eLust #82

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Photo courtesy of Teachers Have Sex

Welcome to Elust #82

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #83 Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Take Me

How Do I Love Thee:On Comparing Relationships

Asking all the questions…

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

I Manage My Expectations

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Wanna Have Sex With Me? – Here’s how
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Maybe I’m not a pervert after all
Bad Excuses
Engaging with Sexuality: A Personal Perspecti
I wish there were more porn
Cock Size: Does it matter?
Blue is not a “boy color.”

Erotic Non-Fiction

Watching My Wife With Another Man Story
Afternoon Cunnilingus & Birthday Sofa Sex
Why You Should Shave Your Partner
Oct 2014 Session – Mistress Claire
Two Days Later
Roping a cougarling
Divining Rods
Dorabella’s pink-velvet spanner

Erotic Fiction

Puppy Love
Quick & Dirty
She Says My Voice Changes for Her
THE BLINDFOLD – fear of the unknown
U is for undress…
Stay Baby…Stay.
kink of the week–glasses

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Slutfest Reflection
Love and Fairness
Winnowing
V is for……..
My heart turns blacker: the new rules

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Blast from the Fetish Video Past
The whole person approach to Submission
Down on my knees
Dominant Doppelgangers, Dominant Opposites
Four eyes
BDSM and Depression: Therapy or Self-Harm?

Poetry

Eden, Revisited: A Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

Stepping Stones
Centering Disabled Characters in My Erotica

 

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Quick & Dirty

Something quick. Something dirty.

…………………………………………….

The day I came home from work and saw her on the bed, face down, squirming in just a bra and panties. I dropped my coat on the floor and took a few steps towards her. I saw the cuffs on her wrists. Her fingers gripped the headboard. A large pillow was tucked under her hips. No, not a pillow. An indulgence of mine. A large black leather bolster. Her hips rocked against it.

I spanked her bottom.

I spanked her through her panties. I pushed my fingers against the side of her face. I needed to push her deep into the mattress. I spanked the backs of her thighs. I pulled her panties down to her knees and spanked her bare ass, sliding my hand between her thighs. Feeling.

The spanking lasted for only a few minutes before I climbed on top of her, clawing my way closer, tight against her. I needed to jerk off. This was for me. A display. Perfect and beautiful. A picture I’d had in my mind. Maybe I’d told her about it one night.  Maybe she just knows me.

When I climb on top of her, when I wrap my thighs around her and grind against her hip, she moans to me, happy. “Oh baby, yes,” she says.

…………………………………………….

I like to jerk off in the morning. She wraps herself around me. She tugs at my chest. Rubs the back of my hand through my underwear. She cups my fingers lightly, feeling me. She breathes against my ear or my neck. I look at her cupping the bulge my hand makes under my briefs. She tells me how handsome I am. I feel her tongue on the tip of my own. I come while she pets me. I come in her arms and let her hold me until my breathing slows.

…………………………………………….

Tonight I want to strap on a dick and fuck her. Slowly. Pull in and out. Over and again. For a long time.

I don’t want to tease my way in. I want to push her back and pin her against the floor. Pull her pants down, her panties. I want her to feel her bones against the hardwood. I’ll let the lube drip through my fingers. I don’t mind a mess. Lube on my dick. Lube on the lips of her cunt. I’ll push my fingers inside her. It starts rough. Aggressive. Impatient.

As I hold my dick in my hand and push it inside her, everything stops. Slow motion. I want her to hear how hard I’m breathing. “Put your hands on my back,”  I whisper. What I want is not her holding me. What I want is for her to feel how hot I am. The sweat already surfacing around my spine. My palms are flat on the floor on either side of her. My dick is inside her. I don’t want to look at her. Let me feel this. Everything. My belly. Hers. The hot sweat between us. Her thighs shifting open. I want to be deeper. I want to lift her hips.

Nobody comes. Not like this. I’ll kneel on the floor and pull her up onto my thighs, pushing my dick back inside her and grunting at her to jerk off. I like it when her fingers shake.

An Old Favorite

I was always kicking something as a kid. I’d find a rock on the sidewalk and stay with it. Half listening to whatever my friends were saying, I focused on kicking that rock. I liked rocks. Cans are too noisy and I didn’t like to litter. I was a kid who obeyed the rules. Rules made me nervous. I was too scared to try breaking them.

