He Watched Her In The Dim Light Of The Club. She Was Surrounded By Sycophants Who Wanted Access To Her,

He watched her in the dim light of the club. She was surrounded by sycophants who wanted access to her, to her money. She could barely contain her disdain and revulsion. It radiated off of her, a living thing.

Men sent her drinks. She feigned a flirtatious wave and passed the drinks and the men along to the women around her. The scene left her cold. It had, since she was little. But she kept up appearances.

Being irrelevant was worse, maybe. The only thrill she felt was the made up bullshit in the tabloids. She went home alone, mostly sober, every night.

She was intriguing to him. When she got up to dance, he moved next to her. His own aura was menacing enough, he glowered down any potential suitors. She turned, and he caught her in his arms. Her mouth opened to protest, and her used a single finger to raise her chin and close her mouth, then shook his head and waved a finger. "Shhh. Dance."

She scowled. Nobody told her what to do. Ever. But he was divine as a partner on the floor. She'd never been lead so...expertly. It was almost mesmerizing. When the song ended, he leaned in and whispered, "Again, dearie?"

Her hand went up, and he caught her by the wrist, tutting at her. He brought the offending limb to his nose, breathed deep, then dropped the wrist to his mouth and swirled his tongue over the tender flesh.

Yanking her hand back, she stormed back to her court, casting black glances across the room, but he disappeared into the crowds.

This happened maybe once a month for awhile, then more frequently. She was almost becoming fond of the rage he inspired as much as she hated herself for how she loved how commanding he was when they danced.

Then one day, he followed her into the bathroom when she went to fix her makeup. He was done waiting. The door slapped open.

She looked up, mouth suprised, fresh laquer over her lips, red as blood. Two other girls glanced at the duo and scurried out. As he advanced on her, she cast about, looking for exits. She settled on the nearest stall and dove in, but he was faster, slamming the door after them and locking them in, while simultaneously trapping her against the wall, face first.

"Wh...wha..." She stammered, cheek against the tile, lipstick smearing.

"Shut. Up." He ordered. "If I wanted to hear a spoiled brat talk, I'd go to the bar."

She squeaked, body trembling in righteous indignation.

He pressed against her from behind, hands smoothing down over her shoulders, rib cage, waist, hips. His fingers curled against her slowly and pulled her ass towards him and she felt her body complying, as if it knew it always would. "Oh god." She softly whimpered.

He chuckled. "That I might be." One hand trapped her hips against him as he ground sinuously, while the other snaked up her side, under her top, over her bra. The fabric was flimsy, and her nipples were already straining.

"For all your protestations, your body tells me something different, brat."

"I'm not a brat." She whispered. Her eyes were closed, entire body trembling.

"Didn't I already tell you to shut up?" The hand at her hip slid over the waist band of her skirt, into her panties, and down between her legs. She was soaking. He toyed with her for long minutes, swirling his fingers through the juices in her cleft, while the other stroked and pulled at her nipples. Finally, he leaned in and murmured, "I'm going to take you home, brat." She nodded. "Speak up?"

"Please?" She panted, shuddering. He released her slowly, spinning her to face him, "That's a good girl." Taking her by the chin, he held her gaze. "A very good girl. Come now." She looked a mess, but she also looked, for the first time ever, pleased.

Greedy

By choice, I am on my knees before you, looking up at you through my eyelashes, cheeks flushed. You search my eyes, your own darting quizzically, hesitant. I reach up up and unbutton you at the waist, drawing your zipper down, it's rhythmic crunching filling my ears. Your fingertips graze the top of my head, filtering strands of my hair lightly. Eagerly, I draw your pants and underthings down to mid-thigh, exposing you. You have always been a delight to my eye, your dark tickling curls a springy nest for your cock. Hard or soft, I cannot get enough of looking at you, let alone experiencing you. I take a moment to admire, then glance up. You always blush at how wanton I am. The red flush stains you gently up to the tips of your ears. Leaning forward, I nuzzle affectionately against your member and listen to you gulp as blood floods your groin, your prick stiffening. I love this anticipation. My breath warms your skin, hot and damp, as my eyes flicker back up. You're floating away now, fingers falling uselessly to your sides, head tipping back with a sigh. I languidly envelop your turgid cock in my mouth, grinning wickedly around your girth, my tongue lapping at your length. For a moment I stay there and savour you, before sucking down your cock. You sigh again, breathy encouragement. I take my time, building you up slowly, a crescendo of obscene noises growing louder, faster, more urgent, as I continue my ministrations. I'm kissing and sucking and licking your prick with the fervent devotion of a worshipper, and there is no better term for me, still on my knees, laving your cock. You moan, one I know well, signaling your impending climax, and I'm delighted. My whole body aches for you, skin tight, breath shallow. Just a few more eager suckles, my hands digging into your hips. I purr in my throat and you gasp, thrusting your hands into my hair, holding me against your bucking hips as I swallow everything, your cock emptying at the back of my throat. We stay like that, you buried to the hilt in my mouth, me gently cleaning you off with my tongue, for many long heartbeats until you remember where you are, gingerly pulling away from me. I move in and lick you clean, pleased. I can sense impatience from you, but I take my time. You deserve the best. Satisfied, I glance up with a smile that is half shy and half sly as you pull me to my feet, hauling me against you. "Wicked thing." You lean down and whisper in my ear. I smile again, writhing suggestively. "I told you I was greedy." I swoon as you kiss me forcefully, my cheeks turning crimson.

