Courage Part Two

Hello, Wicked Wednesday friends. 

Thought I would continue where I left off last week. If you haven't read part one of this little story, you can find it here.

Stumbling down the hall behind him, I hope he is blind to everything except his own need. The scent of him is stronger in the bedroom and as he sheds his trainers and socks I concentrate on breaking it down. Deodorant or something equally artificial over warm body. Faint traces of those base notes we all share, sweat and work and sex. Enough to know this is real. Dusty construction smells from his work clothes. He strips in the pool of light from the hallway, spotlit against the darkness of his room. His jeans come down and his body is revealed and everything else retreats to the backdrop.

I want. Want. My hands on hot skin rough with hair. His breath in my mouth. And I take it. Because I can. Because…

I push him back on the bed and stand over him. Silly, cartoon dominance, but I have to be sure. He strokes his cock slowly, looking up at me, blue grey eyes wide with want. Wanting me to want him. I wait. He stills, hand falling to lie against his thigh.

“Back up.” He scuttles back towards the pillows and I kneel between his feet. Lean over him. Let him absorb where we are. Who he is. His pale gaze is watchful. Waiting.

Lips meet. Press. Part reluctantly, skin clinging where we are not. Breathe each other’s air.

We meet each other slowly, equal parts wary and hungry. The way the half light catches the whites of our eyes I can see him watching me but not with any nuance of expression. He can see me watching him but I remain equally hidden. Neither of us reaches for the light and we keep our secrets safe.

I trail my hands lightly over the topography of his body, tracing clean cut lines of collar bone and rib. Stomach sucked tight in response to trailing fingers and a gasp of breath. Ticklish then. Dips of hips and thick muscles of thigh, raking my fingers through his coarse pelt till it thickens at the base of his cock.

Dragging one finger down his length from weeping tip to hairy sac raises another sound, more groan than gasp and his body undulates to curl in on itself and then thrust blindly into the air.

“What sounds will you make as I suck you off?”

“Jac. God. Please.”

I like the way he cries my name.  Love the stretch and slide as I explore his junk, dragging his skin over the hardness beneath, following his length back beneath his balls to the private seams and furrows. The soft hairless patches, the wrinkles, the delicate movement of it all beneath my fingers that makes it seem like a separate living entity from the straining man holding himself against the bed.

Lips close enough to feel his warmth, his scent a mouthwatering flavour, I take soft skin between my teeth and test its substance, test his substance with nips and kisses and grazing bites. Slip his head into my mouth and press my tongue into his weeping eye. He cries wordless pleas and tries to force himself deeper and I can taste his honesty, bitter, salty tears that coat my mouth.

I shed my shirt, toeing off my trainers and unbuckling my belt. I want that rough hair, those sinuous limbs and strong, bony fingers against skin more than I hate bearing my body. Jeans gone, I press myself against his heat and I kiss him again, lips wet from his cock. He bucks against me this time in fear or distaste but settles as I stoke my tongue against his and the flavour disperses. I let the kiss settle, before sitting back, straddling his thigh.

“You don’t like your taste?”

“I don’t… I haven’t… I…”

“But you want me to?”

“Jac. Please.”

I scoot my hand under my shorts and wet my fingers. Paint my lips and kiss him again. No complaints this time. My hand finds his cock, heavy and full against his stomach and I let my fingers capture his slick. Licking their tips, I ask him to open for me. He doesn’t at first, flinching away for a second or two, lips clamped shut before he finally opens his mouth and lets my fingers in, cleans them with his tongue.

A smile curves his lips as we move together for a kiss.

“Some kinky shite alright,” he murmurs against my mouth.

“’bout to get more kinky,” I smile back and slide my hand purposefully over his cock and down between his thighs. “You got lube?”

“God. Yeah. Here…somewhere.” I reach for the drawer, just out of his reach. Pinned beneath me he writhes, but neither of us really want his freedom. Blindly fumbling, I find a familiarly shaped pump bottle and bring it to the bed. A sickly fruity smell follows.

“Not that shite. Not if you don’t mind… I think…” I wonder who needed the fakery to blow him. Who told him he tastes bad? With the drawer pulled open he manages some feat of contortionism and brings back another little bottle. Even in the low light from hallway, it was clear this was a more specialised product.

“Been thinking about this? Just a little?” I tease. Enough to get supplies in.

“Yeah. Well. Bit of a boy scout you remember?” His voice is huskier now. Quieter.

“You good?”

“Mmm.” Not enough of a yes for me to just plough on, but enough to keep pressing forward.

I used to hate my height, my build. When the growth spurt hit at puberty it put me a foot taller than anyone I fancied and they didn’t catch up for years. Some of them never did. Now, with his matching body beneath me everything made sense. These moments, few and far between, when suddenly I fit in my skin, are just something else. Something to cling to.