When I got older, it was the brass pole under the bar. Sitting there with my drink. Looking around. Kicking the pole or the wood with my boot. Or my heel kicking back against my barstool. My knees are always bouncing when I try to sit politely. I wipe the side of my thumb across my upper lip as a habit. I’m nervous. Jumpy. I’m never sure what I’m supposed to do. I like knowing what’s expected of me. Give me the rules. Give me a script and I’ll follow it.

Some of us need to be boxed in a little. Some of us need something wrapped around us a little tighter than the rest. I needed her warm hands on my face making me look her right in the eye. “Hush,” she’d say, “I’m here.”

I liked working hard and not talking. I worked in the yard. I hauled orders to the waiting pickup trucks. Bags of cement. Stacks of plywood. 2x4s. I came home smelling of wood. Sap stuck on the hairs of my arms. Early spring meant railroad ties and the smell of creosote. I hauled the loads and set them in the backs of waiting pickups. Laid everything out nice and neat. Stacked it all perfectly. Nodded to the customer when it was all there and walked back for the next load.

I didn’t have a girl at home. I didn’t have a girl waiting at the bar for me. I didn’t know how to find one. I went home alone. Ate alone. Opened a beer in the cockeyed metal chair outside my front door. And then another. The street light was right off my porch and shone too bright. I could see the raw skin on my hands. Too rough. “I look older than I am,” I thought, “I feel older than I am.” I didn’t mind. That’s just how it was. I felt old. I was pretty much done. And like I’ve said, I didn’t mind.

My story isn’t sad. Not to me. Don’t think I was sad. I knew what it felt like. Everything. All of it. I knew and that was enough. I didn’t want to bother with anything less. I’d tasted it. I would never forget that. She was everything.

I met her when I nearly ran over her kid. I was in my truck, cutting off work for the day. I rounded a corner and slammed on the breaks when I saw this kid, maybe 5 years old, standing in the middle of the road looking down. He had his back to me. I jumped out with my adrenaline racing, angry. I scooped him up roughly and tucked him under my arm to carry him over to the sidewalk. As soon as I let him go, he kicked my shin and ran back to the road. It was then that I saw the cat lying there. Dead. “Poor kid,” I said out loud. I walked over, more gentle this time. “Hey,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “That your cat?” He nodded. “Okay,” I said, “I can help you out. Go get your mom.”

He ran inside and I grabbed the shovel out of the back of my truck. He came back with his mom. She stood there with her hand over her mouth. She was already crying hard. Gulping air. “I’ll take care of this,” I said, “We can bury her in the back.” “Him,” her boy said stubbornly, “That’s a he cat.” She put her arm around her boy and they headed around behind the house. I waited until they were out of sight before scooping the stiff cat up with my shovel. I went back to my truck and found an old towel to wrap him in. I left my car there in the road while I carried the sad little bundle of dead cat around to the back.

It was quick work. A shallow grave under a half-dead tree in their back yard. I stood off to the side, out of earshot, as they said goodbye. The boy ran over and hugged me after. I stood with my hands up in the air like someone had a gun pointed at me, not knowing how to comfort him, not feeling right about it. He ran inside and his mom wandered over to me. “Thank you, stranger,” she said. “My name’s Cyd,” I answered, “Don’t call me a stranger anymore.” She looked me right in the eye for a long time after that and I didn’t look away. It was different for me right from the start. I’m taller than I should be and tend to shuffle my feet and stare off in the distance most of the time people talk to me. But not her. I looked her straight on that day. From then on, she always made me look her in the eye. It wasn’t easy.

I remember that first day in crisp detail. What follows gets a little blurry. And the end is totally lost to me.  But that first day swims in front of me like a movie sometimes. An old favorite.

Maybe I should have more regrets about the whole thing, but I don’t. I did the best I could. I was never meant to keep a girl like that around. I count myself lucky to have had the chance at all. She was younger than me by six years but I’d spent so much time in the sun and smoked so many cigarettes that I looked a lot older than I should. We looked far apart. I know people talked even if they never had the guts to say it to my face.

