The things I would do for you

We are moving away from Mittleuropa this week. What does this mean? It means sun and ocean air instead of this perpetual cold drizzle we have been having here. It means I don’t know when I’ll see him again instead of waking up with him every morning. It means we have to do whatever we can now to ensure that we are in the the same city instead of two and a half hours apart. It also means he needs to decide how to be a presence in his home (that his ex won’t leave) and still see me every night. I hate this uncertainty and what makes it worse is that he is working so much to finish his work here that I have little time to relish our last few nights together.

Meanwhile, after another long stretch without sex, we’ve been doing our best to make up for lost time. It’s awfully easy to slip into a behavior that doesn’t include fucking- life is still sweet, and so is his cock- but having that connection present in our lives again surprised us with how imporant it is in keeping us emotionally intertwined, and refreshing our desire for each other.

Two nights ago: I begged him to bring out the flogger he bought when we were in London. It’s a wonderful little toy, with soft leather strips than whistle through the air and land on my skin with a resounding thwack, but really is very gentle and light and looks more intimidating than it really is. I layed on my back with my knees bent and legs pressed together as he retrieved it from its hiding place. He turned the bedside lamp off- an action that signals perversity to come- and gently dragged the tails of the flogger between my breasts, along the side of my hip, from temple to cheek to neck to collarbone. Its soft feathery strokes soon ceased, a pause just long enough to provoke a bit of fearful anticipation, and then the stinging slaps of the flogger began to land on my skin.

Relentlessly they landed against my breasts, my stomach, the tops of my thighs. I squirmed as he pried my legs apart and delivered blows to the inside of my thighs and finally to my exposed pussy: sometimes sharp and swift, sometimes lightly dragging the strips over my engorging vulva and clit. He reversed his swing and my ass recieved more blows. I lifted my hips to expose more of my backside though I asked him to flog me closer to my pussy when he struck. He slipped his fingers inside my pussy to monitor my level of arousal and commented on how I get just a little bit wetter when he calls me his little fuck whore and tells me what he’s going to do to my pussy.

I rolled over to the side of the bed and brought up the weighted nipple clamps. I asked him to put them on me and lick my nipples as he releases the weight. Instead he clamped one only on my left breast and sucked it into his mouth, metal and all. As he slowly pulled on the weight, he sucked harder on my nipple sending a wave of goosebumps over my breasts and arms. He clamped the other one to my right tit and pushed me onto my hands and knees. I bent my arms just a bit so that the jewel-shaped weights brushed against the sheets, forward and backward, making my nipples feel as if they were burning from the weight and motion. Finally I pressed my face against the pillows, allowing my tits to touch the bed, slowly crumpling the weights underneath and forcing the metal clamps on my nipples to twist uncomfortably.

He held my hip with one hand and with the other gently stroked the center of my back from the nape of my neck to the crack of my ass. He brushed his fingers past my asshole slowly on the way to dipping his fingers into my pussy. With two, then three fingers he stroked my g-spot with that come-hither motion that makes me swell inside. With his fingers beating insistently against my swollen pussy, he used his other hand to wield the flogger delivering blows across my ass. From every direction he administered these slaps- with the straps landing alternately on the top of my ass, over each cheek, and teasing me terribly with my favorite, the blow that lands squarely on my pussy and drags slowly over my asshole and between my ass cheeks.

Finally he dropped the flogger, leaving the cheeks of my ass light pink and glowing and warm. He moaned when he saw what he had accomplished and grabbed my ass with both hands. He kneaded my cheeks, slowly pulling them apart as he did so, opening my pussy lips, exposing my tender wet parts to the cool air. I reached in between my legs and stroked my fingers past my clit and over my swollen labia. Back to my clit, I circled it, alternately dipping inside my cunt and sliding those newly slick fingers back to massage my clit. He used his thighs to push my legs farther apart, and leaned over my back to pull on my nipple clamps. Quite sore, I let out a little yelp, causing him to give one breast a hard tug, and then grabbed both of them and squeezed them firmly.

