relying heavily
on words—that will somehow
link
tie
bind
connect
Me to You

oblige Me–and I you
power shifts

grab Your gear
smoldering blaze
oozes from my thighs

hook Your chain
bonds fixed and fluids mixed
drive it home

lacerate me with your bone
forced plummet
scathe past lips
parted in foreseen ambitions

It is after the morning rush and prior to the lunch rush, the time I usually find myself at my favotite downtown coffee house. They make a perfectly strong Americano. I am a regular here, as are many others. For the last month or so I have been seeing this man, he is dark brooding, perhaps five plus years older than me. We have an acknowledged glance as two downtown coffee lovers nothing more.

Until today, today I was waiting in line as he was receiving his coffee and leaving the counter to find a seat, where he normally buries his head into The Times, but today, and I do not know what it was; perhaps it was my new skirt, which has extreme darts sewn into the back that accentuates my already curved ass, maybe it was black shoe with wood heels that make my calves look vigorous and strong, maybe it was the bare smooth legs, maybe it was the smoky lip gloss, but when he glanced at me I knew exactly what this fleeting look proposed. Usually I would either miss such momentary glimpses or become overwhelmed with coyness and dismiss the gaze and focus my eyes to the floor. However; today I was flooded with a wave of unabashed sexuality. I, without delay, forwardly returned his gaze, with a raise of my eyebrow and a small parting and lick of my lips. Our eyes locked and we knowingly understood something enticing was about to ensue.

I sugared and creamed my coffee, took a deep breath and found a seat across the room from him, but in clear view. He is wearing a dark suit that matches his olive skin and dark peppered hair, not perfectly pressed, but not wrinkled either. I look over at him–seeing him look directly at me, watching him shift in his chair to obviously alter what was beginning to swell. The move mesmerized me and I held my gaze, so much so that for a moment he dropped his, but only for a moment. When he looked back at me I moistened my lips with my tongue and gave a slight bite to my bottom lip. Taking one more sip on my coffee and without taking my eyes off him rise from my chair.

I feel his eyes following my back side as I walk toward the women’s room. When I reach the door, I pause and look back at him unashamed at my lust that is beginning to make me wet. I disappear behind the door, I enter, straighten myself in the mirror and anticipate his entrance. He does not leave me waiting long. The door and he locks it behind him. I turn to meet him and he grabs me and forces me back toward the mirror my ass into him. Grabbing my head from behind, pulling it to one side and he begins to kiss my neck from behind. I feel myself melt under the grasp of his forceful pull. His hand slides under my blouse and beneath my flimsy bra, as he grasps at my flesh I feel the warmth radiating from his strong hand. His lips move from my neck toward my ear and he whispers “lift that skirt and spread your legs.” I comply. Sustaining his grip on my breast while his other hand travels up the back of my hiked skirt. I begin to pant the closer he gets to my now dripping pussy. His fingers graze my lips through the fabric of my panties, causing me to let out a slight low moan. This moan causes him to pull his hand away. I am confused with a hint of torment. He grabs his handkerchief from his breast pocket and assertively stuffs it into my mouth. I am shocked and turned on beyond belief. He then tells me “You need to be silent,” as his hand then moves up the back of my skirt again, I am more wet than before, if that is possible.

Exploring the mountains of ass and assertively pawing at the foothill of the junction between my thighs, he grabs my panties from the fabric trinagle between my legs and yanks them down as far as the brown lace will stretch past splayed legs. As he yanks my skirt further up around waist his hand never leaving my body seeks out the heat between my legs. His touch is vehement, unruly and makes me soak as he parts my slick slit with this stroke, if my mouth was not stuffed I would have surely let out a deep moan.

Plunging deeply into my cunt as he pulls me back into his body his other hand still around my breast, he begins to kiss the side of my neck with more force until it feels like I am about to melt upon his fingers and fist. He speaks softly in my ear “you are a fucking wet irresistible bitch.” I respond by pulling his fingers into me further with firmest clinch this pussy can pull. He continues to work it. I am rocking harder and grinding myself atop his whole hand. Removing his other from my blouse and down to my clit, which he also begins working feverishly on. In a matter of moments I feel myself seize around his hand as he lifts me off the ground by my cunt and I cum hard, I feel myself grabbing tightly around his fingers clinching, twitching, then a spill of sweet release, the inside of thighs dripping and his fist and fingers are covered in me. He slides them out from deep and rubs my entire pussy. Pulling them out, he slides two of the fingers in his mouth and in my ear tells me just how “fucking delicious” I am. Pulling at me one last time and passing his lips across my neck, he removes his handkerchief and slides his slick fingers in its place, so I can taste for myself. He then turns a walks out, leaving me week in the knees with my panties stuck somewhere between knees and floor, skirt hiked, panting in a whimpering mess.

I love coffee.

