touch – Page 25

I remember when there was that phase in middle school where guys would say that girls’ slumber parties consisted of comparing breasts and practicing kissing. And I remember thinking, “God, I wish.”

Because there’s something about the silly and adventurous sort of fun two girls can have exploring each others’ bodies. There’s a feeling of you’ve got what I’ve got, but it’s so different because it’s on you and I can touch it and not feel it the way I would feel it if it were my own but I can vaguely understand how it feels for you. I’ll never be able to relate to a handjob, but I can assume on a very basic level how a girl feels when I’m fingering her.

It’s not even a skill-set sort of thing so much as a fascination with something that is so much you and also so much an “other”. It’s mine but it’s not mine. It’s familiar and it’s alien. And there’s just something about that which makes it somehow a little more giggly and playful and fun than stuff with guys. I don’t know. Call it slumber party syndrome.

dacrylagnia:

Happy Valentine’s Day to my fantastic Tumblr girlfriend, the lovely and eloquent Ivy.

(I’m trying to make her blush, of course.)

And you’ve succeeded, my dear. <3

(Followers, she’s seen me blush before realtime. And made me blush before realtime. It’s a talent.)

“Why are you so cruel?”

It’s something that she asks from time to time, though the circumstances often vary. Sometimes, it’s in a vaguely smug sort of way. Sometimes it’s a whine. Or through tears. Or under a moan.

His answer, however, is always the same.

“Because you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

This is the story of the thief and the girl he took home to his partner-in-crime.

It’s such a shame. I have a horrible tendency to root for the villain.

I like and am simultaneously completely intimidated by the prospect of being shared between two men. I know it’s super silly to be like “damn that’s a lot of penis”. But, really, damn. That’s a lot of penis.

I guess it’s totally the same as a man and a woman in terms of having two people to pay attention to. But I guess I am just vaguely overwhelmed at the prospect of how much penis that is.

This 2 am penis anxiety brought to you by the people at thinkivykink.

I like when it begins with absentminded brushes of fingertips, the drawing of my leg against yours like frustrated tectonics, the wry grins over planned accidents.

I like when you touch my leg under the table or your hand lands on my thigh and I adjust myself so you can repeat the mistake. I’m a multiple offender of being over eager, but you’re a willing accessory.

I like when we both sort of quietly and politely pretend we don’t want it. There’s a word in some strange language for it, the way we both wait for the other to bring it up. But we both speak a strange dialect of badly constructed euphemism, peppered with the occasional outburst of something not for the dinner tables, but maybe for the bedrooms or that phoneless island community we create when it’s just us and our poor attempts at subtlety.

Jack and Jitters: Part 6

He finished on my face and in my mouth. I barely had enough time to swallow before I was bent over and spanked. He rolled me over and his hand returned to my clit and he rubbed, dragging another two orgasms out of me. By the time the second was about to roll around, I was shaking.

“Think you deserve it?” He asked. It was what he said a lot before I came. We have rules. I have to ask permission. I have to deserve it.

I could barely think straight. I was completely down in subspace. My whole body was a mess of goosebumps and jitters. It was the most intense “sexual” experience I’ve probably ever had and the boy hadn’t even penetrated me.

He smiled and rubbed harder, “I think I want you to cum right now.” I bucked back against him and moaned loudly. There was a smug causality to his face, still. Even as I was in this state, he was completely casual.

“You’re so…I don’t know,” I managed to gasp out, “like you’re just playing with something.”

He chuckled and nodded, “sounds about right.”

I felt myself slipping into an orgasm, “like you’re just handling a piece of property. Like it’s just something you use for…” I trailed off.

“That’s right,” he smirked as I was overcome by shudders. “You’re a piece of property, baby.” I came hard.

He helped me to my feet. My face was still covered in his cum, I was completely in subspace, I barely knew which way was up. He pulled me into him and allowed me to steady myself against him. I sighed into his shoulder as he took my hand, held it up, and kissed it.

A gentleman.

Jack and Jitters, Part 1

On the last evening SG and I were planning to spend off-the-radar, we attempted to go out somewhere. However, everywhere we went was either closed or just plain lame. And so we decided we’d “spend the night in”. It sounded vaguely domestic.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” I began as I picked up the bottle of Jack I had in my room. “I’ll put a nightgown on and we’ll have an evening like the Drapers.” I poured out a glass and took a sip.

The Southern Gentleman snorted, “and of course that starts with drinking.”

“Just like everything else in Mad Men,” I held out the glass to him and started to remove my clothing.

I was down to my sweater and bra when he set the glass down and came over, placing his hands on my hips. He kissed down my neck, pulled the sweater off for me, unhooked the bra. I reached for the buckle of his belt and he stepped back, smirking. “Go put your nightgown on.”

“Oh, come on,” I groaned.

I skyped with Blue and Byron this evening. They suggested we should have another sleepover when we get back to campus. It sounds like a lot of fun, partially because it’s mostly just a lot of hanging around, cuddling, being silly and not a lot of perviness (though I wouldn’t say it’s completely devoid of it). I can’t wait.

I have a very strong, very deep relationship with an ex-girlfriend of mine. Sometimes we get a little weird. Sometimes it greats unnecessary friction. But, then there are the points where it just keeps us close and there for each other. Like tonight.

We began the evening by catching the tail-end of the Black Friday madness and most of the stores had been long-plundered and cleared. We found it funny how, turning a corner and seeing a garment, we could predict that the other would gravitate toward it. I guess we’re just funny like that.

Afterwards, we wound up sitting around in her car and talking. She had bought a little piece of hooked metal that you put over your finger and run over peoples’ skin with. At first I thought it was silly, but feeling it on my own skin was amazing. I’ve been craving that sort of stuff lately and maybe it was a wrong move to let her show me, because it set me on edge a bit in terms of arousal. I guess it was partially the craving for something like that which made me so prone to vent about the current lifestyle-themed dramas I was experiencing.

As she showed it to me, we talked about being in the lifestyle, understanding ourselves, living this way. I told her how concerned I was about discovery and about my whole giving tree issue. Most of it was things she knew and had experienced first hand with me, but she listened nonetheless.

And then I got onto my growing insecurity about feeling like I was secondary to everyone. I almost started crying, I had not realized it bothered me so much. “It’s just, I feel like everyone has someone who would be there to get hit by a bus for them. And the thing is that I don’t feel like I have someone who would do that without thinking that taking the hit for me was less important than sticking around for someone else,” I told her. I shook my head, “I just sometimes can’t even picture myself being with someone.”

It wasn’t because of the issue of me not wanting to be with anyone. I almost feel like I’m not worthy of that sort of singular attention. It’s hard to explain the sort of inferiority complex I take on, and while it’s sometimes a deterrent from some potentially negative relationships, it can rear its head and be my worst enemy.

“I just don’t know anyone right now I’d honestly want to shack up with.” I knew I must have sounded silly. “And certainly none of them want to shack up with me. And I worry about being some lonely, slutty cat lady or just some sad case once my looks go.”

Even when I knew I was being foolish, she still listened. She was reassuring, comforting, understanding. For all the bravado, tumblr, sometimes I doubt and I worry. I fear I’ll stay too long at the fair and, when the lights go down and the rides stop and the music is cut, I’ll be left to walk home alone.