His cock pushed past my pussy lips and began to stoke me in a slow, dipping rhythm. I clenched my muscles and arched my back and forced this tender exchange into a harder, deeper penetration. With him pulling on my tits and me clenching my pussylips around his engorged cock, it only took a flick of my fingers over my clit to push me into orgasm. I bucked and wiggled and pressed my ass against his hips and soon I heard the telltale ragged breathing that signaled his orgasm. 

After we collapsed onto the bed, he helped me remove the nipple clamps. Wearing them is never as painful as removing them, and as soon as they were slipped off I gasped with the sharp sensation of removal. I looked up to watch his expression as I did this and saw in his eyes a look of concern. A smile crept over my lips and I giggled just a bit. He saw then how obvious my pleasure was at the biting pain of the clamps. His face relaxed, and he gave me a playful slap and said, “you horny bitch…”

Minutes later, he turned to me in a sleep-induced hazed and asked, “you’re ovulating aren’t you?”

I suppose I am. Right now I’m wearing my smartballs and really trying my hardest not to creep off to the bedroom and pull out that toy that is always guaranteed to make me squirt.

so, the email:

smart balls and nipple clamps under bra.
> 
> off to the market,
> 
> 
> love you,
> Kitty
>

and his response:  

Jeez.  

You crack me up.

Lookin' forward to this (whatever it will be).

Probably a mess.

Love you too,

* 

Sometimes when I hear that the picture editor says things like “why don’t you reconcile with your wife,” and I then hear him talking to her on the phone about her latest medical issue (not intimate, but intimate nonetheless), I am threatened and get terribly jealous. The danger of withdrawal increases and threatens to take on a life of its own.

But then I have a day like last Sunday where we don’t leave the bed until four in the afternoon, and there is something that happens besides the obvious that opens us up to each other just a bit more, reaffirms our bond and brings us closer, sending us floating through work for the next few days in a fog.

And then there are email exchanges like this, that make me never want to be without him:

On 2/28/06 5:00 PM, "kitty" wrote:

> Ich bin gespannt auf der Alltag mit dir. Und heute abend. Ich freue mich.
> Doch. Ich habe eine Bitte. Komm heir. Gleich. Oder spaeter. Und wir
> studieren Biologie. Fortpfanzung Dinge, zum bespiele. Und lehsen fernsehen.
> Und schlafen gehen. Ich liebe dich.
> 
> Bis bald.

Kitty

Und die antwort:

I love you too.  I want you fucking.  I want with you the procreation to
practice.  And you the tongue in the throat to stick.  And you with the
hairbrush to spank.  And you the fingers in the pussy to shove.  And you to
the coming bring.

I can it hardly awaiting.

Liebe,

*

One would think that fucking and horniness would be inversely proportional, and maybe linear, but I don’t think it’s true. I think it might be a positive exponential function.

Eating too much: weiße Wurst mit süssem Senf

Drinking too much: Helles, half a litre, in the morning, for breakfast

Reading too much: White Teeth, Zadie Smith. Vorsprung (Rechtschreibreform spelling!)

Fucking too much: Last night: me on top, him holding my wrists behind my back.

And no, it’s never enough. I need him to come home right now so I can present him with my tender pussy, my aching tits and my hungry mouth. I always seem to provoke him…just the right amount of teasing, small insinuations whispered into his ear, a swift hard bite on the lower lip after a tender kiss…for him to want to slap me, and tug on my nipples, and hold me down into the pillows, ass slightly raised, him behind me pushing my knees apart, fucking me just so. One hand squeezing my ass, spreading my lips so he can watch his cock work in and out of my pussy. The other hand first at my neck, then the back of my head, fingers tangled in my messy morning hair, then full weight pressing into the small of my back so my haunches arch to meet his thrusts. Hitting my g-spot until I whine and moan and want to come and beg him to fuck me harder, like a child begging for a sweet. I used to tell him “I’m never horny in the morning” and “I doubt if you can make me come, it’s too early.” My, how things have changed.

Soon, off to Salzburg. It’s Mozart’s 250th birthday, don’t you know? Cold and snowy here…Portugal would be lovely this time of year, darling…

The divorce is getting very ugly. I’m not surprised. I’m intensely curious but when I hear the details, or just see the look on his face when he comes home after receiving an email form her or her lawyer, my stomach turns and my heart breaks just a little. Why can’t people just  be reasonable? I know this is a stupid question to ask. I know there is a lot of anger, I even understand the greed in the face of fear, but the lying and misinformation and pure fiction of some of it just blows my mind.

