Merry Christmas to my followers who celebrate it.
intimacy
Mostly, lately, I’ve just been wanting the quiet, intimate stuff.
“You’re doing a good job being used like a filthy whore, sweetheart.”
When he reassures me like this, even the filthiest stuff somehow becomes sweet and intimate. I feel safe and cared for and brave and loved. Maybe that’s kind of weird, but it makes me happy.
It was the first time I had been fucked while I had something in my ass.
We were rough, almost urgent. He fucked me while standing at the side of the bed, holding my legs up against his shoulders and chest. My wrists were tied in front of me. I got subspaced rather fast, falling so deeply I could barely talk.
He kept me there with slaps, with fucking me so hard I cried out, by clamping my nipples and making me hold the chain with my teeth.
Lately, I’ve found that despite some of the roughness involved in the dynamic, there’s these glimmers of sweetness in it that makes me feel close and safe and loved.
“I need you closer,” I gasped out, the chain falling from between my lips.
He leaned down, continuing to fuck me roughly, and kissed my lips and forehead sweetly. And, all kinds of overwhelmed, I melted just a little bit.
My mother used to tell me blowjobs weren’t very intimate. I disagree.
Photograph submitted by jeunefille18.
Sometimes, you just want her all at once. You realize that you’re not capable of such a thing. You bring her close but you can never quite bring her close enough. You press yourself into her with such force that you suppose that perhaps you’ll finally just fall into her.
The top layer of our cells are sloughed off. It’s a little disgusting to think about, but there’s something romantic about the idea that we leave a little bit of ourselves everywhere we go and on everything we touch. And so you can figure that part of her is on you, part of you is on her.
And you figure maybe that’s a huge part of intimacy: not being sure what’s you and what’s her anymore.