The things I would do for you

Before, a bit uncomfortable with him stimulating my g-spot. Too intense, too long, too focused on me. Lately I’ve gotten greedy and now insist on the two finger fuck, petting and stroking the spot until it swells, one hand inside me and one vibrating over my clit until I come from it all and he enters me. The same for the past few days: lick me, finger fuck me, slide inside.

 

Today, alone and horny and with a stack of pornography I decide to entertain myself. Perched on a chair I inserted the vibrator, full speed, full rotation, angled forward. I didn’t stop when it became uncomfortable, I didn’t stop when it was too intense. I felt the build up, and I continued stroking, hard and against my g-spot.

 

I moved to the bathroom because I thought I knew what was coming. Although it had never happened to me before, I had seen it. I stroked and stroked, occasionally holding the vibrating tongue against my clit, pulling away before I came, stroking again. Allowing myself to swell and ache and pushing past that feeling. Then there it was: a torrent of fluid as I came, clear and watery and squirting across the tub. I continued to pump the vibrator inside me, allowing my urethra to relax, milking every last drop out. Surprised, satisfied, it was warm and clean and slightly musky sweet. It tasted like his lips after he goes down on me.

 

So now I sit again in front of the computer. Empty and relaxed, wondering if it will ever happen again like that, wondering if it’s too soon to try again. Wanting to call and tell him this, but contemplating just showing him. I wonder, I wonder. I think I’ll try again.

Darling,

I’m starting to ache from last night, the past few nights. Maybe we should stop with the hands on my chest, at the base of my throat. The bruises on my ass and breasts show what you do to me after the lights go out, but my ribs ache and my lips are sore and you can’t see that. I fear that tomorrow my cheek will be red and sparkling with burst blood vessels. That there will be thumb prints on my jaw.

I asked you to pull the plug out of my ass because it hurt so much this time: it went in so quickly I couldn’t bring myself to relax.  What message does it send when I cry and mew and say I can’t handle it but my pussy is so much slicker and wetter after? Where is this going? I don’t think even you know.

I followed him to Europe. I rationalized the trip with thoughts that being left alone in a hotel room all day would force me to finish writing this thing that has been hanging over my head for over a year. The reality of it is that I sleep late, have leisurly morning fuck with him, then breakfast at the café on the square, then walk back home a different way each time, stopping to buy bread, look at antipasti, the wurst, the crepes, then settle on gnocchi for dinner and buy 250 grams of pesto cream sauce, a wedge of gran padano, and a handful of flat-leaf parsley to go with the half finished bottle of wine from last night.

 

I end up watching American tv dubbed into the local language and perusing the porn he downloaded off the internet. I book hotel rooms in capital city where he has to work, and although this is the place where I first met him, his capital city is far different than mine. We meet with old friends and former lovers, and establish ourselves as the new relationship with these others that only knew us in the old.

 

This has been the longest amount of time we have ever spent together. Before it was catch as catch can, making excuses to go to LA, up to him, down to me. Once a week if we were lucky. Now he walks through the door, always in the wee hours, but always back to me. No sleeping until we have had our fill of each other, almost till the sun comes up, but not quite. Not as desperate a connection as when we first met and didn’t rest until we could see each other in the daylight.

 

I thought our availability to each other and the fatigue and routine would settle the sexual behavior into something calm and easily comforting. Instead it becomes more wicked as we find safety within the relationship. He holds me down hard when I’m under him, hands slowly creeping from my chest to my shoulders to the base of my throat. Aha. I am more greedy and demanding and tell him how to fuck me and where to put his fingers and when to stop, please stop, I want to come with you inside of me, but not there. Here.

 

After a long evening of red wine and too much grappa and jealous arguing, he turns the light off, sticks his hand in my mouth, bites my breast… then slaps me. I am completely overcome with surprise, about the action, about my response. I yield to him, give myself up, become slick and hot and he slaps my face again, insistent fingers in my pussy, in my mouth. He pushes his cock between my lips, my tongue swirling around the base. I do whatever he wants. He claims me again. You greedy bitch, he says, as he fucks me from behind, and I ache into the pillow and tell him to fuck me harder, to pull on my nipples, slap my tits, slide your thumb into my ass as I wrap my fingers around your cock pumping in and out of my pussy. He slaps my ass again and he groans and he comes. I know I am his.

But there have been things to say. First, it has been six months since I first met him in a cafe in Berlin. Our first conversations, dinners, kisses in dark bars, long nights in hotel rooms watching the sun come up illuminating our exhausted bodies. His pursuit, from Kreuzberg, from Riga, from Frankfurt, then here in California….His sweet words, almost too intense to really believe. I remember the look on my German roommate’s face when she heard who was calling me…me completely oblivious to the import of the name…settling into the notion that the man I love is a man many people love in one respect or another. Yet our connection is private and very real; tender and true and all those things that are particularly sweet because they came along so unexpectedly. Here I am, six months later, open to love, for some reason utterly surprised by the joy it brings me, the comfort and the contentment that a hungry and ambitious student forgets in the maelstrom of business along the way.