SHE is the one who stopped the relationship. Did she think there would be no repercussions to her actions? That he would say, yes, fuck other people, spend my money, scorn and belittle me for years and I’ll gladly continue to support you financially forever (at at the level at which you believe you deserve, and not at the level at which my income allows). She isn’t fooling anyone she knows, but the danger is she just might fool the judge. And the round and round is costing a pretty penny, and not hers.

I walked around the market today, watching the shops close down, the tourists drinking their beer, eating their pastries. Wishing you were with me. I’m lonely with you gone all day. I think about last night, and how intense the sexual bond is, now that I’m in working order again. I had almost forgotten, in my misery. You rub the lips of my labia, thumb rough on my clit, fingers dipping gently to stroke my g-spot. You fuck me deeply, slowly, my leg thrown over your shoulder, your hand clutching my breast, my mouth. My breath catches and I stop breathing, eyes closed, lost in the pleasure of it all. You pause, take my face in your hands and say, “Breathe. Look at me and breathe!” and I do. Our eyes meet, your intense gaze frightens me a little, and my deep, even breaths unlock the emotion, the profound desire, the immediacy of my need for you, and I come. You lower your head onto my chest, I lick your neck from shoulder to jawline, you mumble something, and shudder and come, too. So sweet. So close. So intimate. Moments like this make me want to be with you. (forever).

I have little desire to write right now. I wanted to tell you about the flight back to Europe, and how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, I wanted to tell you about the double penetration and the multiple squirting orgasms, the bruises on my breasts and early morning fingering, but I can’t. Because all of those things I just mentioned, plus the jetlag thats been dragging out for the past week, and general fatigue and frigid temperatures have brought on one hell of a bladder infection and I am just exhausted. Nauseated and anxious and exhausted.

In the mean time, I give you this, from him, kitty, grandma:

Does not fucking you last night qualify for “behaving myself”?  Does fucking you in the ass a few nights ago _not_ qualify?  How about evoking the Amrita and a vaginal orgasm?  A good grandma would praise the boyfriend for that at least.  And I think if your grandma knew about the phenomenon and how it feels, deep down she would approve, although she might never admit it.

I think she is a wonderful grandma.  You always have to see the cultural and moral context someone is operating in.  

If you have the chance, send my love.

Love,

*

On 1/21/06 2:02 PM, kitty wrote:

greetings, sort of

 

---

 

From: grandma
To: kitty
Date: Fri, 20 Jan 2006 21:52:10 EST

Hi,
I sent your books off last Tuesday.  Hope you’re not freezing to death.  It has been pretty cold here, but no snow to speak of.  Tell *, Hello, and to behave himself.  I go for my preop exam Monday.  My mammogram came back negative for which I am thankful.

Love,
Grandma

My darling,

Talking to you can be excruciating. I can’t spend the limited time I have on the phone with you talking about her, and how crazy she is and how manipulative she has become and what the lawyers are conspiring to do and how the forensic accountant is going to hold your papers from Berlin. I can’t do it, as curious as I am. My body tells me these conversations are poison.

Why don’t I stop you? You bite your tongue when you catch yourself and insist I interrupt when you begin but some how all that I do is get tense and nauseous and despairing and allow you to continue. Why am I punishing myself like this? Do I feel guilty loving you? Do I feel that I don’t deserve you and must punish myself for it? Is it just an ugly habit now? Or am I wallowing in self-righteousness and voyeuristic pleasure watching her deperate attempts to defend herself.

I tell you this: it makes me jealous to know that she is playing the good wyfe and making dinner every night. Don’t tell me how good the soup was. Don’t tell me your child had two bowls. Don’t fucking tell me you made the salad and the lemon cake she baked was tart just like you like it. It doesn’t help that you say it is all a farce. It doesn’t help.

