Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

I fantasize about being an object of mass desire.

It is difficult, sometimes, to resolve this fantasy with my complete and utter obsession with safe sex, but I do what I can*.

In fact, I have concocted an elaborate party favor scenario that is so hot to me that it has become a regular source of masturbatory fantasies. It just will probably never happen because, among other reasons, I have trouble imagining it being equally hot to the anyone else**.

I am naked in a room, blindfolded with cuffs around my wrists and ankles, chained spread-eagled on a bed. Next to me, on a table, are a selection of toys for sensation and toys for sex - whips and canes, clamps and knives, and a whole pile of variously sized, shaped, and textured objects that could be used for penetration.

The rules would be as follows:

1. Anything on the table can be used to hurt me or please me, as long as it can be done safely.

2. My mouth and cunt may only be penetrated with the items on the table or with gloved fingers and hands. Other objects can be used to hurt me with the permission of the minder.

3. No drawing blood or leaving marks/alterations that could affect my appearance in normal clothes.

4. The minder can ask you to stop or leave at any time, and my safeword must be respected immediately.

In my fantasy, my eyes are blocked and I am overwhelmed by hands. They hurt and they tease while they explore my body as an object instead of a person. They use me as an idle distraction, pushing a cold piece of glass into my cunt and walking away, or making designs with clothespins on my skin and then leaving them there to ache. They cane my thighs until I am in agony, and then fuck me with the end of the rod - as a terrible, terrible tease.

The truth is, I want it to be about the sex. I want it to be about hands on my breasts and fingers teasing the line of my labia and threatening to dive in. I want to be given so much sexual attention that it morphs from pleasure to pain and back again. I want to be fucked when I do want it, when I don’t want it, and at every stage in between. I want to be begging for pain to distract from sex while secretly not knowing if I want the people to stop. I want to be begging to come and not allowed to do so or sent over the edge so many times that I honestly plead for it to stop.

I want to be gloriously and degradingly used, like the girls I used to read about in the stories I downloaded from alt.sex with headings like n/c and MMMMF. I want to be hurt and fucked until all I am is a vehicle for desire and pain. I want it to go on until I am so worn out that I can barely beg for it to stop… and I never want to know who touched me***.

I want to wonder who has such intimate knowledge of my body, but never quite be sure****.

–
_{*I recognize that it’s a bit sad that I have to have safe sex even in my fantasies, but they’re hotter if I can imagine them coming true, okay?}

_{**Although I certainly am an enormous fan of fucking girls, so you never really know.}

_{*** Okay. I’m actually not sure if that part is true or not.}

_{****But if it were, I would find it insanely hot to later read about it from their anonymous perspectives. Mmmm. Perspectives*****.}

_{*****And suddenly I think about the possibility of a post-gangbang support/review blog. “I found it was most satisfying to use her when someone was holding her feet up by her chest.” “Her cunt didn’t do much for me, but I had a lovely experience in her mouth.” “It was hot the way she cried while I was fucking her ass. You’d think it was her first time.” “I prefer bigger boobs, but it was fun to make her scream by slamming her cervix.” “Bring a friend, so that one of you can take her from each end.” “After the first three or four men, she whimpers beautifully every time someone new steps up to take her.” “I forgot my favorite lube, but she was very wet so it didn’t matter.” “I recommend being early in line so that you’re ready to take another go. Fucking her is a very different experience after five or six other men have had their turn.” Um. I think I need a drink.}

A little after 1 PM today, my doorbell rang. It was the postman, bringing me a Christmas package from China. The very package I had been debating over keeping or giving as a gift.

The decision issue was actually a little more complicated than mentioned in that previous post, because while what was in the package would enable a mutual fantasy, the particular element in question was more his kink than mine. It was something that had been mentioned, off-hand, during a discussion of the mutually desired, but difficult to practically manage, scene, and I had fixated on the notion because I really wanted to make it possible.

So I went shopping in China… via e-bay. It’s amazing that, even with the shipping costs, it’s still cheaper to buy certain things from overseas than it is in the U.S. (like the item in question… and bamboo yarn), although I was somewhat concerned that the quality would be lacking. It’s not. The item in question is beautifully made, oddly comfortable, and sized like it was made for me - none of which I was confident about when I placed the order. I opened the package like a kid on Christmas morning, which in many ways I suppose I am, and I bubbled over with glee.