Smashed under the weight of his lower body, his arms propped and locked out, as his dick pounds into me. My legs outstretched and above my head being held down, spread apart in opposite directions, my thighs held wide open by his body. Wide. My mouth is gaping open in the gratification of being fucked. We are focused, we are eye to eye. He is hitting me deep in my soaking crevice from this angle. The sound of sloshing and of body parts slapping together fill the air. My legs are sore from being stretched apart for the last half hour, my pussy wide from him plowing into it. His cock disappearing and reappearing, slick and slimy.

Materializing out of nowhere, I see a glob of his spit purposefully drop heavy from his mouth and lips, white, clear, glimmering like a strand of eclectically charged silver. The glob lands directly into my mouth and the bead of saliva following cascades across my face.

In my mind I am thinking–am I supposed to feel humiliated? But in my bodies mind the act was an incredible salacious exchange of fluids. It tasted strange—sweet and hot. I let the glob rest on my tongue and then I swallowed it down. Nothing was ever said of the incident, we continued fucking his dick still sliding around in pussy my leg spread in their unnatural direction and loving it.

Guarded, controlled and yes– my body betrays with abandonment. And yes, I think you may be right, I do get some perverse pleasure in battling against the dichotomy of my mind and body. I am into dichotomy and my pussy is definitely into it.

When I got to Chicago for round two I felt prepared. Although, I am never sure one can be fully prepared to be fucked in the ass and controlled by a dom lovin’ man. This is part of my experiment, the exploration into one of the many sides of my sexuality. I have a dominate persona myself, I have dominated men in and out of the bedroom. Ahh, but the other side, maybe the stronger side– is soft, a giver, generous and nurturing. Submissive? I truly do long to take care of you, to feed you, comfort you, listen to you, love you and more than anything to be your sweet dirty nasty slut. Life becomes contorted though. Values, ideals, hopes and dreams get diluted and we are left with shards of theories of love and sex, which we stitch together to make up our particular proclivities for getting off.

The gangster used to control me in unhealthy ways, and in some misconstrued seductive way, I liked it. We fought and fucked. I would often purposely make him mad to see his anger, to feel his control. A rather fucked up cyclical situation. There was fire to every aspect of our relationship, not just sexually. When the sex died all that was left was the anger. My anger, his rage, my mouth of fire and poison would flow until he could no longer react with anything else other than his angry hand. The burning sting left across my face, the hand that wrapped and tangled around my hair pulling me to the floor, it connected to our sex–even though it was some twisted form of what our sex had become.

So this brings me back to my the investigation into my sexual dichotomy. While the gangster and I had deeper problems, I always recognized that his power and control turned me on, more so than my husband ever did or could, but that I was never without my control, it may have gotten lost, amalgamated–high on the mix of cock and love, but it was still there, just being an antagonist.

What is it about pain and control that makes so insatiably wet. I am not really a pain slut–I like good solid ride and nice pounding, just as much as the next girl, but why the rougher you became, the harder you bite my nipples, and clamp your hands around my tits, the wetter I get, despite my pleas for you to stop, despite my anger. I did not enjoy the pain, plus I absolutely hate being told what to do as you command in various ways, it pisses me off, but you like that. Don’t you? You like that fire that anger and pain give, that blaze that it sets to my cunt, the way it makes me saturate between my thighs. You like feeding me your cock, until I choke and gag, saliva spilling out the corner of my lips around your shaft and on to the hotel room floor, as my head hangs over the side of the bed being so completely filled and fucked.

What I am into is the way your strong hands wrap around my throat, tightening, while your cock fill me up. It is the closest experience to being high that I have experienced since being high. My cunts throbs, as my mind fades, and my brain turns to static, and tiny stars fill my eyes, and if I could see my face I know there would be a sick sick smile on it. Your hand gripped tightly around my throat, mine buried between my legs, grinding atop your rock, I am amazed at how wet I am.

“do feel that? Can you even feel your cock in all that wet mess?”

My pussy overflows, the mouth of my river meets the ocean, and I ride and grind with all I can, I use your cock. The fire and the anger is focused into my pussy and ride it out, while your hands lock, continuing to restrain my thought process, I don’t need a thought process at this moment. I come many times this way, using your solid beam, my pussy in control of both of us. You make me cum in ways I have not cum in long long time, for the pain may have been worth it. But, is it really the pain that made me cum?

The dichotomy continues. If was with the right man, would I not cum just as much, of not more? Wouldn’t I let my guard down for him and let go of my ocean without the connotation of pain? The search for what makes me cum, let go, fall in love, soar–in all those deliciously perverse ways continues. Will I see Chicago again? Probably. Is he the one? No.

relying heavily
on words—that will somehow
link
tie
bind
connect
Me to You

oblige Me–and I you
power shifts

grab Your gear
smoldering blaze my thighs

hook Your chain
bonds fixed  fluids mixed
drive it
lacerate me with bone

forced plummet
scathe past lips

parted in foreseen ambitions