It’s not perfect, by any means. His marriage.The distance. We have fought over his jealousy and need to claim me and my stubborness to stay independent and unfettered. But we persevere. We have pushed boundaries, established boundaries and explored the farthest reaches of boundaries. I ask him to take me there and he reflects, and responds without shame or hesitation. He delights me, he hurts me, he makes me want to give myself up to him with abandon. I would do anything for that tongue, that cock, that pinch of a nipple.

Sometimes when I am anxious about my work and have a hard time responding, he pulls out the hairbrush, jacks up my hips and presses the vibrator hard against my pussy until I come, breaking whatever blocks that were preventing me from being fully present. Then I respond so easily to his touch, a finger slid inside massaging my g-spot and that other place that makes me so wet. Thumb on my clit, finger on asshole. A deep sigh of pleasure knowing he will take care of me the way I need to be.

A break in his work on Thursday and he comes to me. Two and a half days of him intently. Without meetings, without research, without grading papers. Like a dream. Long breakfasts, napping, simply shopping becomes a cherished moment in our brief encounter, and then one night, this: He opens the bottle of thick lube and I think I know what’s coming. First the finger, then the thumb gets inserted into my ass, probing for the angle, prompting relaxation and surrender. He turns me over and pulls me onto my knees. My face is in the pillow, my ass and cunt exposed, I turn to see the intent look on his face and I am thrilled and frightened at the same time.

He pushes his cock into my ass firmly, stroking in and out then pushing in deeply, so that I feel him buried to the hilt, his balls against my cunt, his hands gripping my hips. I reach around and hold him inside of me, relishing the penetration, proud of my surrender to his thick cock, pussy aching. Two fingers in that ache, searching for my g-spot again, opening me up, stroking pussy lips, raising those fingers to my mouth so I can taste how wet I am. Jesus. He pulls out the rabbit pearl, the one my eyes were greedy for, the big one, and slides that into the wetness.

Oh, the ache, the vibrator on, rotating and pulsing inside my pussy as he is pounding my ass, the miniature tongue on my clit, almost too much stimulation. Almost. He says he doesn’t feel it in me but god, I do. I try to hold out, to indulge in this full penetration, this surrender, this bliss, but my back arches and my muscles clench and my nipples pucker and I am coming, intensely, repeatedly, hearing him moan over my moans, feeling him come inside me, his release and mine, together again. I am content, I am titilated, I am hungry for more. I know it will come. But right now, let’s just lie here, and feel our slick bodies resting on one another, and know that in the morning, we can start over again.

When I found the leftover Radiccio in a zip-lock bag this morning I had this big rush of warm and fuzzy feelings.  Not sure if this is good or bad, but I decided to take it as something absolutely lovely.  Not the bag or the salad per se, and certainly not a feeling of being taken care of, but simply your presence in my life is what I’m celebrating here.

Love,

*

I’m feeling you all the time.  It seems to be more pleasant than to miss you.  Try it.  Just know that I’m here, thinking of you on a regular basis, and loving you.

*

Shame on you for distracting me.

Greedy bitch.

Submissive love slave.

Sweet yumminess.

Beloved goddess.

*

I am reluctant to feel happy right now. The papers are filed but this is only the beginning of a long and messy process, and he’s so tired already. I’m sequestered away in hotel to work on Diplomarbeit but I can’t focus, am undisciplined, and feel guilty knowing how productive he is. I am happy with what his new publicist is doing, but coy, flirty interviewers make me want to slap.

Am currently spending five consecutive mornings waking up next to him. The longest amount of time I have spent with him ever. We work seperately during the day- he goes to meetings, works in the studio, me in front of the computer- but there are interludes of sweetness and then the evenings are our own. We are so giddy and silly to be together it astounds both of us. Sex is not so urgent, but there is enough to make us ache with the memory of it during the day.

Two nights ago we unexpetedly eased into anal sex. Whatever previous barriers existed fell away. I easily surrendered to his cock, which grew inside of me, and slowly moved and pulsed and finally pumped with urgency. His passion, his intensity and gratitiude radiated through his body and into mine, thrilling me with each sharp opening and the dull sweet ache of being filled. I slipped my fingers into my pussy and pressed them first against my g-spot and then against his cock, so rigid beyond the soft sponginess of the membranes seperating my pussy from my ass.

I let my head drop as I explored this new sensation, exposing my neck to his caresses. I floated my thumb over my clit, brushed my breasts with my other hand. Remarkable. He whispered he was going to come and he did. Far inside of me. Firmly. He is mine and I am completely his. He has claimed me like no other man has: every inch of my body is for him to explore completely. Hopefully the rest of me will follow suit.

He filed the papers today. He says this action has nothing to do with me being present in his life. I don’t quite believe him.

