“Why do you like sharing me?”
“We each have to make our own…”
“Bullshit!” she said, interrupting me. “Don’t give me any of that progressive poly crap. You didn’t hold my hair away from my face last week as your best friend fucked my mouth because it’s my body. You don’t hold me by the throat and…
This blog is fantastic.
She’d thought about buying a dress. My whore dress! she’d thought. She’d considered ninety lipsticks. My hooker lips! she’d thought. Finally she just tucked the cash into her purse and took herself to lunch. Thirty dollars brought her to the best bistro in the area, where she had a hamburger and a glass of wine. The juice dripped down, red-brown, and left a stain on her wrist.
“Ah, fuck you,” she said to the homeless man on the street who asked for change. “You really think I can spare any of the NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS that I made by SELLING MY BODY?”
The man shook his head to the ground. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I never would have guessed.”
“And don’t you GOD BLESS ME,” she yelled at the man, from down the block.
“I will not,” he called back. “I have no interest in blessing you at all.”
—From the absolute best story I’ve ever read about prostitution, “The Red Ribbon,” by Aimee Bender. You can buy it here.
I like the wristcuffs and the blindfold.
Wendy Dubbeld (via thingsthatexciteme)
That looks an awful lot like the Fifi from AP…and absolutely enchanting.
He goes to her at night, for that is when her defenses are down, that is when she can’t fight the pleasure.
He loves the gasp, the tightening of her body at his first touch, the forbidden grip of a breast, pinching the nipple to shock the senses. He knows she is awake, but at night she does not struggle so much, she is quiet, only the occasional cries that sound more like moans. He molds her delicate skin beneath the roughness of his palms, a master sculptor who creates only in the dark. He feels her trembling and forces his strength against it, presses his hot lips against her neck, reassuring that the head does not separate from the rest of the body, that her senses cannot be dulled nor ignored.
At night he enters her slowly, meticulously, the cock of his head emerging inside her with the most tentative caution. It is so deliberate, so restrained that he almost doesn’t feel the shock of the pleasure when he is buried inside of her. And even then, he moves slowly, closing his eyes to feel the friction, her warm, wetness slipping against his hardness. Once, while holding still, deep inside of her, he felt her clench against him, the slightest hint of the movement of her hips, her bewitched desire in this tiny expression.
And then he loses control, and it is only the animalistic, brutal plunging, hard and fast and furious, conviction that if he pumped hard enough he could give her all the essence of violent need, plant passion deep inside of her. She screams then, sometimes, but they are pretty little screams, not quite pain and fear but something else, a curious blend of an inner struggle she would never admit.
When he finishes he steps away and watches her, in the dark, from the crack of the window and the silver from the moon swimming across her skin. Sometimes he sees the glistening sweat there, from him, notices the quickened rise and fall of her breasts, the blossom pink of her nipples.
During the day she chokes in tears and shudders of pain, and if she senses motion, his presence, she begs, please, please, please. Let me go.
Is there anything so beautiful as the female body?