She liked to dress me up and go out to the movies. I’d clean up after work, shower, she’d have a shirt waiting on the bed for me, pressed and ready to go. I’d grab my wallet and make sure I had enough to get us in and we’d go out the door, her arm in mine, walking to the cinema in the cool night. She loved the movies. Those nights, her kid would sleep at his grandma’s out in the woods. We’d come home to the house and have a good time. Drinking, fucking, she was all over me up the stairs to our bedroom. She liked to fuck before we got to the bed. Get me to fuck her on the stairs. She’d stop halfway up and bend over. I watched her kick off her boots and jerk her jeans down. Her ass pushing towards me. “Come on,” she’d snarl at me, “I want to feel it.” I’d stare at her knuckles gripping the banister rails while I jammed my fingers inside her. I couldn’t stop for anything. I’d piss my pants if I had to but I would not stop. My fingers felt rough inside her soft, wet hole. I could feel how her pussy pulled at me, wanting more. My leathered, wrinkled hand felt too bony, too skinny for her cunt, but I wrapped an arm around her and fucked her as hard as I could.

She would sigh and brush her hair off her face before walking the rest of the way up the stairs and heading into the bathroom. I’d stand there with a shaky feeling inside me, hoping she had come, not knowing for sure. Either way, she’d want more. Always more. And that made me feel good. I felt good being wanted like that. I liked the way she led me. She taught me how to fuck. Some nights, she whispered what she wanted. Told me to be rough with her. I never questioned any of it.

I’m trying to tell you so it’s clear. So you understand what this meant to me. Nothing in my life ever made me feel comfortable in myself. And it’s not that I felt at ease with her. But I never questioned. And that made all the difference. That was easy. She could tell me anything. Ask me to do anything. It was easy for me to follow instructions. It calmed me down.

Some nights, after she put her boy to bed, she’d come walk between me and the television. I’d grab her wrist and pull her to me like she liked. She’d play fight a little but it was easy pulling her knees apart. Easy to hold her still while I touched her. I could hold both her hands behind her back in one of my hands and unbutton her top with the other. She’d toss her head a little like she wanted to get free, but never struggled hard enough to make me think I should stop. She had to show me how to be in charge, but I followed easy. I felt it deep inside me. I felt her tap into who I was meant to be, who I would have been under different circumstances.

I thought it meant I was supposed to be raised a boy, but I know better now. I just needed people to let me be. She wanted that for me. She was sure I could get out of my head one day and just do what I wanted, get what I wanted. I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I knew it was too late for me. I never knew what I wanted. My mind was locked up and that key was so far gone I wouldn’t know where to look. What worked with us was how she could make me forget that sometimes. If I knew what she wanted, if I had the instructions, I could do anything.

She liked to be spanked. She liked me to take her over my knee and pull down her pants. She liked it when I’d drink too much and get a little rowdy, carrying her up the stairs and throwing her on the bed. My whole life I’d stooped and felt ashamed of being so big, but with her it felt like I was shining bright. I was big enough to take care of her. She’d melt in my arms. I knew how to hold her down with one hand and get everything else done with the other. I didn’t like to play the boy with her, strap on a dick. I know a lot of butches like that, but it just made me miserable. I’d fuck her with my hands. If she wanted something more inside her, I’d hold onto whatever it was I fucked her with. I didn’t need a dick. That felt too close to something I never wanted to be. I struggled all the time with figuring out what I wanted, but felt sure I already had it inside me. I didn’t need to change who I was, just figure it all out.

That first year was perfect. I’d come home after work and shower. I’d play with her boy in the backyard before supper. We’d all take long drives on weekends and go to the river or the woods. She’d pack sandwiches and I’d bring beer. I taught her boy to fish. It felt like we were any other family. The only difference was on birthdays or holidays they had to go without me to her parents. They had to go without me all the time to this or that. It was a regular reminder that we weren’t a real family. That was how it had to be. We couldn’t be like that. Somewhere else people might think I was her husband, but not here. I never tried to fool anybody. The whole town knew.

Her brother’s drank. I drank. She didn’t like to get us together. Mostly we stayed apart. Mostly she and I went our own way, nowhere near her brothers. Nowhere near her dad. But I guess we kept feeling like we were a family as much as anyone else and it made us stupid.

I don’t remember everything. I don’t remember a lot of things. But I remember that last Homecoming. I remember going out to the football game. I remember her sitting next to me, tucked under my arm, on the cold metal bleachers. I remember the whiskey in my flask keeping us both warm. I remember how she cheered seeing the Homecoming Queen wave at the crowd. She knew the girl’s family. She wanted to go see the lighting of the bonfire and warm up before we drove home. I wrapped my arms around her and felt that big fire warm on my face. I felt a little drunk. Happy for a minute. But the next thing I felt was a big hand on my arm, jerking me away from her. I heard her screaming. I saw everyone stare. And I ran.