His hair caught between my fingers, I steer our kisses and wait for him to relax. Hands curl around my waist, rubbing lightly against my sides, the motions slow and gentle and with each pass he settles further into the slide of our lips. Lubing my other hand, thank fuck for pump action bottles, I slide two fingers into the tight crease of his backside, seeking and finding my goal.

“Open up for me.” He murmurs something and tried to reach back into the kiss. I pull back on his hair, pull my hand free of his arse and slap his thigh. “Open up. Bring you knee higher and…” I stop with the instructions and move him where I want him. He doesn’t resist. Watches me with night black eyes and panting breaths.

“You still want this?” Want me?

TMI The Meaning of Life

What makes you, you?

Fighting for things I want for my children has made me more observant about myself. One of my children is very non defined, and I have made a point of making sure they are not constrained by people saying “boys don’t do that”, “hair shouldn’t look like that”, “children shouldn’t need that”. I have realised actually I had let lots of those statements define me in my younger years, so now I am much more positive in my definition. I am lots of roles, but inside all of them I aim to stick to my core values of being kind, honest and trustworthy. The holds as true in bed or in communication about ideas as in a professionals meeting about my children. 

Do you care more about doing the right thing or doing things right?

I have a very strong sense of doing the right thing, even if that isn’t the right thing for me. It gets me into trouble when I fight a point rather than letting it lie, because it is the right thing.  I hope though I am thoughtful and informed when I come to choose my path… but once on it I will stick there with tenacity.

What is sexual freedom? Do you have it?

I’m in a monogamous relationship and have been for 15 years, so my definition of freedom might be very different to someone else’s. I am free to be myself, to share my fantasies and desires and to act on as many of them as are possible within the constraints of my chosen relationship structure… I think that is freedom.

In your romantic relationships, is trust more important than love?

Trust can exist without love, but love without trust? Lust, desire, hope… all part of the romantic love package, but trust is crucial to me for it to be love. Trust does not have to mean that person always puts your needs first in their actions, but it does mean communication stays open even when you need to do or think separate things.

Your life, is it more of a dream or a nightmare?

Neither… quite the soap opera at the moment. Four of us in my household are autistic, we have a supporting cast of young people from around Europe as au pairs, so meet lots of different viewpoints, politics and stages of personal development. The central relationships are strong and stable between multiple generations and branches of my family even though they are often defined by being caring roles, including at the moment trying to support my best friend and her family while she is very ill. Love holds us all together in the myriad ways we share it and so all is good.

What is the last romantic thing you did for someone?

Romantic? I pick his t-shirts out of his jumpers before I wash them. Actually, I am not very romantic at all… it’s not my love language. I'm much more service and touch orientated than anything that could be described as typical romance and even in reception, I am more interested in being the focus of attention rather than being given things or treated to experiences. 

View others TMI blogs here

Courage of your convictions

I love my twitter feed... full of people I've met at Eroticon '17 and '18 and the wider blogging community. A really lovely bunch. If you've wondered about coming, it really is amazing and worthwhile for the atmosphere as well as the speakers and sponsers. 

At both Eroticons, I have really enjoyed the readings. At the first, I was a neophyte blogger, who had opened a blog to do my meet and greet. I was blown away by the confidence and courage of those who read their own work and digested the anthology Identity with gusto.  This year, there were people reading their work who reduced the room to hushed silence and tears, and again the anthology Truth is full of gorgeous longer pieces from bloggers I have enjoyed and people I'd never read before.  

At both there were people who said "I'm not really a writer" or in the case of one young lady, describes her feelings of impostor syndrome. "What am I doing here, reading my fiction? I blog about my life, not write."

I really felt that the first year. The second, having been through a little blogging break, I was worried that I was even more of an impostor...I had failed to keep at it. I was a fairweather blogger. 

It takes nerve to go out in public and say, "Yes. I write." and even more so  "Yes.  I write about sex." Marie talks about the difficulties of exposing this about yourself in her piece I'm not a threat

Given that the whole thing is sponsored by sex toy companies, and Saturday afternoon included a "come and try..." session, it was also scary because, unless you were very closeted, your sexuality was going to be out in the open. For some, not an issue. I'd not told anyone, not even my husband, how I self-identified before March 2017. 

What the whole experience has done for me, writing the blog and meeting people, rather than sitting at home reading  the (sometimes lackluster) stuff I found online is that it has given me courage in my convictions. Yes, I can write. Actually, it doesn't always have to be fiction to be valid. It is ok for me to identify as being on the submissive side of the scale and still be bossy me at home when I have to. It is absolutely fine that my sexuality and my gender are a bit fluid and amorphous. 

