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Four stories about the ex-boyfriend July 26, 2011

Posted by Leah in Boyfriend, Retrospective.

— 1 —

We had been lovers for quite some time, but had only been officially dating for four months when I took him home to meet the parents for Thanksgiving. It was a full house. In addition to my brother, my sister, and my sister’s boyfriend, we had one set of grandparents, two pairs of aunts and uncles with an assortment of cousins from early teens to college age, and my Dad’s graduate students. In the mid-afternoon, as final touches were being made on dinner, I went to my bedroom upstairs. The boyfriend intercepted me on the way down.

Pressing my body against the wall, he kissed me with a hunger. Instinctively, I kissed him back the same way. He extracted his penis from his pants and had me lift up my dress for him. Nudging the panties to the side, he entered me. The straps of my dress snagged against the brick. It skinned my shoulders. I struggled to keep silent. Violent kisses stopped my gasps. The fear of being discovered by anyone at all filled me with absolute dread. This was a quickie fuck. The sex couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes. During the meal, my boyfriend’s come leaked from my cunt and soaked through my underwear.

— 2 —

I had on a black ankle length dress and a white top. In a playful mood, I teased my boyfriend throughout Sunday’s football games. Going to my knees before him, I lipped his penis through the jeans. The press of a thigh over his groin raised the erection. I sat atop his lap and did a grind against his cock while I whispered seduction into his ear. This went on until he lost patience.

He threw me to the floor. A Swiss army knife stabbed through the fabric of the dress and slit from top to bottom. He cut until the dress was only rags on my body. The blade then sliced through the tank top. He snipped the red bra with greater care, and the cups fell from my breasts. After rolling the sharp and cold blade over the lips of cunt, he poked a hole through the front panel of my panties, then ripped. The rent he made was large enough for his cock. I was so immensely turned on. I was his rag doll. He pounded me while I was clothed in tatters.

— 3 —

He tied me to a tree in the woods in Maine when we went camping during Fourth of July weekend. Stout rope bound my arms high above my head. It wrapped my chest and waist. When he penetrated my pussy, one of my thighs rose to the jut of his hip. My leg vined down behind him. My shoulders and back experienced the coarse textures of the bark of the tree trunk. The sound of sex echoed in the humid air. We sweated profusely under the heat of an unforgiving sun. Perspiration stung my eyes. When he released me, he cut a shoot from a much smaller tree, stripped it bare of leaves and branches, and crafted a switch, which he applied to my ass and thighs. No one was there to hear me howl in the woods in undistilled hurt. No one was there to hear me scream in all encompassing pleasure on the previous autumn’s leaves while I was thoroughly fucked once more.

He and I skinny dipped in the lake to wash away the dirt and the grime. The frigid water refreshed and revived me in the heat. We dressed, cooked a meal at a nearby campsite, packed, and shouldering heavy backpacks, resumed our traipse through the woods.

— 4 —

Because of the open relationship, I sometimes saw evidence of sex in our bedroom. There were blindfolds stained with another girl’s mascara, dirty sheets wadded up in the laundry basket, toys drying in the dishwasher, used prophylactics in the trash can by the bed. The niche in the shower contained bottles that weren’t mine and weren’t his. When I kissed him on returning home, I might have tasted his lover on his tongue. Of course, none of this bothered me. I had the reverse of the coin as well. Other men dominated me in our bedroom. I submitted my body to them.

At night, we shared our stories. Hearing him tell me how he had spanked, then fisted, then fucked another girl while I held his penis in my mouth left my pussy sodden. When I told him about my adventures, invariably, he would slap my pubis. Who owns this cunt? he would ask. You do, I would answer. When his erection reclaimed my pussy, which was also his pussy, the force of orgasm was intense. We used condoms with our others. Only he came inside me. He came only inside me. For the final act, I lapped the semen that had spilled from me, onto the sheets. It made the wet spot on the bed even bigger. I liked falling asleep on top of it.

Tales from between the stacks May 18, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll, Retrospective.

It was my freshman year in college. Though the study area of the library stayed open all night, the main stacks closed at 10 pm. It was a Thursday, the beginning of the weekend parties. Jack and I went into a less traveled section of the stacks around 9:30. I had removed my panties beforehand in the toilet. I remember the loose fitting brown corduroy skirt I wore. He unfastened his belt, then lowered his shorts and boxers. The cock sprang free. He placed a condom over it. His hand followed my thigh into the skirt. He discovered the river delta at the top of my legs. I propped one foot atop the next shelf to show and spread myself. He fucked me against the books, spine up against spine. The stacks rocked behind me as Jack thrust his penis into my heat.

The chance of being found out, of someone walking by in search of an obscure text on Mayan poetry, of librarians stumbling upon us, of a referral to the university administration, or worse to the police, of the simple and unfortunate possibility of coitus interruptus: these all heightened my senses and the responses in my pussy. I moaned and heard the echoes. The sounds of fucking, the liquid slide of cock in cunt, the clap of our bodies, the balls rebounding off my thighs, the noises of sex, the grunts and guttural exhortations: these filled me with fear. The scents of arousal accompanied the fusty smell of old books. My arms wrapped Jack’s back. I felt his heart beating madly against mine. I don’t imagine that we were at it for more than ten minutes before he spurted. He pulled off the condom and hurriedly covered up. I hadn’t come from intercourse. He went to his knees and licked me out. At some point during cunnilingus, the speakers above announced the imminent closure of the stacks, the need to check out all material at the circulation desk several floors below, the warning to vacate the area within minutes. Hastened by necessity, I came in his face with my skirt draped over his head.