I can make it to May, living with you in our little european fantasy bubble, but if this farce goes on for much past that, I will take my thirty-one inch suitcase and my three shot espresso maker and plant myself somewhere else. Far from you and your mess that you can’t seem to get out of fast enough for my taste. Let me remind you that I was doing just fine before you came along. There were men who told me they were lucky to know me, men that tied me up and held me down and made me wetter than I have ever been, men that would drive for hours to see me one last time, then fly to europe to see me once again. Maybe it won’t be the same on the other side without you, but it will be just fine.

I choose you, and sometimes I don’t know why,

kitty

“It’s six am in Central Europe,” he said, “early enough for a leisurely fuck before I go to work.” Yes, my love, but I am here and you are there and it will be one more week before we touch like that if things keep going like they are.

Tonight Granny started a fire for me out in the computer room thinking I would go out there to work on the thing-that-shall-not-be-mentioned (way-overdue writing for the degree that shall not be named). What do I do? Spread out an afgan by the wood stove, stack some pillows, access the garage next door to retrieve the toys I left in storage for my GMT +1 hiatus, and proceeded to stick things inside me that haven’t seen my tender parts in months. A little thrilling, a little shameful. Had to pull the shade on the far side of the room so the neighbors wouldn’t see, and checked the view from the cabin so Granny wouldn’t get a heart attack. I’m really desperate to take the toys inside, especially the vibrating butt plug, but afraid of the noise it will make, not to mention that the floors reverberate whenever I pull out the little purple bunny vibe. Maybe tomorrow, while she’s at church…

Things are desperate here. I thought I would see him on Thursday, but it never happened. I thought maybe Monday would work, but again, no. Hopefully something will come up, so that he can have an excuse to escape and see me. We both have too much work before we return but I’m aching to be with him. Having fantasies of getting loose on red wine and hole-in-the-wall Thai, and then screwing myself down on his cock. I’m dying to lean over him, trace my nipples over his chest, and lick his mouth like it is the most succulent pussy in the world. I want to see the expression on his face after he slaps me, feel his grip on my tits, his fingers in my mouth. I have little desire for others, but the mustachioed neighbor is creeping into my fantasy world. Sometimes I think I can hold out forever and sometimes I can’t wait another day.

Eating too much: High desert sushi

Drinking too much: black tea, milk and sugar

Reading too much: the Sibley Guide to Birds

Fucking too much: no! not at all!

Today he told his children he is getting a divorce. The response was a bit peculiar.

because the pocket rocket isn’t as quiet as it used to be. And what is the problem, sweetheart, that when I try to provoke you into a little dirty talk over the phone you don’t respond? “Under or over the panties, darling?” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck I’m frustrated.

It’s starting to snow here in the mountains and I only hope I’ll be able to get down the hill so I can meet him in LA. The excuse is a film premiere but we all know what it’s really for. I am such a sweeter girl when I get what I need. Fuck. Please.

is better when your man is shoving his fingers inside of you while rubbing your clit with his thumb. Squirting is better when he lifts cupped hands from between your legs and splashes your stomach with the evidence of his work. Squirting is better when you have daily maid service to change the soaking sheets. Isn’t it all better when he turns to you after you exclaim “I never thought I could do that with you” and he calmly says, “my darling, I knew you would.” He sees this as some sort of evolution in our sexual behavior. As if each new practice added to our repertoire means we are closer to a divine sexuality.

We are going home for Christmas. That is, I’m going to my parents on the east coast, he’s going back to his family on the west coast. I am reluctant to leave this place; it has become my home. He, of course, has children and a Christmas tree and a wife to return to. Breakfast dishes to wash over there, and drycleaning to pick up over there, and a daily routine, over there. Me, I’ll be wandering around my parent’s house aimlessly, wishing I could skip it all and stay in this bed, behind me, where he sleeps, not-so-quietly after a night of red wine and vodka and the sweet, embarrassing truths that come out when one is not-just-slightly drunk.

Eating too much: pate en terrine

Drinking too much: gluehwein

Reading too much: Colette

Fucking too much: from behind, with one hand pushing down on my lower back, the other, spreading me open to watch the penetration

Should I take my vibrator with me?

“I want you to suck me until I am hard, then climb on top of me and stick my cock into your ass, so I can fuck you with my fingers and suck on your tits.”

Instead we fell asleep. Well, with his cock in my pussy imbedded from behind. Two little sleepy spooners.

More on squirting later….