Like Jadis said in her piece My armour is made of pretty skirts the relief of wearing this on the outside cannot be under-estimated. Molly, leading us by example, goes out there and did what felt right to her Courage of my Convictions. 

This post was supposed to be a piece of fiction... So I am breaking all of the word limits to put it on the end here. But this is important for me. I have struggled to write fiction this month as the real world has crowded in. But fiction is a form of the truth. Maybe not what happened, but a fragment of thoughts and feelings blown up and magnified till it becomes something quite different. 

This is part one... I can't leave them there and I want to know what happens next. I hope you feel the same way. 

“How did you know?”

I put down my pint, because that starter for ten, well, it could go several ways. “Know what?”

Malley hunched down across the table. “Y’know. All that kinky shite you did with Dave’s cousin.”

Ah. It was going that way. I took another mouthful. Then, meeting his eyes, I took one more, just to give me time to judge his mood. It was more about what was missing. No salacious grin. No tease of humour. Dave’s cousin was what, six, seven years ago. My sister’s eighteenth.

“Nothing better to talk about?” I asked. His gaze shifted around the pub. There was just me and him and a hundred other people. My mum’s table of friends chatting after the quiz. Just a chance meeting on a rare night home.

He shifted uncomfortably and scooted his stool closer under the table. Our knees knocked, but he didn’t move away. “Just wondered,” he said. “Cuz split up with his girl last year because she wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, more fool him then. There’s more to a relationship than sex.” Even kinky sex. Another swallow. This pint was going down easy. He was matching me.

“Is that summat you do though. Y’know. With guys?” Malley blushed then. Fuck, he looked young.I downed the end of my drink and stood. “I’m going to let my mum know I’ll walk home. Be outside in ten.”

The August night was cool but bone dry, first autumn leaves swishing against the pavement as we walked. Hands in pockets, arms bumping. Casual. Like teenagers. Like we didn’t know we were going to fuck.  

“We going to yours?” Or was I going to have to get creative in the woods? I wasn’t taking him back to my mum’s, that much was certain.

“Got a flat, just off Oxford Road.”

The small talk started. Just taking us back to those summers when we knew each other. When he was the mouthy best friend of my little sister’s boyfriend. When I was the awkward hanger on, wondering what to do with my height and my kinky dreams and the boys who didn’t want to kiss me.

He paused at the petrol station, turned so suddenly he banged into me, grabbing my waist to keep me steady. Bringing us chest to chest. Face to face. His breath was sweet and minty with gum over the bitterness of our drinks. In the sodium lit dark I could see his flushed cheeks black against his orange hued skin. His eyes skimming my face and returning again and again to my lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

I kissed him, pretty sure that was what he wanted. He fought me a bit before he seemed to work out he didn’t have to. Before I brought his hands to my shoulders and hooked my thumbs into his belt loops. Let my fingers trail, loose and casual against the seam of his jeans. Hips stuttering into mine, hard and keen. I pinched his backside and pushed him away.

We walked faster then, falling into rhythm with each other. Made our way up the narrow stairs into the converted flat that was small and cluttered. I crowded him into the wall and kissed him hard, catching his wrists and pinning him and tasting the hitch in his breath, the sweetness of his gasp as I ground against him.

“What do you want?” Cursing myself for asking, I met his eyes anyway.

“Cuz said,”

“I know what Cuz said,” I interrupted, even though I didn't, letting a touch of growl into my voice, “I asked what you want.”

His hips ground up against mine again, and I dropped his wrist to manhandle his cock. If he’d been listening to Cuz, this shouldn’t have come as a shock. His hand stayed against the wall, a strangled sound bubbling from his mouth as though the pressure was on his throat.

“Please! I don’t know. I just…”

I let go and stepped back. Risky move, but I’d rather frig off after a long walk back to mum’s than make a fool of myself now. He’d kissed well enough, his hard, lean body against mine wanking fodder for the next little while if this was all I got.

“He said you fucked him. Like a man. But y’know. Not.” His words spilled out in a hot rush. “I want… I mean, I think… I dream about it. And then there you were. I didn’t think you lived here anymore.”

I don’t. I think we covered that in our memory lane session, but scrambling his brain is satisfying on a certain level. I wonder if he’s ever thought about me, or just the act.

“Please.” Just the right amount of need with the right amount of conviction in his plea.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

I push his heavy jacket down his arms till it thumps on the floor. Unbutton his shirt. Dark coarse hair that wasn’t there when we were seventeen springs to meet my fingers. Nipples flushed red and tight standing to attention as I stroke through the fur. Flushed like his mouth. I step in closer and take more. Take his breath, the softness of his lips between mine, between my teeth. Fuck into his mouth with my tongue, dancing with his. Take the lead.

Take my time.