Still, the question remained - “Am I giving this to him as a present? Or am I keeping it and just offering it, along with myself, for his use?”

• On the one hand, it’s a toy I am highly unlikely to use with anyone else, whereas he might actually get quite a bit of mileage out of it.
• On the other hand, I suspect that I’m going to develop a serious case of kinky shmoop over said item if we ever get to use it in context, and I’m not going to want to share.

In the end, I think I’ve decided that I’m going with the more traditional Christmas gift I had planned, which fills me with glee in a more wholesome way, and keeping the package in question for myself for the day when we have the opportunity to use it.

That is a day to which I look forward immensely.
–
_{*grin* I know I am a bitchy, bitchy tease, but it’s more fun this way. To be fair, I did tell him I was considering buying the item in question a while back. He just doesn’t know I actually went through with it. I fully intend to tell him via e-mail. Once he’s had a chance to read this. I may be submissive, but I’m also kind of a brat*.}

_{*Something which is a revelation to no one, I am sure.}

I recently did a little shopping*.

The trip was motivated by the fact that my girlfriend’s big blue cock was a bit too big for my liking, at least for extended playtime, and so I wanted to acquire a harnessable dildo that was more Rona sized. I’m not entirely certain I succeeded, but while I was shopping I also engaged in a little pre-emptive wish fulfillment.

I keep writing stories with remote control vibrators. Turning over that level of control to someone, possibly in a public or semi-public place, is a relatively long standing element of my fantasy life. It’s exciting just to imagine getting worked up solely for someone else’s amusement, having to control my reactions, becoming more and more desperate to jump them, and the like. I used to get all hot and bothered just looking at remote control toys in catalogs, and so I decided that I really should just acquire one because not having one made it much less likely that such a fantasy would ever come true.

This, however, is not a story about the remote control vibrator.

This is the story about the third thing I purchased - an alien rabbit.

I don’t know how I got to my ripe old age without ever having a rabbit-style vibrator, but I did - I never bought one and in my two years of working as a sex toy reviewer, I never came across one (so to speak.) People evangelized about them, but I was always weirded out by their little animal shapes (and particularly disturbed by a dolphin variant that actually made dolphin noises. Bad Idea. I actually screamed and ran out of the room when the demonstrator turned it on.) It was, however, clear to me that I should probably try one at some point. I am, after all, enormously fond of penetration, and the thought of a nice battery operated cock that would actually move around inside of me of it’s own electronic will was an exciting one. So,since I had a good discount coupon and was placing an order anyway…. I bought the alien rabbit.

I chose the alien rabbit for my first foray with a vibrator of its species for two reasons 1)it appealed to my tentacle porn fantasies (I, II) and 2) the shaft itself moves instead of just containing rotating beads. Together, those two qualities seemed like they would make the alien rabbit an excellent accessory to my fantasy life.

Unfortunately, when it arrived, I was in a blue period. I was depressed enough that I wasn’t particularly interested in sex. Still, though, I didn’t want to put it away in the drawer without at least testing it out, so I concocted a bit of a submissive fantasy to induce myself to use it. I was being told to insert it, and I would not be allowed to take it out until I had had at least one orgasm.

Helping along my fantasy was the fact that the toy is slightly bigger than I might generally prefer, which led to a nice sense of violation as I lubricated it and slowly slipped it in while protesting my discomfort and disinterest. The discomfort and sense of violation were starting to turn me on on their own (I may be a pervert), but the toy itself was also pretty damn impressive. I orgasmed within about 5 seconds of hitting the switch. As I put it later, when raving about the thing, it took me from zero to orgasm in less than 15 seconds - most of which was used up during the process of insertion. I didn’t even have time to start the vibration on my clit.

Thus, I declare my little alien rabbit to be very pleasing indeed. So pleasing, in fact, that I feel like I might need to work with a different sort of fantasy next time I use it, or at least a different set of rules. The whole experience, after all, was a bit overwhelming. It might be pretty awful to have to keep using it after that first orgasm.

Maybe I should go find out.
–
*For the record, nothing in this post is what I was talking about in my last post

This is what I asked for:

Come in.

Take me with urgency -  feigned passion or real.