I’m not proud of it, but I ran. I ran hard as far as I could go. I heard them following behind me. I heard people yelling back at the bonfire. I was scared. I jumped a ditch and headed into the sparse woods knowing that I couldn’t get away. Knowing this was only making it worse. But at least out here, this far away from the crowd, no one would see. She wouldn’t see. She wouldn’t have to be ashamed of me. Ashamed of us. Ashamed of who we were together. I got far enough into the woods and stopped, bending over and spitting. I threw up the last slugs of whiskey in my stomach before they caught up to me.

They beat me up bad. I got in a few good hits, but they beat the shit out of me. I was scared to move a muscle afterwards. I lay there on my side with a leaf stuck to my lower lip and felt the lumps swell up. I had held my arms close as they pummeled me and was pretty sure I’d kept them from breaking a rib. But my arms felt bruised and stiff. My eyes felt swollen shut. My face was warm from blood and snot and tears. I half wished they’d killed me and half wish I’d killed them.

She wanted me to call the police but I knew that would break everything between us. Everything we were together depended on a lot of denial. I was broken when she met me and only pretending to be whole. I’d know that the whole time. How could we got back to that? I should have known it was already over but nothing else mattered anymore. She took care of me. I was laid up in bed for awhile. She held my face and made me look at her even when I cried and begged her to leave me alone. When the swelling was gone but the bruises were still visible, she crawled on top of me, staying over the covers and asked me to watch her undress. She made me watch her touch herself. She told me she needed to feel my big hands on her. She told me she missed my fingers. She wouldn’t let me look away no matter how much I wanted to. She told me I could do this for her and she believed that I really could. But I knew it was all gone. It didn’t matter if I wanted to be the same person she wanted me to be. I just couldn’t.

When I could drive again, I’d leave her over and over again. Drinking in my truck out on some farm road. Driving slow on the gravel with the headlights turned off.  Watching the cows stand around in clumps. Scaring them now and again with the horn. Gripping the steering wheel until my fingers ached. I’d come home and stop up the street, letting the truck roll slow up to the house silent, so I could watch the windows without her knowing I was there. I’d drink until I stopped shaking. Drink until I felt sick. I figured she needed to hate me. I figured she’d get there pretty soon.

We still fucked, but now it was heavy and sad. We would fuck and she’d get soft with me. Too tender. Wrap my head up in her arms and pretend she wasn’t crying. I couldn’t grip her as tight as I used to. I couldn’t make her feel small and protected. I couldn’t stand up tall in font of her and close my arms around her. I’d see pictures of all the ways she liked me to fuck her and they’d make me shake inside. Anger would boil up and I’d have to go kick something. Grab a bottle and disappear.

I couldn’t stand being so useless. I couldn’t stand how she had to hold my face in her hands until I calmed down.

I got myself arrested. I did what I was always good at, fucking up. I fucked up driving drunk. I fucked up getting in a fight. I fucked up driving my pickup truck right into her mom and dad’s front yard and ripping up the lawn. I fucked it all up. I didn’t know what else to do. I wouldn’t do it differently now. I’d do it all the same.

We had a good couple of years. She loved me better than I ever thought I’d be loved. We had a nice little family. Me and her and her kid. She made me feel like everything was just right. Perfect. She made me proud the way she looked at me. She gave my dirty thoughts the sweetest place to land. I never felt more normal and right in all my life. It was all worth it. I don’t know how we could have kept going with her family thinking the way they did and the town looking at us they way they did. And maybe some people would leave, start over somewhere else, but I know she didn’t want to. It wasn’t meant to last. Not everything is.

I’ve got no regrets. I’m gone now. I picked up and went further South. Me and my truck and my hands. I’ve never had another girl. Not for more than a few weeks. Not sitting at the supper table with me. But I’ve got the gulf outside my door and a bar down the street and I don’t have to look anybody in the eye for too long if I don’t want. These days, I can remember everything good with her and it doesn’t rattle me anymore. I can jerk off remembering how I felt with her. I can think back on how sweet it all was and know I’ve had that. I know what it feels like. I can still feel it when I touch a girl and I can make that girl feel it for an hour or two with me. I know how lucky that is. And for me, that’s good enough.