash it, I’ve formed a certain routine of what happens after I’m out of the shower.

I dry my body first, wrap my hair up in the towel, put in my contacts, brush my teeth, and only then put on my bathrobe and step out of the bathroom. Often I’ll then pop out to the back porch for a cigarette, but not always. Usually I’ll wander upstairs and dress. Bra first, then jeans, blouse, socks. (I love that half-dressed stage in which I’m just wandering about in my jeans and bra.) Once I’m dressed I’ll head back downstairs and unwrap the towel from my hair, smooth in a bit of anti-frizz goo, and blow dry it straight.

This morning, however, I changed up the routine a bit without even really thinking about it. Hair into the towel, contacts, teeth, bathrobe, cigarette… then back to dry the hair before heading upstairs to dress.

I took off my robe and hung it on its hook as soon as I walked into the bedroom. Naked, I thought about dressing but decided to weigh myself first. It was as I walked into the adjacent room toward the scale that I felt my hair swing against my back. Warm, smooth, delicate brushes of silk swinging across my shoulders and halfway down my back. My skin, still freshly scrubbed and exceptionally sensitive, thrilled at that luxurious touch. It felt almost as if I were being gently stroked by a lover’s fingers, so soft and delicate was the kiss of my long hair against my skin.

I’m tempted to change my routine. Would I enjoy the sensation as much, were it a regular occurrence?

I do believe I would.

Glowing - Part 2

I’m out of practice at being on the receiving end of pleasure. I’m so deeply conditioned to not orgasming unless I do it myself that I don’t even know how to let my body go.

The first time Alpha went down on me, I was slow to come. But then he slid his fingers inside me with that oft-mentioned “come hither” motion, sucked my clit into his mouth and tongued me hard and didn’t stop until I exploded screaming and gasping and pulling his head tight against me.

Later he said to me with only a hint of accusation, “You didn’t tell me you squirt.” I do? I had no idea! I can’t even remember the last time I came that hard. Ever? My husband has never remarked about ejaculation on my part, so I think Alpha’s discovered a new trick.

He gave me his cock shortly after that. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be with a man with stamina. He was optimistic that I’d come again from being fucked, but as much as I loved the hard pounding thrust of his cock inside me, I rarely even feel close to orgasm during sex. I told him so and he was happy. Apparently his wife comes easily and quickly upon penetration, and is not appreciative of his ability and inclination to keep going, playing and feeling and watching and fucking.

I’m appreciative. Deeply. ☺

I let him push me all around. Wanted him to. Want me on my back, legs spread wide? Pull my ankles up to your shoulder – together over one shoulder or spread apart, one slender ankle on each side of your neck? Push me over on my side? Take me from behind when you’re crouched on your knees so that I’m more kneeling than I am on all fours, my hips held tight in your hands? Yes. I accept. Yes, please, more… yes.

He had me on my back again, my legs around him, driving into me with that wonderful twist of his hips that made his cock rotate inside me, touching places that I didn’t know could feel such rich pleasure. He had hold of my hands when he pulled the move I’m still longing to feel again – he held my hands tight and pulled me with him back until we’d completed a nice vertical 180 degree reversal so that I was astride him – all without a moment’s disengagement.

I was so startled that I giggled. I’m not used to being so easily pushed and pulled around. My legs are flexible, sure, and if you want to roll me over from my back to my belly, you’ll find me bonelessly accommodating. But this – not the same. Oh, so much better. It was when I found my own rhythm astride him, driving him deep into me on my backstrokes, that I came for the second time.

It took me by surprise. I was astounded. It seemed like only moments before that I’d been throbbing and pulsing against his tongue and fingers, but there I was milking his cock with my spasming cunt in my second orgasm in an hour. He came shortly after that. After I’d recovered my breath from #2, I found that I wanted more, wanted to keep riding the thick, hard cock inside me… so I did… and he liked it.

We laid around for a while after that, getting to know each other’s habits and bodies a bit more. How much can I cuddle? Can I tangle my legs with yours and slide my calf up and down against yours, feeling that wonderful contrast of hard muscles and springy hair against my own smooth, slender legs? Wrap my arms around your torso and squeeze a bit, just to familiarize myself with the feel of your body against me? Let’s chat and laugh for a bit, tell silly stories about our youthful escapades. Let me fill my hands with your body.

It was when he went down on me again that I came for the third time. I definitely didn’t think it would work that time… but it did. Weak, limp, and boneless, I collapsed on his full, muscled chest shortly after. I giggled for a while, as is often my post-orgasmic wont. He laughed at me for my giggles, told me how much he enjoyed feeling me come against his mouth.

Thoroughly pleased and appreciative, I slid down his solid body and explored his powerful hockey-playing thighs, reveling in their massive strength. I slid my face into those musky warm corners of groin and turned my head to suck and tongue his balls. Only after that did I take his cock in my mouth.

Perhaps it was just his heightened arousal in response to our play, or his excitement at drinking in my third orgasm, or maybe it was merely his delight at actually having his cock sucked after ages of married dry spell. Perhaps he responded to my own deep enjoyment of the act, or the visual thrill of watching me slide the head of his cock against my lips, just feeling his taut contours against my mouth. Whatever cause, in short order I found myself with a mouth full of hot, salty, liquid pleasure… and I drank it down.

We had to leave shortly after. I’d brought a wonderful picnic of double cream camembert, crusty baguette, perfect avocado, and spicy sopressata, and he’d picked up a bottle of good red to complement the feast. The food made it from its bags to the table, but the knife I’d brought never did slice open the avocado or shave off slices of sausage. Instead, we tore off great hunks of bread and scooped up pungent, creamy dollops of soft cheese and devoured them as we dressed, feeding each other and ourselves and wallowing in the hedonism of continued consumption and sensation.

If you love me...

... You'll let me beat you when we play pool.

... You'll buy the next round.

... You'll tie my hands to the bed and fuck me thoroughly.

... You'll drop to your knees and let me feel me how much you appreciate that underneath my skirt I'm wearing stockings, and nothing else.

... You'll let me say wildly inconsistent things without calling me out on 'em.

... You'll pinch and roll and squeeze and bite my nipples between your fingers because they're excruciatingly sore and tender and begging for firm touch and hard teeth.

.... You'll laugh at my terrible jokes because when I tell them, I bend over and thrust my breasts at you to make the listening more worthwhile.

... You'll keep the conversation light and fun and playful, because that's what we're doing.

... You'll encourage me to say sinfully salacious things and make me feel meltingly desirable for the saying of them.

... You'll let me suck your cock the way I want for as long as it pleases me. And when I let you come in my mouth, you'll tell me that the feeling blew the top right offa you.

... You'll know that I toss out "If you love me" as an ironic phrase.