Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

My dream last night:

We have a mutually beneficial arrangement, my friend and I. It took a lot of discussion, before we got there, but we’ve firmly established that we can each be exactly what the other one wants and nothing more. In fact, we’ve figured out, quite conveniently, that our desires are so complimentary that in this one particular way it’s like we were meant for each other. He was looking for a girl who he can feel free to take whatever he wants from sexually, and I was looking for someone whose desires I was comfortable enough with that I could give him free rein to assume.

I like it when he assumes. He’s visiting from out of town, and when we get home from dinner, he walks up to me where I’m sitting on the couch and pulls his cock out for me to suck.

“Yes?” he says.

“I just need a condom,” I reply, and when he returns with one I happily take him into my mouth, sucking him deeply into my throat.
I love cock sucking. The feeling of his hand in my hair, the sound of him moaning, the sensations in my mouth and mind, it’s one of my favorite things. I’ve been wanting this since he stepped off the bus and into my car, but we don’t have the sort of relationship where I usually feel like I can ask. I like it better when he asks, anyway. It’s even better when it’s what he wants and what he decides to take.

This is why it’s so surprising to me to discover that I’ve fallen asleep sucking his cock and ended up face first on the floor.

“Rona?”

“I’m so sorry. It’s not that I’m not enjoying myself, but I was up talking to the guy I’m seeing until almost 3 a.m. I must be really tired.”

“Do you mind if I?”

I feel his fingers catch in the waistband of my underwear and start to drag them down my hips.

“I don’t seem to be awake enough to help you, but please, if you want to. Please do.”

All of a sudden I heard male voices talking. No one else was in the house, and I couldn’t figure out how I’d left the TV on and not noticed it before now. Still, that had to be it. I felt his hands move on my hips, positioning me and…

The doorbell rang. Waking me up.

I dragged myself out of bed to find two Jehovah’s Witnesses standing in the snow on my front porch.

“You did not just wake me up to proselytize me?!?!?!?!” I said.

They looked at me, with my hair in disarray, eyes still mostly closed and apologized.

“Have a nice day,” I said, and closed the door in their faces before heading back to bed.

–
That’s how I woke up this morning. Ripped from a really hot sex dream to answer the door for two Jehovah’s witnesses. I should have made the young one make it up to me. I should have brought him inside the house and said:

“You want to fill my mind with your words? Well first you have to fill my body with your cock. Proselytize all you want, but you ripped me away from a dream where I was about to get gloriously and thoroughly fucked and there’s a price you have to pay for that. You have to do it yourself.”

Instead, however, I simply went back to bed. I couldn’t sleep, though, with this dream, this ridiculous dream, filling my mind. I had to write it down before I forgot it, so that next time I speak to the friend who played such a featured role I could make him laugh and forget his troubles. I imagine the conversation will go something like this…

“That dream you posted in your sex blog was about me, wasn’t it?”

“Duh.”

“You dreamed you were so tired that you fell asleep sucking my cock?”

“Yes, and then you fucked me anyway, as I lay there too exhausted to think or move. It was really hot.”

“I should do that sometime.”

“Whenever you want.”

“Excellent. I think think this should be a plan.”

Hopefully if it does happen we won’t be interrupted by more Jehovah’s witnesses. Fuck it though. If we are, he can be the one who goes to answer the door.

Many moons ago I attended a women-only play party. I was supposed to go with a friend of mine, but she bailed, and I ended up attending on my own. While I was there, I started chatting with this girl and we had a conversation that was literary geek heaven. We compared favorite books, and then we started plotting a children’s book at the table while everyone around us pretty much sat and rolled their eyes. I had insta-crush, because she was all cute and smart and dorky and stuff*. After about 2 hours of chatting I got up the nerve to ask her if she was a top or a bottom, and she admitted that she was a top, but that she was nervous about playing at the party because she hadn’t actually really had a chance to top before. I volunteered that I was an experienced stunt-bottom, and told her that if she ever wanted someone to practice on I’d be happy to throw myself beneath her. She said “how about now?” and we wandered off to find some place to play.

I don’t remember all that much about the scene, the feel of her hands on my skin, my telling her it was okay to hit me harder, and making really stupid literary jokes at each other, but one thing sticks in my mind. I didn’t just want to play with her. I liked her, and was quite attracted to her, so I asked her “Have you seen The Princess Bride?” and when she said yes, I asked her “Is this a kissing scene?” in the voice of the young boy. After she stopped laughing, she asked me if I would like it to be a kissing scene, I admitted that that was the reason I had brought it up, and then she kissed me**.