Rip my clothes off, shove me up against the wall, bury your teeth in my shoulder, and fuck me hard.

When you’re done, let me slide to the floor, take the cash off the table by the door, and leave.

When push comes to shove, I always end up paying for what I want. Sometimes it’s easier to do it in cash.

I don’t usually start out naked.

It’s not because I’m shy, although I am.

I have a reasonably nice body. I just don’t usually feel comfortable showing it unless a beating is imminent, or I am happily glowing after some violent attention.

I’m fine being naked in public after I’ve been playing, or in private after I’ve been thoroughly fucked, but… there’s a utility to that. It feels justifiable. It feels wanted.

Starting out that way just feels deviant.

“You’ll spend the party naked, kneeling at my feet, doing whatever I ask of you, and nothing more.”

Both terror and turn on to think of being so exposed.

It makes me an object.

It’s difficult to be self possessed when I’m clad solely in my hair, and so my self belongs to her. Which, when it comes down to it, I suspect is rather the point.

It makes it hard to talk.

I can’t be naked in public like this and not in subspace. I can’t be in subspace and engaged in neutral conversation. Instead, voices buzz around me like bees. They drone, they spin, and they rarely do anything that requires a response.

It makes it impossible to say “no.”

That word that was stripped away from me hours earlier along with my clothing. Having agreed to provide service, my own choices become subservient to her own.

I serve.

As a vehicle: for food, drinks, and whims.

As a vessel: to be filled with fingers, needles, and desire.

As a target: for whips, canes, and words.

As an audience: for someone else’s destruction.

As a prize: in a somewhat unwholesome bet.

I am exposed.

As vulnerable

As willing.

As someone who takes pleasure in being told what to do.

Which is how I ended up here.

Even though I don’t usually start out naked.

–

This was inspired by a conversation a few weeks ago, and then finally got off the ground when a friend said, this morning, “I don’t usually start out naked, but when I do it tends to be memorable.”

I’m not one of those people so comfortable in their skin that I can go to a play party, shuck off my clothes, and wander around happily nude. I, quite often, fail to have any desire to put my clothing back on after it has come off for a scene, but that’s different than having the balls to remove it up front.  But, because of that awkwardness, my lingering discomfort, and my excessively Western association of nudity with sex, it’s a really hot concept to me to be denied the safety of clothing in a circumstance where I don’t know if that physical vulnerability is going to be taken advantage of or not.

I wish I could remember whose blog I was reading the other day when she was  talking about how she couldn’t wait for spring so that it wouldn’t be stocking weather anymore and her partner could just put his hand under her skirt and reach inside her.

I have fantasies about that. Having a partner who assumes access to my body, and takes it because they want it.  The sort of relationship where they feel comfortable saying “don’t wear anything under your clothes tonight,” or pulling me into a dark alley to fuck my mouth. Where we feel so much heat for each other that occasionally we stop in the middle of a conversation to have violent, passionate, sex on the floor.

I just like the thought of being wanted by someone who feels free to, and wants to, take. I like it, particularly, because I enjoy feeling secure enough in someone’ s desire to express my own desire for them.  Asking for sexual things is hard for me. I’m happy to be made to beg, but it’s nice to know that sometimes they are going to say “yes.”

The world outside my windows is white, everything buried under almost a foot of snow. Little splashes of color remain, the green of the pine tree grove, the blue back of a deck chair half buried under a drift, but overwhelmingly my world is crisp, and clean, and white. If I put my hand on the glass walls of my house, I can feel the cold seeping into my bones, but if I stand back it’s like a wonderland.

Yesterday, when I went outside, I saw strange prints on the driveway. I think they belong to my fox. It’s strange, this tendency to claim ownership of nature, but she does feel like she’s mine. She’s so beautiful, with her bright eyes and red fur, and I talk about her whenever I see her, and sometimes even if I don’t. I think about her, wandering in the snow, or curled up in a ball, tail wrapped warmly around her nose, and hope she’s found a place to shelter. I leave the gate open and put a blanket in the old doghouse just in case.