Bussed

Do you remember the first time you kissed me? Not that nervous, eager, needy mashing of two mouths together, or that filler while we tore at one another’s clothes. No. The first time you actually met my lips with yours for no other reason than the need to taste my mouth with yours. To feel the heat of my breath meeting yours, the slow co-mingling of inhale and exhale intertwining. Do you remember each aching hesitation, the gentle caress of my tongue sliding against yours, insistent and yet yielding? How I started off tasting like myself but together we created a flavour that was sweet and spicy and utterly addictive? I know I smiled into the gentle tugging at my lips with yours, and you smiled back, so joyful. Those long lost moments made me lightheaded, longing for you, for us, joined.

You don’t remember? You’ve never kissed me like that?

Now is a perfect time to start. I’m waiting.

Orgasms and Medication

Mostly this space is to give my poetic libido a voice but sometimes I need to address some real world lust issues. (Lissues? Lussues?)

I have a ginormous list of psych diagnoses that often keep me on meds. I’ve tried several and discarded them for a variety of reasons (Always under the supervision of a psychiatrist. One must be responsible.) but I never dumped them for side effects I could ‘live’ with.

Like… the difficulty with orgasm.

My libido is a hungry, insatiable thing, so psych meds putting a damper on desire sometimes feels better than being constantly lusty and having to monitor my behaviour to be socially acceptable. However, orgasm has always been a little more tenuous, and I haven’t yet met a psych med that didn’t make it harder to have one, if not downright impossible. (The first drug they put me on was Prozac. It made me manic AND made orgasms go away but made me more horny. I only figured out orgasms were off the table after a masturbation session that left me uncomfortably raw. Yeeeeaaah. No.)

So I learned to live with orgasms that took awhile or needed battery-operated assistance or just fled at the sight of a partner. (You’ve heard of shy bladder… here’s shy climax.) While most of my partners have been thoughtful darlings, a few have thought their dick/fingers/tongue/whatever was the magic key to get me off (which, hey, NO PRESSURE OR ANYTHING) and really, few things are less hot than someone who feels your orgasm is 1) the sign sex is over, 2) something they 'deserve’ (ew?), 3) a prize (*foghorn*), 4) I think you get the picture.

I also learned to live with orgasms that just took awhile /on their own/. I’m not a fan of lube because I get plenty juicy on my own, so it’s always a little disheartening when your body runs out of its own moisture. Sanity is its own reward, I suppose, but damn. Buying lube for your vibrator is an experience.

I recently had to do a med change. Now. People. IF YOU CAN’T TELL YOUR PSYCHIATRIST THAT YOUR DRUGS MAKE IT HARD TO CUM, CHANGE DOCTORS. My doctor wants to know all side effects. All. ALL. Can I not sleep? Am I hyper? Lethargic? Weight gain? Loss? Etcetera. And he asks about sex. Yes. It’s uncomfortable to tell this sweet older man but having a sex life you enjoy (YOU DEFINE THAT!) is super important to good mental health! So I stare at the floor and talk through it.

So. Med change. I’d gotten a shiny new mental health diagnosis my former med was either exacerbating or simply not helping. We had to wean me off the old med. Then, I was on a half dose of the new med for a week, and have been on a full dose for the past few days.

Now, this morning I was feeling frisky and decided to get friendly with my favourite vibrator (I’d tried to rally the nearest partner, to no avail). I’d read some tasty smut, slipped my fingers over some very erotic gifs, and was quite prepared to be at it awhile when my body surprised me. Normally, a medicated orgasm takes a good half hour.