Pop the button on his jeans and push my hand into the warm nest of his undies.  Measure him in my hand, his weight, his girth. Burrow past to his balls, pulled high already. His groan as I cup them and pull down gently is powerful magic I don’t understand but live for anyway. Who knows what makes me who I am?

His hands start to move to undress me, but this isn’t how this will go. “Naked. Bedroom. Now.” I order, not even trying to temper myself. He said it. I want to fuck him, open him, feel him stretch around my fingers. I want him beneath me, naked and panting.

The next thought, the one I never let myself have, barrels through me, catching me unawares, hitches my breath and weakens my knees.  I want to fuck him. I want to fuck him with the dick I don’t have.

Food For thought Friday: Inappropriate locations

Where is the most inappropriate place that you have engaged in any kind of sexual activity?

Ahhh… well… there is inappropriate because of location and inappropriate because you were being naughty isn’t there? So, in line with the rest of the prompt, (and yes the clue is in the picture) I am going to give you by location and save naughty for later (I don't seem to have a filter…so one day I will end up telling everyone)

In the sea off Xi Beach in Kefalonia…which I know doesn't sound that inappropriate but to be more precise…

Xi Beach is a beautiful sandy shallow beach on the southernmost tip of a peninsula, gently swelling sea for 270 degrees of view, making it a rather popular.tourist destination and in all the travel guides. The weather was roasting and our little hire car didn't have air con, so we were hot and sticky and desperate to take our clothes off. I don't know know why, but we were surprised at how full the beach was, given it was very late afternoon, and desperate for some alone space. We waded out in the gentle swell of a shallow beach, until we were pretty much further out that anyone except the sporty windsurfers and kayakers, but the water still came to the bottom of our ribcages if that. Our second holiday together, not yet engaged and interestingly, the same week I discovered he didn’t want me topless in public. But he did want me. Too much for the hour or so back to our little apartment on the other side of the island. I wrapped my legs around his waist and lay back in the water. We’d never had sex against the wall because even then I was too much of a handful to be picked up, so in the water sex, with my weight supported by the gentle waves, was perfect.

There was no real way we could realistically hide what we were doing…close enough to a crowded beach (hundreds of people I think… possibly more) for it to basically be both exhibitionism and very frowned upon by the Greek authorities if they’d caught us. I think we just worked on the grounds everyone else was so busy looking at what they were doing they wouldn’t notice us. I remember being so swept away that he didn’t want to wait, that I wasn’t going to say no. At this point in our lives, I hadn’t worked out with the certainty and confidence I have now, that I am submissive to the point I don’t always make good decisions… or rather I don’t necessarily question the decisions of others that I trust even when the non-submissive bit of me squeaks out the “are you sure?” warning. The difference is now we know this as a couple, he interrogates his decision making differently, taking sole responsibility for my safety and dignity in every potentially kinky situation.

We didn't lose clothes, just pushed aside swimsuits for a hurried fuck to the rhythm of the tide and the muted sounds of the distant crowd. 

I am working on the grounds this is slightly more inappropriate to the swimming pool in Portugal the year before, when we had discovered having me floating increased the range of positions we could explore. And no… that wasn’t a private pool. And it was in the daytime… but to be fair, no-one else was actually in the water at the same time as us…

Now I just cringe at the ickyness of potential contamination… but at the time, wild with energy for each other and well before the kids came along, we just went with the flow.

When I think about it… on holiday last year we did borrow the key to the campsite jacuzzi pool once or twice and manage a quickie… but I hasten to say, not “in” the jacuzzi, but we were sharing a caravan with three kids and two au pairs, so the brick built block which housed the jacuzzi and a steam room seemed like the most secure option. Fifteen years on and it was more about privacy than exhibitionism.

Last night we christened our new spa pool. I have written about why we have one last year, but this year we needed a new one and when summer arrived for two days last week we ordered it. Bigger…I can lie down and completely not touch the sides.

I lay on top of him, supported by the water, letting my body rub and float over his. The lightest of touches. And we kissed. Just touching, barely there, breathing each other in kisses that lasted for time we couldn’t quantify. We listened to each other breathe, the soft patter of rain on the canopy overhead and the silence.

I love being in the water with him. Love the freedom from awkward limbs and (now creaking) joints and the limitations of being bigger.

I also love the late night dog walkers walking the pavement feet from where we are hidden behind a tall brick wall and some even taller dogwood. How their conversations change from murmurs to words so clear and sharp you can hear their breathing, then fade back to a murmur and silence. The safety and the exhibitionism all in one.

As I’ve been writing this I have realised that is the common theme. I don’t really want to be seen, but at the same time my inner exhibitionist wants to play. I don’t find my body sexy, so hidden in the water suits me just fine. But the sounds and the knowledge that I’m/we’re having sex…I don’t mind sharing that at all.