She threw herself at me

She threw herself at me.

Well, not really -- but it sounds good, doesn't it?

Actually she was standing too close to a tiki torch and when the wind blew the flame toward her, she leaped away from it -- and into me. It was rather nice having my arms full of a buxom blond who smelled like Lolita Lempicka. I helped her steady herself and smiled as she blushed and apologized profusely. The man I was talking to when she stumbled into me made introductions. As we shook hands, I noticed her wedding ring.

"Emily?" I said. "A lovely name for someone so warm and soft and sweet smelling."

The way she looked at me, I knew I'd read her right. Married she might be, but Emily liked girls. And dominants.

Our mutual friend Bruce laughed. He and Emily had a lot in common, apparently. Both were married, bisexual, and submissive. We chatted for a while, and I enjoyed the energy they sent my way. Subs do that in the presence of Dominants--they bend energy our way.

I turned to Bruce. "I brought my Sybian... if you help carry it in, I'll let you choose who rides first."

"Oh!" gasped Emily. "Me-me-me-me."

I smiled at Bruce and he gave his delightful laugh.



He laughed the same way when Emily climaxed later that night, her hips bucking on my Sybian and her eyes wide. She kept saying "OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod" like a Buddhist reciting a mantra that had her on the cusp of enlightenment. And maybe she was. She looked utterly transformed: luminous, uninhibited, joyous. Her hair was a disheveled mess and her nipples, her little pink nipples, were incredibly hard, the large aureoles crinkled up tight.

I had slowly been turning down the vibration on the Sybian as she slid down her peak, looking drowsy and replete, but Bruce gave me a thumbs-up sign and moved behind Emily. He kneeled and pulled her back against him, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and another under her ribcage. Once he had her secure in his embrace, I goosed the power on the Sybian. Emily's eyes popped open.

"NoNoNoNoNoooo," she screamed. "Make it stop!" Her head tossed from side to side.

"Ever heard of forced orgasms, Emily?" I asked her. I knew I had a devilish expression on my face. I love making women cum.

Emily shook her head wildly. She choked on something that could have been a moan or a sob.

Bruce slid his fingers down her belly. I watched him tease her clit as I stepped out of my skirt, leaving a pool of silk on the floor. As I walked toward them, my fingers flicked my right thigh, the thigh that the holster for my strap-on dildo usually rode on. But not tonight. Tonight my tool of choice was the Sybaan.

I stood over them and gave first Bruce, and then Emily, a kiss. Then I took her hair in my hand and pulled it downward until her upturned face left her no where to look but my eyes.

"You are going to eat my pussy, Emily love, and you are going to make me cum. You are going to cum on my clit, making it vibrate with the force of your own screaming orgasms. And only your being limp and senseless will make it stop."

I tightened my fingers in her hair and pressed her face against my pussy. With my other hand, I pressed the control box against my thigh and turned it to its highest setting. Bruce leaned into Emily, forcing her pussy and clit down against the machine.

When she came, it was with an explosion of hot breath against my clit that went off like an explosion in the back of my mind. The keening sounds she made were muffled against my flesh, but the vibrations rippled through me, pebbling my skin with wave after wave of gooseflesh.

So close! I pressed myself firmly against her face until I could feel the suction of her mouth and nose struggling to find air. She sucked pussy juice deep into her nostrils and then I set her free, letting her gasp for air. Mmmm. So close!

I watched as Bruce humped his cock against Emily's ass, a blissed-out expression on his face.

"Finish in her mouth," I instructed him.

Bruce staggered to his feet and moved to stand before Emily while I got behind her on the Sybian. Even without the dildo attachment the vibration of the machine was enough to make me cum. I wrapped my arms around Emily and humped against her and the Sybian as Bruce cradled her head in his hands.

As profane as the scene might have seemed to someone else, to us there was something transcendent and sacred about the giving and taking of pleasure, of the abandonment of inhibitions and fears, and the release of our primal selves in this ages old dance to the orgiastic, orgasmic beat of carnal love pounded out in the drums of our flesh until we fell asleep in a sodden, tangled heap, our bodies imperfect instruments of the tireless, divine spark within.

The Forfeit, part 2

(While this can be read as a stand-alone vignette, it is intended as a follow-up to this story.)

I massaged him first, anointing his flesh with faintly scented argan oil. From memory I recited the poetry of Rumi and Neruda, and parts of the Songs of Solomon, sensually guiding the words with their vivid imagery into his mind. I left no inch of him untouched, and when I finished, his body was completely limp with the exception of his cock, which I'd brought to full attention.

It took some effort to rouse him up off the massage table, and when he was vertical I had to help guide him over to my bed, where I put him on his back and bound his limbs with silken sashes. When I kneeled next to him on the bed his eyes fluttered open. They were warm and lustrous, the pupils dilated. He smiled at me, a slow, sensuous smile that brought my attention to his lips.

I leaned over him, slowly lowering my head until my lips hovered over his.

"I love you," I said, and as I said it I opened myself completely, letting the love flow from me.