Ten. Minutes.

Now. I’m not saying I’ve found my Holy Grail psych med, but if things stay like this… I’ll take it. My mood already seems to be improving… And having orgasms without a fight against my own Self? Sign me up!

Alright. Back to more prose and poetry. I may need to take breaks to reward myself for all the writing...

Mine

You sleep, peacefully, unaware that I'm curling up behind you. I pull you against me, burying my face into the middle of your back, breathing you in. You smell so good

I run my hands over your skin, listening for how your breathing changes depending on where and how I touch you. Those soft sleepy moans you make are divine; I feel so powerful. I can make you so needy in your sleep

Finally my questing hands reach for my prize: your stiffening cock. I love that you're ready for me, and kiss your back softly. A few obscene sounds from the bottle of lube I have on hand, and I start to run a slick finger around your asshole.

Those shuddery breaths you make are heavenly, and I work my finger into you, loosening you. Fuck, it's so slutty, you working back against me in your sleep. Needing this. Wanting this.

Sensing you're ready, I line the strap up against you, before slowly working myself into you. Your soft whimpers are delicious, and I reach for your cock to stroke you while I fuck you.

i like how sleeping people have no filters. You don't even realize you're riding me as I fuck and stroke you. The most vulnerable version of you is such a whore for me.

I could go on like this forever, thrusting into you, my fingers dancing over your shaft, listening to the moans you can't hide from. But your climax is building. I can tell from how much harder your working against me, how your turgid length throbs in my hand. I won't prolong this delicious sleepy torture. You need release and I want to give it to you.

A combination of things tilts you into bliss as you cum; I can't pinpoint any one event as the culprit for your climax. Maybe it's the strap in your ass or my hand on your cock, or, hell, the soft, encouraging kisses I pepper over your back as I work. It doesn't matter. Your whimpers are such a delight as you spill your need over my knuckles.

After a moment, all is quiet. I survey the damage: open, lubed hole, messy stomach, cock, sheets. I slide off my harness and set it aside, debating whether to clean you up, but opt instead for you to wake to evidence of your use. One final touch, though. Using your cum, I fingerpaint one word over your pubic bone: Mine.

Consent

He leaned forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a move both overly familiar and nearly paternal. For a moment his fingers hovered just over the fine hairs on her ear and she ducked her chin, moving her hand to her ear and the errant stand, cheeks pinking. He leaned back in his chair and resumed talking but she missed what he said, confused and flushed for a moment.

"I'm sorry?" She asked. "I missed that." The pen descended to the paper again.

"You asked about my relationship with Lydia." He smirked lazily. "And I was telling you. We were lovers. She was so crass and rude." He leaned forward again, long fingers reaching for her wrist, dropping his voice. "Nothing like you, I'm sure." He canted his head, studying her startled face, her eyes locked on his, pulled from her reverie while documenting their interview. He closed in a little more, the corners of his mouth slowly twisting into what was becoming a familiar smirk. "No. I can see. Timid. Never asking for what you want." His other hand moved to her knee as he leaned closer, invading her space. She inched back, transfixed as he came ever closer. Closing the space, he brought his mouth to the ear he'd caressed and murmured, voice thick and slow, sounding the way honey felt as it melted over the tongue. "Trapped in tradition and propriety. I bet your skin feels like fire right now." The hand on her knee was tracing letters she couldn't register. Her mouth was dry and slightly slack, face crimson, and her most intimate parts ached in an unfamiliar way. She gulped, making a soft squeaking sound.

He pulled away, returning her space to her. His peridot eyes scanned her and she thought she saw him hesitate, the domineering facade slipping. It returned just as it left, the wry twist back on his lips. "I'm so sorry. Talking about her...I miss her." His hand rifled through his long silver hair, his smirk turning rueful.

"Oh. Of course." She responded, confused at her feelings. She should have been relieved he pulled away and resumed the interview but she felt disappointed. Her smile was faltering. "She must have been wonderful. I think I have everything I need. Was there anything else?" She began to rise and he stood with her.

"Unless you have more questions. I'd be happy to discuss this further with you."

"Yes...if I have any more questions, I'll be in touch."

His hand hovered at her elbow as he escorted her to the door. She had begun to relax when she turned and looked up at him. His expression changed from congenial to that primal, dominating look he'd had before while he was turning to say his goodbyes.