I told you too much last night. In an effort to instigate sex talk I tell you that I wrote about the incident with the air conditioner at that hotel in Hollywood, and what those moments of remembering did for me during the writing process. The sound of titillation and surprise in your voice aroused me, and maybe I let it lead you down the right path, towards this blog, and not the other that you read all the time. (I can tell. Archive whore! Are you going to continue in your obsessive way to torture yourself with my stories of ex-pat novelists and overworked attorneys as innocuous and inconsequential as they are? Thousands of miles and timezones and finger fucks away? The moment you sank those long and knowing fingers into me in Berlin, I was yours, you idiot.)

You said to me- you should start a blog- like Pussy Talk- and post your writing there, I would love to read it. Darling, what a novel idea. If you knew how spiteful and nasty I can be you might chalk it up to some unhealthy pathology, and who needs to be compared to the wife? O writes that she does not want what the wife has- the house, the ring, the dirty dishes, (the false promise of fidelity sanctified by God, adds Kitty). Fuck, I don’t want any of it either, and what I want less is to be compared with her in any respect. I want my own life, and the ability to grant you entrance into it freely, and not out of desperation, need, survival.

What I was writing about was this: again, in this heat wave, the light bouncing around the concrete surfaces of Hollywood proper, seedy and dirty and alive as it is. Humidity high enough that moisture runs down the small of my back as I drive to meet you. After our initial aggressive I-hate-you-for-being-so-far-away-for-so-long sex, I get up to adjust the air conditioner. I’m in that chemise you like so much; the one in cream and black satin, edged with the lace that contrasts so nicely with the deep golden brown that the polynesian in my skin has given me. I bend over to adjust the settings- my glasses are probably on the floor or under the bed by this point. My tangled hair slips over my shoulders.

God, this is what I like about you so much. You are patient and gentle and as truly thougtful as Arent and Heidegger ask us to be, and yet you are able to tap into this deep animalistic part of you and act on it with truth and ferocity and instinct. You see the curve of my waist, the back of my knee, the press of one thigh on the other and you move. With a creak of the bed and a barely supressed grunt you grab my hip with one hand and with the other push the fabric up over my ass, exposing its fleshy whiteness. With insistent fingers you spread me open, pushing youself into me from behind, the tip of you cock searching for its mark. I lift my cunt up to meet you, drawing you into me, clutching you from inside, taking hold of my breast to pull on my nipple and come.

I love it when you do this- so atavistically raw in your behavior I’m sent to the edge immediately. You tease me about my resistance to the slow fuck, but you deny your allegiance to the movement now, and pound me against the desk, the door, until the handle releases and the door swings open until it hits the end of the chain. You remark later about how much you would have loved to push me out onto the balcony for everyone to see what you wanted from me. As you say this I imagine what it would have been like to look over the edge of the railing, the cool metal wedged under my breasts with you at work behind me, giving the Southern conventioneers in the pool below something to remember about L.A.

Comments from the wife:

Why would you want to do the work with someone defiant when you can be with —– who worships the ground you walk on?

What are you going to do with that iCamera, have video sex with your girlfriend?

I guess she’s not as fucking advanced as you insisted she was. Quite a change from the puzzlingly polyamourous “she seems sweet, I’d like to meet her” attitude she displayed months ago when she thought she had the power. Strange how that now that its over and you are exploring seperate real estate does she get viciously terriorial over you. What’s the point? She’s the one who said that if you hadn’t instigated the divorce, that she would have within months. She’s the one who brought someone else into your bed first. She’s the one who cut you off physically and attacked your self worth (I know you are not without fault in this debacle).

And what does she know about our dynamic? Does she know that I have a mind of my own, a stable sense of self, direction, accomplishments and a future? Does she understand that I am not a doormat, a person who absorbs the accomplishments and status of the other to feel valuable?That you are the one with abandonment anxiety? That you know that I have the freedom to choose while you are bound by obligations that I have no reason to take on if I don’t want to? If this love is a game and the winner is the one who will leave first, then I’m in the lead.

Become autonomous, woman, and get through this adolescent stage of defiance quickly. You are thirty four years old. While I understand the conflict you must have felt as a 21 year old fresh out of college without direction and feeling unsafe, presented with the opportunity to either be taken care of by successful pop star, or forging a path of your own (I may have made the same decision, but I doubt it), it’s time for you to step out of your coddled life and forge one for yourself. If you are as bright and capable as he says you are, then do it. What is holding you back? You can’t keep using your childhood as an excuse for your behavior now. At some point you have to take responsibility for the direction of your life. You will feel so much better about yourself when you actually accomplish something on your own. It will give you strength, so you won’t have to bite the hand that feeds you.  

Darling, the best way to get me on top is to ply me with room service and a deep cabernet. Then I will be loose enough to climb up on you, with my breasts in your mouth, and rock back and forth, alternately sliding you in and out, then grinding my hips against yours, clit against pubic bone, until you take hold and thrust into me from below.

This place was nice, but the beds are softer elsewhere, and you are spending too much money.

I miss you already. What are we going to do about Fall?