I have never considered myself a huge painslut. This might seem contradictory, given that I’ve written before about how much I want to be hurt. I suppose what I mean is that I usually don’t like self-inflicted pain. But have someone to administer the pain, and that will take me to cloud nine.
Nipples, however, are an exception (and deliciously so). Lately I have been experimenting with different ways of stimulating them. Clothespins are an old favorite, and I can get to the brink of orgasm with one on my nipple. Just thinking about the way I slowly caress them with my fingers to make them stand to attention, little dark buds, and slowly release the clothespin over it – I cannot do it quickly, that would be too much, I think – and breathing out with the pain as it clamps down; just thinking about that gives me the shivers. And makes my breasts throb a little.
That is usually the extent of my nipple play: a clothespin on a nipple as I masturbate. But, as I said, lately I’ve felt a need to take things further. I’ve started tugging the clothespins, sometimes quite hard; or twisting them; or flicking them up and down. And damn if the sensations don’t go straight to the center of my groin and make me come harder than ever.
That said, I would still prefer to have the external impetus: the command to hurt myself for another’s pleasure or, even better, to have him put the clothespins on himself.
And then put me over his lap and spank me.
I had a terrifying dream last night. Undoubtedly fueled by the combination of my late night dinner of pizza and soda, and the quietness and loneliness of being on campus over spring break, and the fact that I have my period, I dreamt I had moved into a house split into two partitions. From the outside it looked rather like a trailer. On my side was a family, some friends and acquaintances who were kind to me. On the other side of the partition lived my ex.
I dreamed of a sense of elation, of plotting grand plans of vengeance, now that he was so close, so within reach. This soon gave way to a deep dread, that he would discover where I was. Suddenly there were doors everywhere in the house, some doors leading directly into his side of the house, into the living room. Paranoid and terrified now, I ran around the house, constantly checking the locks, frustrated when I could not find my key card to lock the one most important door, the one leading to his side. Seeing him enter and exit the house through slits in the window shades, I only wanted to hide.
And as I lay in my bed, he was there, both he and his wife, guns in hand. One of my housemates shielded my body with his own as they started to fire, and I may have screamed, or cried, or pleaded. As abruptly as they have appeared, ex and wife were gone, and the others had rushed in to tend to my friend’s wounds.
I felt hunted as I walked through the ever shifting house, flashing intermittently between scenes where I continued trying to lock all the doors, and a strange scenario involving a poker game without chips, where I was struggling to understand the rules with each hand. And throughout both, images of him searching for me rattled my nerves.
When I awoke, it was without the feeling of panic and fear the dreams had evoked, but with bitterness in my mouth and those same images of my ex, eyes shifting and searching for me, imprinted in my brain. And with it, the finality of my realization that I will never be able to live in, or near, Boston, as long as his existence continues to haunt me. I will never rid myself of him by living in New England.
I have to move West.
“I have work to do.” The words somehow do not come out as insistent as I had intended. Something to do with your hand curved around my ribs, under my shirt? And how did we end up on the bed?
Oh, do you? You say absentmindedly – almost innocently – before I feel your hot breath and teeth on my ear.
“Yes!” This time a little stronger, even as my head tilts to the side: all the better to feel your teeth with. I feel the electrical surge as they close around the bulbous flesh of my earlobe, bone connecting with skin, causing a spark that ignites a trail of neural pulses straight to my groin – conveniently bypassing the brain on the way.
I try one last time, even as your persistent hand caresses my breast – “Really, I have so much work to doOoohmmm, fuck.” Your thumb and finger have one nipple clamped tightly between them, and I am utterly gone. Utterly yours. My greatest weakness, revealed.
“I can’t…” But it’s useless, even though you’re agreeing, Yes, you need to get your work done as you shrug out of your clothes. I’m helping you now, so you don’t get distracted later. And I’ll make it quick.
“You’re evil.” I proclaim as my legs spread open to you, heat radiating from their vertex. I can’t tell if my hands are pushing you away, or if my legs are trying to wrap around your waist.
Mmm, am I? You sound amused, even with your insistence growing with the increasing hardness I can feel against my thigh, your breath coming heavily, the lust coming off your body like cologne. I breathe it in, then out again as you push into me suddenly. Your hands pull my hips toward you, unnecessarily, because I am already grinding back, trying to take all of you inside me.
I’ll make this fast, since you have to get to work, you say, charitably, each word punctuated with a thrust that leaves me breathless, starpoints of light behind my eyes. You wrap your arms around me, lift me bodily, and in a fluid motion lower me to the floor – all the while with your cock still deep inside me. And you start pounding. Hard. Fast. My hips tremble from the force, ripples of energy flowing in and up my body and moving it in short jerks along the floor. And it is not enough, because my hands are curled around your ass, desperately trying to bring you deeper inside me, my legs locked around your body, and your hands are in my hair, trying to pull me further down onto you with each thrust.
And the only thing that exists in my far-gone mind is the fullness and force and deliciousness of the taste of your groans suffusing my eardrums; and that painful moment between thrusts when you pull out, leaving me vacant for a breath-stopping second before fulfilling me once more, and each explosion of sensation leaving me writhing and greedy for more.
I may be moaning, or begging for more, or begging for harder, or stringing random words together in guttural exhilaration. I feel the tension stretching from your rolled-back eyes, down your neck and shoulders and back, down the back of your legs, in your hips and expanding your cock as you come, achingly hard, pressing your body into mine as I clutch you, wanting to feel every spasm.
Slowly, as our bodies stop convulsing and our breathing calms, I let my sweatslick hands fall limply to my side. You raise your body, roll to one side, your softening cock slipping reluctantly out.
And after a moment of silence, you say, as I knew you would, because you are a snarky bastard: So, you better get started on your work, yeah? Don’t let me distract you.
My body misses those early mornings with you. Those mornings where I am still three-quarters asleep but you are fully awake, and fully hard. Even though I was mostly asleep those mornings, I still remember the delicious, careful trek your hand makes, running lightly over my back and hips, along my thighs, seeking out the hidden crevice you have come to know so well. Perhaps you begin just by resting, hand cupped, letting the warmth suffuse into my skin. Or perhaps, this morning, you are more insistent, and peel my underwear to the side for immediate access (if I happen to have slept with underwear on). Your fingers slide up and down then, able to stimulate me no matter what position I happen to be in.
I’m now half-awake, but still sleepy enough to only be able to moan into the pillow, at best. Your hands persist despite my inertness, and perhaps it is that fervor that makes me so slick, so quickly (as your fingers find out). Or perhaps I am the weakest and most susceptible to persuasion in the morning. Either way, I am panting heavily now, and my legs seem to spread of their own volition.
I can feel your heavy, heavy hardness pressing against my thigh, and from that point of contact heat radiates into my body. As your fingers continue to work, even as you roll over my body, between my legs, I have become completely open, completely malleable and supple. The heaviness of sleep is still only just beginning to lift, but that veil seems to accentuate the sexual heat emanating from our bodies.
You raise my hips, and I can feel your cock brush between my legs. I hold my breath, waiting for that moment of first penetration, and when it comes I want to scream at the fullness and electricity. But instead my lungs empty out in a drawn-out moan that rises as my back arches.
You are no longer gentle, but ram into me head to hilt, over and over…and over. Your hands grip my waist hard, pulling my body back with each thrust, forcing me to grip the pillow, the bedsheets – anything – for stability.
And then you come, body suddenly tense, the strained guttural moan escaping your lips, cock pulsating inside me, both of us panting, arms and legs quivering.
I’m awake now.