"Mmm.... I love you too," he mumbled back almost drowsily, and pursed his mouth for a kiss.

How do you describe a kiss that commingles elements of the sacred and profane: awe and love and passion and desire? It was all there and more as we breathed each other in and let the energy flow between us.

I straddled him, and as I lowered myself onto him, as I worked the wedge of him into me, I felt myself splitting open on so many levels: physically, emotionally, spiritually. A prayer came to my lips unbidden, and as I sat, unmoving, upon him, I slowly recited, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul..."

His eyes opened, and he watched me, and his expression transformed from uncertain to transcendent in a few heartbeats. He felt it, I knew, that sense of the sacred that seemed to pervade our joining.

I leaned forward, moving my hands so they pressed into his upper arms, so the weight of my upper body restrained him further, and my eyes holding his gaze, I put my inner muscles to work. I sat unmoving astride his immobile body and yet we moved together, our PC muscles undulating. His cock twitched within the fist I made of my pussy, and it was intense, oh so intense.

We maintained the stillness as long as we could, but eventually his thigh muscles were clenching and releasing and I was swaying. I brought my hands up to my nipples and with one tweak I went off like a fireworks display, keening louder and louder. He convulsed under me, his entire body straining, pulling at the sashes that bound him to the head and foot boards. He lifted his head up off the pillow, his eyes wide and wondrous, and then his face contorted and his hips raised, lifting us both up off the bed. The power of his orgasm awed me, blew through me like the breath of God, and left me tingling with profound joy.

I untied his arms before I curled up next to him, drowsy and sated in a way that was soul-deep. My love for him and what we'd shared radiated from within. I felt like a small sun had been born inside me.

"We should do that more often," I whispered into his ear.

"Peace, woman," he gasped in response. "There is only so much God and sex the human body can take."

I smiled ruefully and nodded my head against his shoulder. I wondered briefly how many people really experienced Divine Sex, then drifted off to sleep.

The sexual is spiritual

It had been 6 weeks since I'd felt him moving inside me, and as always, that first time it was difficult to fit him in. Even kneeling astride, juicy with longing, my weight pressing down, I struggled to fit him in. A few inches and I wanted to start moving, to rock on his cock, but he likes to savor the feeling of being fully engulfed. So I worked myself down on him, feeling him stretching me open, feeling the upward glide of his heat. I stopped and moaned. "Almost," he said, and turned himself into a bow, his body arching, pressing the arrowhead of his cock deeper. I gasped, winced a little, my body stiffening. I love the place we were approaching, but getting there is not without discomfort. "Almost," he said again, and we pressed against each other and I tilted my hips a fraction and then, ah then, I felt like swooning. "There!" he said, and smiled up at me, and his eyes glowed. "You can feel that?" I asked him, as I ground myself against him, as I ground that spot inside me against the head of his cock. "How can you tell?" I wondered in awe. How could he tell that where he was, right there, gave me so much pleasure that my nipples tightened and my entire being felt like it was balancing on the point of orgasm. "It fits like lock and key," he answered. I smiled, knowing the analogy to be an apt one. We stayed that way for a full minute, at least, and I worked my muscles around him, and he purred with pleasure, and then I started moving, posting on him, up and down, the thickness of him charging through me, forcing me open again and again. I came, hit an orgasmic plateau, and rocked with a series of orgasms that hit in waves, one after another. My body tingled, I felt light-headed, the way I would after a fit of sneezes, and I rode him still, sliding the key home in its lock, over and over again, until my throat was raw from my cries and I was swaying atop him, all equilibrium gone. I slid off him and sprawled on the bed, my chest heaving, my thighs trembling. "Water, please," I whispered, and he got up and brought me a glass of blessedly cool water and helped me hold it to my mouth. He put the glass aside and got back into bed. "Mmmm... thank you," I purred and moved to snuggle up to him. "I'm not finished yet," he said, and fit himself between my thighs. I said hello to the gibbous moon on my way to the stars. Our heavenly bodies moved together, slowly at first as he gave me time to adjust to the different angle of penetration, then faster and harder, until his sweat fell on me like divine rain. Little sounds and changes in breath, harbingers of male orgasm, alerted me, and I worked my muscles around him, clenching and releasing, worshipping the divine spark in him, intent on maximizing his pleasure. We kissed as he climaxed, and it tasted of salt, and he pulsed inside me, and moaned incoherently, his sounds a benediction, his seed a sacred gift. Love was the afterglow, spreading through me even as he continued to gasp and twitch on me and in me. Tears pricked my eyes. I was reminded that beyond the urgency of orgasm, sex grants access to the sacred. Love is sacrosanct in all its forms of expression, and the sexual, in particular, can be deeply spiritual.

Transcendant function

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I was sorting through this weekend's photos and stumbled across this one. Something about it really appeals to me...

Which is water, which is sky? What is real and what is reflection? The beauty of such illusions is that they simultaneously provide us the opportunity to suspend disbelief (holding two conflicting perceptions in mind), and to recognize the illusory nature of our perceptions.