I was a library vixen once.

On other occasions during my education, I have fucked in the toilet and in the study rooms of the library. Once I gave an under the table blowjob in the special collection. But the stacks were the first and the best.

Library Vixen in capital letters and bold font requires no long introduction. She is among the signal lights of contemporary erotica. I adore her prose and find much to learn from it in improving the quality of my own writing.

Let me use an example to illustrate what I like.

Library Vixen employs second person and makes it work. You are a part of the story, the subject of her considerable talents.

She writes: But I opt for a slow fill, allowing [my] pussy to spread and take you in, like she too, is trying to put to memory every inch and girth of your cock. Looking at you as [you] fill me, I feel my eyes begin to slit, and my head fall to the pleasure your cock is giving me. I always want to start slow and do, but then something happens to me and I am fucking you, trying to get you inside of me as deep as I can. Wanting your cock to fill me so much it hurts, I want to feel it.

She ensures that the reader has a complete knowledge of what she experiences and how. There is also the well observed detail: how the eyes begin to slit. As is a recurring theme in her writing, Library Vixen accords special importance to the act of memory, how she recalls every inch and girth — which, incidentally, I consider a remarkable juxtaposition of nouns. She chooses her phrases well.

It is an art to tell so much with so few words. In this case the dialogue and the tags suffice.

“Bone me daddy.” yeah I say daddy…

“[You’re] gonna make me cum, if you keep doing that.”

“Do you want to cum daddy?”

Yes. He does.

There are also the evocative images she marries to her words. Despite minor technical imperfections, each post appears as a small masterpiece.

I am deeply and resolutely smitten.

Margot la Ravaudeuse and a reminiscence April 5, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll, Retrospective.

I don’t have a blogroll, though I should. It’s one of the many things I haven’t gotten around to doing. In place of a list on the side, I will periodically write about my favorite sex bloggers.

One site I discovered recently belongs to Margot la Ravaudeuse. The prose is sexy and revealing. She has a knack for remembering details and incorporating them into her stories. The details build on top of each other. Her latest post includes the following.

He always drove with a hand on my thigh, and I normally [had] mine folded on top of his.

His hand crept up my thigh to the edge of my panties as I told him that I always wanted to fuck outside in broad daylight, and that I had never done it and was sad that I probably never would. As he traced the crease between my vulva and my inner thigh, I moved my hand over to his lap to discover a growing hardness.

Simon pinched my thigh, and ran his hand under my wet panties. I rubbed his cock through his jeans. “Why don’t we stop here?” I pulled my panties down and off my ankles and over my sandal-covered feet.

The sex develops organically, with the conversation, with the ideas, with the closely observed, faithfully repeated particulars of the touches. The fucking itself is hot, on the metal hood of the green sedan. At the end of it, she tells: I was quickly panting and crying out, with my pussy squeezing him harder and leaking all over our hips. Simon stepped back and pulled out of me, and promptly came in ropes from my pubis to my sternum. He leaned over me for an instant; panting, sweating, and glowing. This isn’t really the end though. For that, you will have to visit the wildlife preserve.

Reading Margot, I can’t help but recollect my first time outside, by a small lake in an obscure state park, on a Tuesday afternoon when a friend and I played hooky from school. Travel back with me in time and memory. See a girl unclothed in the untamed grass. See a boy — see a man — equally nude and on his knees behind her.

The sun beats down, leaving my naked skin swimming in perspiration. The dirt paints my forearms and legs a deep chestnut brown. I have the smell of grass in my nostrils. I like the weight of the man on my back, how he clutches my breasts and uses them for purchase as he rides. I am the mare that he mounts. My hair whips laterally as the trot becomes a canter. He grabs hold of my shoulder. The cock reaches farther within. My back arches up. My head is thrown back, my throat exposed. I whinny at the pleasure of it. He fucks me faster. The canter becomes a gallop. I feel it in my thighs. Sweat plasters the locks to my forehead. I gnash my teeth. I bolt forward, barely restrained by the reins that he commands. He smacks my ass, causing me to neigh. He asks for more, and I give it. Blue sky whirling above, we are alone and racing hard to orgasm.

Bedroom games February 26, 2011

Posted by Leah in Masturbation, Retrospective.

We masturbated in bed, racing to see which of us would come last. I laid on my back, thighs spread open, feet close together, and dragged my fingers through my lips. Fingertips pressing into the pubic bone, I made circles in the flesh. I pinched my nipples. I pulled at the clitoris. He watched me, and I watched him watching me. He hovered, flashing his cock with my pink underwear, and collected the semen in the cup of his hand when he finished. I lapped up his ejaculate, licking the palm until it was clean. The taste got me off.

Eavesdropping November 10, 2010

Posted by Leah in Masturbation, Retrospective, Voyeurism.

I remember the first night in the apartment that summer in Brooklyn. It took a while to get accustomed to the sound of the darkness. The police sirens wailed on the street outside. The refrigerator eight meters away at the opposite end of the studio made a sound like waves beating on the shore.

At first the noise carrying through the still, damp air resembled the beating of an artery in my head. Thump, thump, thump, went its metronome pulse. To this sound was added a second, discordant note: the rising pitch of a girl’s voice. Baritone grunts answered her prayer.

I hadn’t realized the walls of the new place were so thin. I shouldn’t have pressed my ear against the wall to listen. It was impolite. Yet I reached below and bore witness to sacred oaths.