Sometimes I imagine meeting her. What would it be like to be the sort of person a fox finds fascinating? I was standing on the deck, this morning, staring up at the squirrels running mock battles in the trees when I noticed a flash of red across the snow. I turned my head and there she was. Time stopped, and I held my breath as our eyes caught and held. One moment passed. Two. And then a branch cracked under the weight of the heavy snow and she ran. I would have thought I dreamed it, except when I went to look there were three red hairs caught in another set of those same strange prints. I brought them inside and wrapped them in a piece of paper. Proof. No one ever believes me when I tell them about the fox.

Winter habits are winter comforts. I spend the afternoon cooking, baking, filling the house with the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg. I light a fire in the fireplace and curl up in front of it with a good book. The sounds outside are deadened by the snow and I feel like my world is wrapped in a blanket of cool, white, silence. I drift off into dreams lulled by the warmth and quiet found within its folds.

The doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anyone, and I rise to answer it in my winter uniform of mismatched pajama pants and warm fleece jacket, long hair rumpled from my impromptu nap beside the flames. At the door is a woman, of about my height, with no gloves on her pale white hands and no hat on her short red hair.

“Aren’t you freezing?” I ask her.

“I got lost on the road and saw your light,” she replies, “may I come in?”

“Of course. Come sit by the fire and warm up. Then I’ll help you get on your way.”

She curls up in a ball, like a cat, on the sofa next to the hearth and I bring her hot mulled cider from the stove.

We start to talk, about nothing of consequence, and keep talking for hours. Staring into her amber eyes, I forget that she’s a stranger. She begins to feel like an old friend.

I end up sitting at her feet, hands resting on her knee. I can’t not touch her with her right there next to me, warm and fascinating and real. I feel connected to her, enlivened by her presence, excited, and more alive in our little bubble of reality than I have in a long time. I don’t question the instant attachment. I just want to be by her side.

She touches my face with her hand. Time stops and I forget to breathe. In a moment of bravery, or perhaps insanity, I let how much I want her show within my eyes. She kisses me and I can’t move. Our lips, our tongues, and her hand on my face are all I feel for a moment that I wish could last for hours. Her hand twitches strangely and there is suddenly a sharp pain in my cheek.

When she pulls back there is a drop of blood on her finger, “Sorry, I lost control,” she says, and puts it in her mouth to suck.

I stare up at her, eyes wide, mouth open, and can’t find any words to ask for what I want. She kisses me again and I taste the salty iron tang of my own blood on her tongue. It makes me gasp into her mouth.

She flows off the couch, and pins me to the ground, her weight firmly on my hips, both my wrists grasped in one of her hands. She leans down and with her pink, pointed tongue licks the cut she made on my cheek. It stings.

I gasp and my hips buck beneath her.

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

She lowers her body onto mine, pressing me into the ground with her weight until I can barely breathe. She’s so warm. She feels like she’s hotter than the fire. My head starts to swim.

Just as I’m about to pass out she rolls off me onto her side, her back leaning up against the couch.

“Don’t go,” I beg, and she pulls me back against her, one hand recapturing my wrists and her strong legs imprisoning my lower body.

With her free hand, she unzips my fleece jacket. I’m wearing nothing underneath. She grabs my wrists harder and then runs one sharp black nail down the center of my sternum. I can feel it scraping me, like a knife. I arch my back to press into her hand, and feel the warm, wet sensation of blood as her nail breaks my skin.

It makes me shiver and press back against her warmth. I can feel her breath against my ear as she begins to play with my breasts. It’s like she’s exploring. Her hand traces the shape of my bosom, she cups my right breast in her hand and sees how it can move. Then her fingers start to grab, slowly building pressure until I moan and then further until right before the point where I’m almost willing to ask her to stop.

After that it’s back to those strange sharp nails, tracing along my ribcage, flicking sharply across my nipples, until I’m writhing in the cage of her limbs. She pinches my nipples so hard that I gasp, and doesn’t let go, simply increasing the pressure until I’m whimpering and her hand is too tired to hold. She continues until my breasts are so sore that even the brush of her fingers against them makes me shiver, and then her nails move down to my belly.

As her fingers pause there, grabbing deep into the skin, where tomorrow I will find crescent shaped scabs and a deep lingering ache in the muscles of my abdomen, I hear her mutter something that sounds like “Not pray,” and her teeth briefly bite deep into my neck to echo the sensation of her hand. She mutters it again and moves her hand lower under the waistline of my pants, pushing them down and then pulling them the rest of the way off with her legs before using them to recapture my own.