Last week I remarked how bothered I was by my awareness that I have become a walking contradiction. I later had a conversation with a friend who remarked on my ability to hold two seemingly paradoxical or conflicting concepts in my mind and see them both as being valid. Then, in my reading on Jung, I stumbled upon his mention of something called the "transcendent function:"

Transcendent function. When there is full parity of the opposites, attested by the ego's absolute participation in both, this necessarily leads to a suspension of the will, for the will can no longer operate when every motive has an equally strong countermotive. <...> a damming up of vital energy results, and this would lead to an insupportable condition did not the tension of opposites produce a new, uniting function that transcends them. (Jung)

A couple of weeks ago I was babbling about fluidity, flexibility and adaptability as characteristics that are key to experiencing something as transformational rather than tragic. According to the Jungians, it seems that, in order for us to function under the tension that the awareness of opposites engenders, we create a transitional, symbolic, expansive, transcendent, play space in our psyche. It is in this internal landscape that we hold experiences and perceptions prior to applying meaning to them. The larger this space, the greater the potential to experience the moment as something new, rather than applying old, preconceived meanings to it. We suspend the will, the drive to label and judge, and allow the meanings of experiences to unfold with time, without exerting control. This allows tensions to co-exist in conflict and collaboration until balance or harmony is achieved. It is in this transcendent space that we come to understand that control is an illusion, that our internal realities are subjective, that 'meanings' are ascribed according to our attitudes.

Contradiction. Paradox. Tension of opposites. Transcendent Function. Perhaps this, too is a key to experiencing life as transformational instead of tragic: creating a space in ourselves large enough to hold ideas and experiences in suspension until the meanings arise of themselves, instead of making snap judgements.

It goes without saying that some of us create larger spaces than others. For some, the boundaries of that space are clearly defined, for others, they are limitless. I wonder, is the 'size' of this space related to fluidity, flexibility and adaptability? Do they develop in concert? Which came first? The water, or the sky? I digress. Or it is "regress"?

Ah, the power of illusion to make me think.
(PS: The photo was taken looking down into a pond...and up into the sky. Life from the perspective of the koi.)

Contemplating obstinacy

I've recently been contacted by someone through Literotica. An interesting man, who claims to be an editor, and who insists on calling me a writer, much to my chagrin. We had a bit of an argument about it, which he cut short by changing topics, I think becuase he felt that he, as one who edits writers, knows far better than I what one is. After our conversation ended, I went about making dinner, and as I ate it, thought about what we had discussed. And with a glass of wine in hand, I mailed him this:

You are not the only one who calls me a writer, if it is any consolation to you.

I do not know why I resist the label so. Perhaps it is a habit: I do not care for labels.

Or perhaps it is that writing comes too easily, or that I put so little effort into it. I mean really, I write what I think or feel or see or notice. There is no craft in that, no art, it is merely transcription.

And friends say to me, "Mozart and Beethoven merely transcribed the music playing in their heads. Does that make the label 'composer' less applicable? Does that lessen their genius?"

My answer is that I am no genius. Most days I feel like a fraud for being recognized for saying or writing things that simply 'are' to me. It is like saying Columbus discovered America. When I was a child I said: but it was always there! Why not recognize him for having the courage to test the theory that the world was not flat after all? Its not sexy, that is why.

I write about things that are sexy. Perhaps that is why people call me a writer? I do not know.

As for your feedback, also known as criticism, I welcome it. Truly. If nothing else it sheds light on the contrast between your perception of what a proper ending is, and my intuition that there are no endings, merely transitions from one moment, one state, to the next.

I recently wrote a poem called Compelling Question.
In it, I mention that another's consciousness is impenetrable. But it does not stop us from seeking to penetrate, to possess that other. Perhaps because I express my consciousness well, people find me more accessible, find the mystery of the other more accessible, and grasp at it. We are all so powerfully driven by the awareness, conscious or not, that we are alone, and not only that, but by the knowledge that the only certainty in life is that we will end, and we will end alone. And yet, there is a commonality, a universality to all experience, to all perceptions of reality, and in that, we are not alone. We find ourselves touched by the echoes of another's pain or self-awareness--their creative expression of it--and through it we can vicariously experience the other, or feel that they have experienced us, and know, for that moment, that we are not as alone as we felt. But people are not content to let the moment happen, and flow into the next, not if it means the possible loss of that shared consciousness. They do not want it to move on, and leave them solitary again. And so they cling to it, they close their hands about it, and forget the lesson of childhood: If you clutch the butterfly tightly in your hand so it will not fly away, you destroy the butterfly.

I think. Perhaps the better label is 'thinker'. I am a thinker. But applying that label to myself would seem vain, yes?

Better yet, call me a self-aware, self-conscious babbler.
That is a label I will not argue with :)

Kay

The irony of the above is that it is written in response not only to him, but also to CD, my friend and mentor and ardent, loving admirer, who also calls me a writer, and whose encouragement on my writing I so roundly rejected this morning. Sorry, CD.