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Dirty words August 13, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll, Masturbation.

I have plugged Liz Doherty‘s blog as the best resource on the web for learning the mechanics of the casual encounters board on Craigslist. It additionally features high quality erotic writing. I admire the honesty and frankness with which Liz recounts her experiences. She writes about a few of the more memorable ones.

Some stand out: the guy who brought me to screaming, squirting orgasms with his hands alone. The one who made me come just by pinching my nipples. The one who first fisted me, bringing me to a kind of climax I’d never experienced before. The one who fucked me all night long, until I was a limp rag doll, splayed on the bed, exhausted and spent. The one who brought a ruler with him so I could measure his cock, because he said he’d never done so. The one so short he needed a stool to climb up on his bed. The one who pulled and pushed me into positions I didn’t know my body could reach, and then fucked me until I thought I’d explode. The one who demanded I kneel before him and “pray” to his huge cock. The one who pounded me into the floor until I had rug burns on my nose and forehead. The one who wanted only to paint my toenails. The one who wouldn’t touch me at all, just forced his cock into my mouth, exploded and left. The one who wore a cock ring and fucked me all the way across the bed and onto the floor. The one I sucked before an open window while the people across the street watched. The one who showered first and flooded my bathroom. The one who took me on a motorcycle ride and fucked me on the hill at Twin Peaks.

I am envious of her adventures and long for the good old days of Craigslist when such things happened with frequency.

I like the evocative particulars in Liz’s stories. The steaminess of the foreplay fogs up my computer screen.

“May I kiss you?” I finally asked.

“That would be good.” I straddled his lap, and took my time getting to know his sweet and tender mouth, slowly exploring it with my own, licking and sucking his lips, nibbling the end of his tongue, feeling the moisture in my mouth increase as I threaded my fingers through his tight curls. Deeply drawing in the smell of his neck, I stretched his t-shirt out to smell his chest before lifting it off him, raising his arms so I could bury my nose in first one then the other of his armpits, taking in his mildly musky scent as I felt myself growing wet. Dropping lower, my nose found his belly button and I buried it there, drawing deeply. He moaned quietly as I opened his jeans and his cock found my mouth. I knelt before him there in front of the couch, my mouth wet and ready, and took him all the way in in one movement, holding him deeply there, against the back of my throat. I was filled. I slowly pulled my mouth back up his shaft, then down again and again, relishing each time he met the back of my throat, offering no resistance. We took his jeans all the way off, and he lay further back on my couch so I could take his balls in my mouth, rolling each separately then together in my mouth, enjoying the scent, texture and flavor of this part of him.

I hardly ever masturbate while I am reading blogs. But images sometimes insinuate their way into my skull and become imprinted there. Sentences linger. Late at night, I might picture the scene while lying in bed, inventing the details I do not remember or that were not originally present. A girl pulls a tight fitting t-shirt taut. The nipples leave tiny bumps in the fabric. Their darkness is visible through the thin, white cotton. It’s not any girl who does this — it’s me. I nuzzle into hairy, masculine armpits. Lips peck over the solid torso. My tongue demarcates the shapes of muscles. I leave his hard and hairless chest shining in the dim bedroom light. I have the taste of his skin in my mouth. The progression continues, constantly lower: raspberry kisses on the navel, a tongue there, then on the cock, then on the close-set and substantial balls. The sac is soft as leather and full of semen for me. I want to kiss it.

I suck the cock, and then I fuck it. I see it happen through slitted eyes. The images are redolent. I smell this man. My hand is inside my maroon sweat shorts. Fingers press atop the pubis. I pinch the pussy lips shut and shake them energetically from side to side. My cunt transudes. At this point, the initial fantasy is forgotten. My fingers move only to magnify the sensation I experience. I kick the drawstring shorts from my feet. I fuck myself with a purple cock made of aluminum. I hear as well as feel my wetness. My head rolls on the pillow. I thrash and moan and stab the dildo faster and harder. In pursuit of a little death, I am killing myself. I am not quiet about the pleasure I take. I don’t mind that I am overheard. I want my orgasm, and I don’t care who knows it.

I am a sexual scavenger. I use the exploits of others, whether erotica or porn, as a jumping off point in my private play. Liz Doherty’s dirty words arouse me.


1. Karl - August 13, 2011

Oddly enough, this is exactly how I feel when reading your own words.

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