I feel her fingers between my legs, exploring again, and it makes me writhe. Her nails trace the line of my outer lips and then one pushes sharply against the base of my clitoris and I scream and try to jerk away. She holds my wrists more tightly and uses her legs to separate my own and then she flicks her nail slowly in the same place to see if she gets the same effect before returning to her explorations.

I’m breathing hard as her fingers move lower and discover wetness. She slips one inside me, and then two, and I can feel her investigating the space inside me, pushing with her fingers, and scraping with her nails until I scream. It feels like her hand moves inside me and over me for hours until what started out as pleasure becomes pain and what should be agonizing is inducing wave after wave of bliss.

When she lets me go, I pounce. I kiss her, like I would devour her, and start to unbutton her blouse. She has beautiful breasts, so different than mine, and I stroke my fingers over them gently where they swell above her bra. When she unclasps it for me I draw first one and then the other nipple deep into my mouth.

I love touching her. I spend ages exploring the hollows of her neck with my tongue, although she stops me at the sensation of my teeth against her skin, flipping us over, pinning me with her own teeth to my throat and holding me there until I stop fighting, before releasing me and saying “Not that.”

I remove the rest of her clothes and play gently along the curve of her hipbone, her knee, with my fingers and my tongue. When I feel between her legs, she’s wet, so wet, and I play with her dampness, moving it up to tease her clit, running my fingers in the warm space between her inner and outer lips until she quietly squirms. I slip one finger inside her and then two and stroke gently. I love how it feels having my fingers inside another woman. I love the warmth, and the textures, and the way she moves. I love to play, and see what I can do to her body, see if I can make her react. I love to explore and look for the routes and pathways of her pleasure, and feel the honor of being allowed inside her with my hands and my tongue.

She lets me touch her for hours, and eventually we fall asleep in front of the fire wrapped in each other, happy and warm.

When I wake the next day she’s disappeared. When I open the door to see if I can determine where she’s gone there are no footsteps in the snow, and I would wonder if I imagined the whole thing if it weren’t for the delicious ache in my lower body and the soreness in my breasts. I look closer and see paw prints in the snow, and when I turn back to the fire I see three short red hairs lying on the pillow we pulled from the couch.

I wrap them in a piece of paper to remember her by. I put it next to the identical packet where it lies next to my bed.

It wasn’t “pray” she muttered into my ear, her hand gripping deep into my belly, but “prey.”

Maybe I’ll see her again one day.

My beautiful huntress.

My fox.

–

Happy Holidays.

In which, in celebration of Halloween, I try to write Hentai. Warning, if sex, bugs, or tentacles freak you out, you should really skip this post entirely. It’s also far from my best writing.

–
It was dark in the corridor. Too dark to see more than a few inches in front of my face. My friends had gotten far enough ahead of me that I couldn’t make out their shapes, and I cursed the fit of whimsy that had made me agree to go into the haunted mansion. I hate haunted houses. Horror movies do nothing for me, and I firmly believe that if fear isn’t going to be a prelude to sex then it can stay the hell out of my psyche. Still, when I turned the corner and the hands reached out of the wall behind me, I screamed, and the sound was swallowed, utterly, in the velvety blanket of the dark.

I don’t know why I noticed it, given that there were fingers wrapped around my biceps, wrists, and ankles, but the way my voice was eaten by the air felt wrong. It was unnatural. My scream should have bounced along the hallway the way it had when the skeleton swung across the entry way or the actor dressed like a goblin stuck his head out of the stomach of a plastic corpse. Instead it was sucked away into silence. I screamed again, as I felt the hands dragging me backwards into the black, and it must have been my imagination but I swear I saw the night itself come and soothe the sound away.

Quiet. Everywhere quiet. The darkness now was complete, and I began to struggle against the implacable hands that were dragging me back into the warm, dense night.

“Sssssstop,” I heard. The syllables slid straight into my brain and I couldn’t move. Something large moved up behind me, too warm, too big to be human, and I shuddered. The hands tightened on my limbs and, as my fear grew, my body began to react to the combination of touch and terror and I began to feel slick dampness forming between my thighs. “Oh yessssss,” the voice continued, “thisss one will sssserve,” and my spine twitched as a long, rough, sandpaper dry tongue rasped across the top of my spine. “Thisss one will sssserve very well.”