Afterwards, several of her friends came up to her all excited, because she’d been going to parties for months and months and had never played. I felt all gleeful in a “corrupter of the innocent” way, and we ended up dating for a few months until I had my surgery and dropped out of circulation to freak and then heal. Oddly enough, the friend I was supposed to attend that initial play party with is now madly in love with one of the girl’s coworkers and friends (who she didn’t meet in a scene context). It’s a very small world.

Even though the relationship has faded away, I’m really glad it happened, and I don’t know if it would have had I not had the guts to ask her “Is this a kissing scene?” I need to take myself as an object lesson and remember to use that line next time I’m out with a geek and feeling disappointed that it isn’t.

–
*So sue me. I have a type.
**I really like kissing. It’s one of my favorite things. Huh. Along the lines of my previous post, I’ve just realized that you can actually sing “Cock sucking, kissing, and cookies, and napping” to the tune of “these are a few of my favorite things.” It scans! I can’t decide whether to be happy at the fact that it works or horrified at the thought that some day I’m going to catch myself singing that out loud. In public. Oh gods. It’s started already… “Cock sucking, kissing, and cookies, and napping, beating and biting and fucking and slapping, knives that are edgy and canes that go sting, these are a few of my favorite thiiiiiiiiings”

“Today we’re going to practice counting.”

“Aw, crap.”

“Aw, crap?” he punched me casually on the shoulder while I was still struggling out of my boots. “What kind of response is ‘Aw, crap?’ ?”

“I was a math major. Math majors don’t count. We do partial differential equations in our heads, but counting? This is going to kick my ass.”

“I’d like to point out to you,” he continued, as he positioned me over the horse, “that you are the one who asked for a formal caning scene.”

I propped myself up on my elbows, “Clearly I was out of my head, what I meant to say was… HEY!”

He had knocked my arms back out from underneath me, and I flopped back over with a loud *huff* of air.

“Yes?”

“That counting sounds delightful.” I then went on, under my breath, “Would you prefer base ten, or is binary the choice of the evening?”

He fisted his hand in my hair and raised my face to look at him, “You are a very lucky girl, because I am an extremely nice man who is going to resist the temptation to make you count in binary while I cane you. Count yourself lucky.”

“One, ten, eleven, lucky”

“Brat,” he said, but he was smiling as smacked me on the ass and grabbed the first cane.

“Now, you know how this works, right?” he asked and swung the cane.

I yelped.

“Nope. That was a cute noise, but you’re supposed to say ‘Thank you sir, one.’ Lets try again”

I both felt and heard the cane strike against against my skin, and spoke up, “Thank you sir, two.”

“Two? You really can’t count. You don’t get credit unless you get the number right. You really need to work on your motivation.”

The cane swung again and I could feel it strike perfectly next to the two previous blows. I bit back the curse as the sensation rushed through me and said, “One, thank you sir.”

“You’re really not good at this, are you? That was supposed to be ‘Thank you sir, one.’”

“Oh, bloody hell,” I yelped again as the cane came swinging down.

“One for bad language. Shall we start again?”

“Once more with feeling!” smack, the came came down again and I gasped in a breath as the sensation flooded through me. My back arched. “Thank you sir, one.” I continued, “damn, but I’d forgotten how much I like this.”

“What was that? An addendum? I don’t believe we negotiated footnotes. One more try?”

*smack*

“And the number of thy counting shall be three!”

*smack*

“No Monty Python jokes. The number of thy counting shall be one.” He paused for a second to take aim and carefully laid the 8th stroke right on top of the seventh.

I inhaled the scream and he waited patiently for me to speak. Slowly I managed to get the words out. “Thank you sir, one.”

He paused and waited as my breathing slowly returned to normal. Then the cane came down once more, and instead of gasping I started to giggle.

The cane struck again and again, until my ass and thighs were covered with my own personal barcode of red, and I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“Thank you sir, one!” I barely managed to get it out as I slid towards the floor trying to calm down enough to get some air.

He pulled me up by my hair and spun me to look at him. The look in his eyes was unreadable as I asked, plaintively, “But I thought we were going for a dozen?”

His hand fisted harder behind my neck, and for a moment I thought I had actually made him angry, but then his smile broke through and he started to laugh, “At this rate, that would take until next year. Why don’t we try for a more reasonable goal,” he chuckled as he put me back over the horse, “like two.”

I knew that if I could see him, one eyebrow would be raised, and I smiled as he laid down yet another stroke, “Oh ye of little faith,”

*strike”

“Thank you sir, one.”