His movements were languid, one hand beside her head, then the other. She held her breath as he crowded near her. Gooseflesh covered her back as she pressed to the wall, which was chill to the touch, and she trembled. One of his hands left the wall as he pressed even closer, knuckles delicately running along her jaw as he appraised her, then he leaned into her opposite ear and murmured, "I won't go any further until you tell me what you want."

As suddenly as he was in her space, he was gone, leaving a fiery heat between them while he reached for the door. She was speechless, waking automatically through the door and down the steps, before turning to look at him.

He leaned in the doorframe, hands in his pockets, smiling kindly. She blinked in confusion, then turned and practically scurried out the gate and down the street.

---

She had stood in the snow on his stoop for a half hour, simultaneously trying to talk herself into and out of what she was about to do. Finally she pushed the buzzer.

She was just about to turn and run when the door opened. He arched a brow, concerned.

"Look. I don't know what I want but I can't stop thinking about… that…"

"Come in from the cold, Marie." He gestured to the hall and she stepped in, suddenly feeling uncertain. She turned and he was on her heels, moving swiftly. Tottering, she felt her balance shift, but he caught her by the wrist and pulled her up and then firmly against him, one hand splayed against the small of her back.

He pulled her wrist up, shoving her sleeve down, then snaked his tongue along the translucent flesh there, his eyes never leaving hers. She watched, lips parting slowly to breathe as his mouth on her skin sent electricity from her wrist to her center.

"That?" He asked, bringing her upright.

She paused, her tongue darting over her parched lips, then nodded imperceptibly.

He smiled warmly, then ran the hand on her back upwards into her chocolate curls, fingers grasping a fistful of hair at her crown, carefully pulling her head back. She gasped, eyes widening, when he leaned in, running his nose along the outside of her ear, growling softly. "I said you had to tell me, didn't I?"

"Yes?" She squeaked.

He released her gently, then helped peel off her coat, hanging it on the stand. She was still somewhat dazed as he led her to the parlor where they'd met before. A fire was burning fully on the hearth. He motioned to one of the two richly upholstered wing back chairs, and sat himself in the one next to a small table holding a lowball of amber liquid. The bottle rested there as well: Whisky.

She sat slowly, watching him as he took the glass in hand and raised it to his lips, drinking deeply with a satisfied sigh. Motioning wordlessly, he offered her a glass of her own and she shook her head. One of his shoulders lifted in a shrug and he poured himself another.

They sat in silence for several long minutes, when she abruptly rose from her chair. "I… can't." She gulped, then turned to flee.

He caught her wrist again, dragging her into his lap. She gasped a half-hearted protest, but he held her firm.

"You can't?" He breathed, eyes reflecting dancing firelight, glowing nearly silver with reflection.

She squirmed, then mumbled. "I've never done anything like this. I don't know what to say."

Smiling indulgently with a soft chuckle, he murmured, "None of the boys at that newspaper ever trapped you behind the press?"

Her face heated and she gulped. "Yes. But not… not in a way I wanted...or...liked."

"And you're here because you think you'd like what I'd do?"

She didn't answer, staring at her lap.

Reaching up, he took her chin, raising an eyebrow as he turned her face to his. His voice dropped, and he spoke in earnest softness. "I don't go further until you ask."

She squeezed her eyes closed then looked up as if entreating her maker. Without looking back down, her words tumbled out at just above a whisper. "I can't stop thinking… imagining… you."

"Oh?" The smirk returned. "And what am I doing?" A finger danced idly over one of her knees.

"Everything?"

He leaned up, slowly nuzzling into her neck. "Everything?"

She was flustered, the sensation at her throat and over her knee distracting. "Please." She whispered. "I don't know what I'm asking for. I don't know the words."

His breath was warm against her neck, and she trembled, thrusting her clasped hands between her knees while dropping her chin. He moved the hand doodling over her knee to give her space, and pulled his hair out of his eyes as he looked up at her.

"Then...I suppose I can make an exception." His gaze washed over her features, studying her intently. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, slowly finding her voice. "What… what did you have in mind?"

The hand that rifled though his hair settled over her hands clasped tightly between her knees. "I'll ask questions and you can answer… and I'll try to refrain from teasing too much." Her eyes shifted to him. "/Try/. Watching you blush is… exciting." She thought she felt him shiver with delight as he said the last word, and her cheeks warmed again. He exhaled shallowly, desire clouding his eyes, before he shook his head, and replaced the slack jaw with a grin.

She felt the stirrings of her own wicked little thoughts in the back of her mind, pleased that he made that look, pleased that she /caused/ him to make that look. That rapt, hungry look… and the knowledge that she held him with her assent.