catprism: icecreaminasicklychildshands: (via fuckmelikethat)
talk: sexandsmut at gmail.com
Something I really need to get better at: taking risks.
Oh, I know, I can spend whole days in bed with my very good friend and my favorite sex blogs, daydreaming scenarios and filthy texts I’d send and explicit demands I’d make to people I barely know. I can imagine the teasing eye contact I’d exchange, among company, while my phone tells him what anyone else can’t know. I can talk about sex and write about sex and think, nonstop, about sex. I’ve even gone as far as going on blind dates and bdsm scenes in hotels with a man I know nothing about and CL boy without fear.
But, when it comes to something as easy as sending an unexpected dirty text to Dream Boy/Bad Idea. The one who I stayed up until 3am talking to online, just about our kinks and fetishes and fantasies, what we wanted to do and didn’t, what I liked…and me confessing to him what a huge crush I already have (I hate playing games, but I’m not sure I feel any more secure in how much he may or may not like me on any level even after that), yes, even him, who I know would appreciate whatever my twisted mind can think of telling him, I can’t seem to do it.
That, and not to mention, the tons and tons of boys I make eye contact with on the train, sit close at parties, classmates and acquaintances and boys from Okcupid I’ve never actually met. Boys I fantasize about and imagine would make fantastic fucks. Somehow I can’t get past my crippling fear of taking a risk and just, doing it, making a not at all coy suggestion. It’s unbearably hot in my mind (and I’d love love love it if a boy did it to me), and I’m sure quite a few of them would not say no…
So maybe it’s time to get past this stupid inhibition and embody the fearless nymph that lives in my head. Sure, maybe this isn’t usually done. But neither is pretty much anything else that I like and do when it comes to sex. And anyway, it might mean a few more stories and a few more mind blowing fucks.
Besides, given how much Dream Boy/Bad Idea has set me off in the past week without even talking to me and on the strength of my memories/imagination alone, I need to fuck him soon (and find out what a bad idea he really is) before I simply explode in a rage of sexual frustration and aching desire that will be hard to recover from.
Wish me luck.
Oh, oh no. Not only do I have a massive crush on boy, but his list of fetishes (that he couldn’t even tell me in person—presumably because it is too disturbing), has switched on the ultraslut in me. I can hardly sit still. Attempting to read, sitting in lecture, riding the train home, there’s not a single moment in which my head isn’t playing some elaborate scene with me and him and potentially outside parties.
First thing on his long long list? MMF threesomes. And, my god, the idea of it, on all fours on a hardwood floor, a boy slamming his cock from behind and this boy fucking my face. The other pulling my hair and jerking my head back so that I can take this boy deeper. He’d tell the other anything he’s allowed, or not allowed to do. If he wanted to watch the other fuck me as he plays with his cock, quickening hands holding it ever so close from my face but not quite enough, out of reach of my hungry mouth, if he pinches my nipples and tell me how much of a slut I am for wanting two cocks at once, if he demands that I stay on my knees and slaps me until I cry. Anything.
I’ll save other scenarios for later, perhaps, as I can’t can’t stop thinking about him and all the filthy things I’d like him to do me (and I to him). I can’t stand it. I can’t stand to do without it. Make it go away and oh god please don’t let it.
PS—fucking him and J at the same time? That’s too much hotness for me to wrap my head around (and write about) at the moment.
I don’t know what it was. All I know is that as he lay next to me, propped up on one elbow, watching me with his pretty eyes (they looked blue but they were brown) and his smile, for what felt like infinity, now and then sharp small kisses followed by a bite on my neck, now and then stroking some other part of my body while I struggled to breath evenly, whispering “show me what a good little whore you are and come for me,” I thought of nothing else but that this was a boy who could break my heart, a boy I could fall in love with.
It terrified me. Perhaps that was why I couldn’t do it, couldn’t come for him even though that was what he wanted from the start. I wanted to—so much. I couldn’t stand to disappoint him. I couldn’t stand not to do anything and everything he wanted. Maybe this is what that’s really about, the dominance submission thing. And if it is I don’t know if I can like it. I’m afraid to.
I’m not afraid to open my mouth for his cum (and that look in his eyes as he swiped it from my cheeks and I sucked it off from his fingers), not afraid to suck his cock (do you want to do this or do you want me to make you do this?), not afraid even when he gripped my neck and choked me hard, holding it there and holding my breath, pressing down on my chest so that it hurt, breathing (if you pass out, you’ll wake up to me fucking you). No, none of that, and not the pain when he slapped me, not the way his lips devoured my clit, the way his fingers made my cunt throb for more.
But I am so so afraid of things he said: I went on a lot of dates with a lot of cute girls back in Melbourne, but didn’t feel enough of a connection with any of them to want to date them. I’ve broken a lot of hearts. Afraid of the fact that the evening I spent with him before all this, he made me laugh. Afraid of the bands from his wonderful mix that I adore, how he asked “want to make out?” Afraid of his witty comments, afraid of his patience when he watched me for so long. Afraid of how much I longed for his touch early morning, when I couldn’t sleep and could only try to shut out the silent protests in my mind, and feel his body next to but so far from mine.