The hands, all six of them, pulled me back against the figure behind me. I felt its skin writhe, and then I felt myself covered in thousands of little crawling feet. I screamed and screamed again, the sound eaten by the darkness the second it left my throat, as what seemed like thousands of bugs crawled across my skin and devoured my clothing, occasionally getting carried away in their hunger and taking a bite of the pale flesh beneath. They were everywhere, and it seemed like hours of horror passed before I was left naked and mewling in the being’s arms, spots of blood clinging to my skin like paint, as I felt them swarm back over me and into the creature they had come from.

My body twitched repeatedly as that same sandpaper tongue licked up the drops of blood, leaving raw angry patches of skin behind. It rasped once, in passing, between my legs, and I realized to my horror that there was part of me that was actually enjoying this nightmare. As I shivered and began to cry, the tongue moved up to taste my tears, and I felt something in the creature behind me begin to shift. What I had thought were hands around my ankles began to slide, and twine, and shift their way up my legs, wrapping me like snakes. The skin that covered them was rough, abrasive, but they seemed to secrete some sort of slime that helped them drag their way along my flesh. I felt one slide, burning, inside my cunt, and as it did I screamed and came. It pulsed inside me and swelled to fill me as I felt the other tentacle push inside me from behind.

They moved inside me and I cried out, over and over. Each time it felt like they were sucking more of the liquid warmth from inside my body, and as tears poured down my face they were devoured too. When it felt like there was nothing left inside me, no energy, no moisture, barely even any life, the creature withdrew, and as it departed I shuddered again on the floor.

Suddenly, I could hear myself crying.

I slowly swam up to consciousness with the feeling of a mouth on the back of my neck and the hand that had been wrapped around my body moving between my legs.

I must have turned my head, or moaned, because I heard his voice softly next to my ear, “Oh good. You’re awake,” as he moved my leg and slipped himself inside.

Gentle, and then not so gentle, as we moved in the slow, twilight realm between sleep and awake. His hand left bruises on my hips; my arm wrapped backwards around his neck and tangled in his hair. I silently begged.

Tension. My spine bowed to push my lower body more tightly against him. His teeth buried in my shoulder and his fingers pressed deep into the muscles beneath my skin. Explosion. Release.

Now, lying here, skin to skin, still entangled, wrapped in his heat, breath on my neck, possessive hand around my waist, I start to slip back down, down, down to the land of dreams. Stillness overtakes me and my eyes that opened so recently in pleasure close once again in sleep.

I don’t have to get up for hours.
–
I had another really good date this weekend, with the same person who has inspired quite a few recent posts. I think it’s made me sappy. Just to feel more like myself I will mention that a dominant female friend of mine gives whole new meaning to the phrase “scary pregnant lady.” She’s violent even without the hormones, but with the hormones…. Whee! She derailed my productivity entirely last night by describing how she wanted to cut me again, and then fuck me with a knife with another one at my throat. It was very hard to resist jumping in a car and driving up to see her right then. I want to suffer, scream, and bleed… maybe in a few weeks.

I am ridiculously suggestible. I am one of those people who can not help but yawn if I hear someone yawning at the other end of the phone, let alone see them doing so next to me. Ideas get into my head and they stick. Stories, dreams, and conversations become almost as real as reality. It’s one of the reason it’s so easy for me to get fixated on things. I write the future in my head and then I have to make it happen. If I can’t make the universe align with what I think should happen than I either let the stories go… or I get crabby.

I went on a fabulous date the other week, but there were two factors that led to some extreme post-date frustration. The first factor was two weeks of e-mail that amounted to really good foreplay. (Not only because we talked about sex. We did talk about sex, but the sheer brainpower also was a huge turn on.) The second complication was that when we finally managed to go out (he’s busier than I am!) I was sick, and so I didn’t kiss him. I wanted to. I informed him of this fact, but discretion seemed the better part of valor. So… frustration. I can live with frustration. But he had put this idea into my head…

Morning Sex.

It wasn’t even while we were talking about sex. In one of our earliest e-mail exchanges he mentioned being a morning person. I am not a morning person. I informed him of this. He mentioned something about being unable to not wake-up with the sun rise, but being perfectly willing to crawl back into bed and keep me company. I responded that sex is one of the few acceptable reasons to wake me up in the morning if it isn’t an emergency, and *poof* just like that I had morning sex on the brain.

