HNT

Technically, this would be Completely Naked Thursday.

He's not a pervert and there's nothing wrong with that.

Okay, I get it, I get it. He's not kinky. He never will be. B. and I have been seeing each other for about six months now and I've been prodding and nudging with little luck. He has this odd theory that the "kink stuff" takes up too much time. Hmm... I've heard women who like being roughed up during sex called a lot of things, inefficient is not one of them. To him, it's all just work that's taking up valuable fucking time.

But I'm not asking for a big Busby Berkeley BDSM scene. I don't expect that from him. It's not like I'm asking him to suspend me from the ceiling and hook a car battery up to my tits. I'm just asking to be smacked around a bit for a while. Tease me. Get me on my knees, boss me around a little. Blindfold me, call me a whore, get a little mean! He's done it before. It comes out in little spurts: a little smack to the face, tugging hard on my hair, slapping my face with his dick. But it's just a glimmer, just a suggestion.

I told him he needs a kinky sous chef. Someone who'll come in and do all the prep work, then after I've been diced and warmed up, he can swoop in and plate me. He laughed, "Ha, ha, yeah." Ha, ha. Yeah. I'm serious. I'll write the Craigslist ad.

He doesn't see how it can be foreplay. As soon as I get naked, there's no time for anything else. It's bee-line mouth to pussy. Believe me, I am not complaining! Yeah, the sex is pretty vanilla. But, it's Haagen-Dazs premium vanilla. In a waffle cone. When it comes to actual cock-in-cunt fucking, I am grunting and groaning, biting his shoulder, drooling into the pillow. He reaches spots I never knew I had and he does not let up. He pulls out just a little, teasing me with just the tip slipping in and out until I'm practically weeping trying to impale myself back on to his cock. Just writing this is making my pussy spasm.

But, I like talking about sex. I like planning sex. I want him to think about what he's going to do to me for days before we meet and I want him to tell me about it. I want to stew in my juices for a while.

I ask him what he wants to do. I'm pretty much open to almost anything. And even if I don't want to do it, I at least want to hear about it! I don't want it always to be about me. We can eat apple pie off each others asses for all I care! I ask him if there's anything he's ever wanted to try. He says, no. Really, nothing? Nothing at all he's curious about?

Nope.

Now I feel like I'm badgering him about it and I realized that's not fair. He's not a pervert. He doesn't want to talk about sex. He just wants to do it, and that's okay. We hang out, we go to the movies, we get drunk and we fuck. I just gotta fill in the gaps elsewhere.

Men of steel

Word of advice. Don't buy black sheets. I got these black sheets, 'cause I thought they would look cool and they have this crazy high thread count, so they feel utterly delicious. However, they are rather unforgiving when it comes to concealing bodily fluids. Anyway...

Ben and I saw Iron Man last night (which, rocked, hard. I'm not even a comic book person. Well, I did have a Batman phase, but I digress). Maybe it was because I hadn't been laid in two weeks or the fact that I dig Robert Downey Jr., but something was getting to me. I crossed my legs in his direction, letting the hem of my skirt slip up my thigh. Every once in a while he would give my knee a gentle pat, but it was clear for the next 126 minutes his primary object of desire was Tony Stark's metal suit. Then at some point it became mine. I started wondering what it would be like to fuck someone in a form fitting gold-titanium alloy suit. It would be cold and smooth at first, but then would warm up with the heat of our bodies. It would be unforgiving, but slick and there would be that shock of contrast when you finally touch, pliant, soft, moist skin... "Why aren't his fingers in my pussy right now?" I wondered.

Later, I remembered those amazing Balenciaga metal leggings. Throw an Njoy in there and now we're getting somewhere:

HNT

There's got to be a morning after...

The lighting in my office bathroom does not do the stripes justice. I never thought of how many turnstiles I go through on a daily basis until that morning. Those metal bastards are positioned just right.

Shhh, I had a little work done

The first time I got a Brazilian, I walked down the street, all endorpined up, underwear-less under my skirt with a soft, smooth pussy that I could not stop petting for days after. But, I don't have the patience to wait for the hair to grow back long enough to keep it going. I couldn't get past the stubble phase. I would give up and go back to the razor and the creams and the gels and all of various potions designed to prevent those god damn bumps.

For years I have been at war with my bikini line and losing. Fuck it, I said to myself. I'm pulling out the big guns. Or in this case, the big laser.

I'm bad at following instructions. I was supposed to shave the day before. I forgot so I had to do it that morning. I got caught up at work and forgot to put on the numbing cream an hour before. I hoped a half an hour would do it. I guess, it would have to. I waited in the exam room reading the recently added framed magazine article on the counter. According to Elle magazine, my dermatologist is a genius. I took great comfort in that.

Then she came in, gave me a gown and turned on the machine, which chimed like a feminine Mac booting up. She told me it would feel similar to a rubber band snap. I asked her how bad it would be, really. She said, "Well, everyone's pain tolerance is different." Yeah, well...

I put on the yellow tinted safety goggles and laid back. She started with that little spot just below my belly button. She gave me a zap, so I could feel what it was like. Is that it, I thought? Is that all you got? Then she moved down closer to the pubes. "Oh, yeah. I see now." It was nothing like a rubber band snap. It was more like a hot needle. There were only a few zaps ranging from an annoying twinge to a prick hot enough to make me grit my teeth and suppress a little gunt as the slight scent of burnt hair wafted through the room. But it was only a few zaps.

Then it was time for the sides. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes behind the goggles. By now, I was sweating slightly. She'd give me a rub and tell me how good I was doing. But then it was over! The whole thing couldn't have been more than 10 minutes. I laid back with an ice pack on my nether region for the next 8 or so minutes cooling off my crotch. In the end, it was not bad at all. I walked out all endorphined-up and went back to work with some slightly achy thighs.

I go back in a month for round two.

and it matches my outfit, too!

Lynsey's handiwork at the Lesbian Sex Mafia rope class.


Fabulous hemp rope by Venus Rope

Aural Eroticsm and the Art of Overtaking

Today (I thought. I was wrong, it's this Sunday) was the Turkish Formula One Grand Prix. Since it wasn't being broadcast anywhere, I got my fix from watching some clips of old races: China '06. Schumacher's coming in to pass Alonso. The commentary: Make it stick, son. That's it, that's where you want to be. Take it. Take it!

I used to be a pretty quiet masturbator. Besides the usual heavy breathing and the stifled moan, I tended to keep the grunt level to a minimum and the commentary to myself. Lately, I've noticed I've been making a lot more noise. Making noise makes me come harder, better, stronger... faster! I shove my face into the pillow for the scream and let the filthy talk fly: fucking tear that pussy up, fill me up, fuck me, rape me, suck that clit... okay, not very original, but it does the trick. Sometimes I switch the point of view: open that ass up you fucking cunt. That's it, that's a good girl. Take it. Take it!

Formula One is fucking sexy. Maybe it's the power, the precision or the completely phallic nature of the cars. When they hit the high speeds on the long stretches, it's like the slow rise to orgasm. They slow down just a little for the curve and I ease up to make it last just a little longer, until I'm going full speed for the final lap. The checkered flag comes down and the champagne starts spraying.