It won’t go away. It’s not so much that I’m fantasizing about morning sex with him. I am a bit, but I recognize that the likelihood of having an even remotely realistic sexual fantasy about someone I haven’t even kissed is pretty much nil and I don’t want to weigh any future encounter down with excesses of expectation. It’s that I’ve been waking up early and the first thing that I think about is sex. Or I’ll go to sleep fantasizing about waking up and having sex. My sex drive is always high, but in the time since this idea got lodged into my brain it’s been absolutely ridiculous (which is one of the reasons I’ve been reading the Anita Blake books. Fantasy fodder. Plus, in the later books they have sex pretty much every 10 pages so you can stop reading after one scene, sleep, wake up and have another one to enjoy)

The thing is… I really like morning sex. If I sleep in the same bed as someone I’m attracted to, it’s pretty much guaranteed that when I wake up I’m going to want to fuck them. In fact, I’ll often wake-up early and the urge will be so strong that I won’t be able to go back to sleep because I’ll be spending too much conscious effort trying not to touch them. The idea that I might be able to find a partner with whom I could have regular morning sex is an intoxicating one*. Casual sex partners aren’t good for morning sex. Morning sex is “getting a good night’s sleep with someone you care about and then jumping their bones when you get up” sex. Or lazy weekend “we can just enjoy each other” sex. Given how awake I usually am (not) in the morning it also tends to fall lower on the violence scale than I generally prefer, but at that hour it’s nice. Quiet.

Plus, sometimes you get to go back to sleep again afterwards… or eat pancakes. That’s a really nice way to spend a weekend morning. Hours in bed fooling around, talking, and sleeping followed by pancakes. Can’t beat that. Except maybe with waffles. Oooh. And the funny pages. Sex, comic strips, snuggling, and waffles. And maybe bacon. Bacon makes everything better… except ice cream, because that’s just wrong.

You know, sometimes I wonder if it seems schizophrenic to people the way I alternate between gentle waffle-laden fantasies and things like this. Then I realize that I don’t really care. When I’m feeling optimistic, I believe that I can find someone, or someones, who will think of the diversity as an advantage.
–
*“You’re getting regular morning sex? I hate you. It’s not fair. You don’t even like morning sex.”
“I like this morning sex.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s really good morning sex too.”
“You are a sadistic bitch.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“You suck…”
“Yes I do”
“… and you are no longer my friend.” - Transcript of a real conversation between me and a good friend of mine a few months ago. Yes, girls do talk about sex. Sometimes in excruciating detail. Then we have cookies.

I was thinking yesterday that what I really wanted was a good, old-fashioned, over-the-knee spanking.

You know the kind I mean. The kind fetishized by endless erotic stories and people who prefer a bit of role play with their sex. The skirt up, knickers down, hit her ’til her bottom’s bright red kind of spanking. The grab her by her hair, throw her over your knee, and make her cry kind of spanking. The “you’ve been a bad little girl and now you’re going to make up for it” kind of spanking.

In other words, the utterly-ridiculous “we’re over-playing the drama to see who bursts into hysterical laughter first” kind of spanking.

I haven’t had a scene like that in ages. I miss making big innocent eyes and ridiculous statements at a top who is trying to keep a straight face. I miss being the destroyer of dignity, peace, and quiet. I miss running shrieking from someone and ending up collapsed underneath them alternating between hysterical giggles and loud “OW!!!”s

I haven’t been a big, bratty pain in the ass during a scene in ages. For much of the past 6 months I’ve been in a very submissive headspace when it comes to BDSM. Not that I’ve stopped feeling that way, far from it, but I do sometimes long to return to my kinky roots… where my primary identity was that of a smart-ass masochist. I’m just in the mood to play right now. Can I help it if my idea of fun usually ends up with bruises and bite marks?

On second thought… maybe that isn’t the kind of scene that the OTK people are normally talking about. Do most of their fantasies start with the scantily clad submissive saying…

“Sir, I’ve been terribly terribly bad. I performed a statistical analysis that is supposed to only be done on a random population on one that was selected by convenience sample. My sins are unforgivable. I need to be punished.”