The knock came late with an urgency that scared me from my stoned out slumber.
“Who is it?”
Nothing, no response. I knew who it was. I could hear his nervous hands fumbling with the screen door. Almost simultaneously his fingers clasped the doorknob as I twisted the lock to open pushing the door open, perhaps more abruptly than you anticipated. I could see the agitation, revulsion and want in every part of your being.

The kiss is hard and wet, making your already solid cock throb– I can feel it mashing against my thigh. Every part of you is raging, and I know you hate me and I know you love me– and you don’t want to be here, and you cannot stay away.

The tangled in hair fist yanks me to the floor, to my knees. Your cock to my mouth like the strongest of magnetic pulls. My tears start to flow, not because you are hurting me, or because I hate you–because I do, or because I love– because I do, but because I know your cock is about to fill me and I cannot, in that moment, express the ache that is filling my body, my cunt, my mind. I can smell you, the pulsing of blood pumping through you culminating in our throbbing flesh. I become that woman– twisted with my own want– licking and sucking the fabric of your pants, feeling your cock trapped, getting so fucking hard, straining behind denim and zipper.

With the firm grip to my hair, you rub my face into you, I inhale the smell of you as deeply as I can. A sick growl emanates from you as you pull me up and off your cock.

Our eyes lock for a moment and the love and pain fills us, you can’t take my gaze.

Your violent hand slaps across my cheek, and that wave of relief spreads across my body, everything grows silent — like snow falling in the middle of the night.

My head becomes slack. The hand that struck me wraps around my throat and begins to squeeze the air away from me. My body then become slack. In the moments of you chocking me I can feel your cock become raging hard, it always does when you choke me.
“you bitch, why do this to me?”

This flash of utter want and realization causes you to release the throttle you have around my neck and bend me over the back of couch. Grappling and tearing at my panties, getting them pulled away from my cunt just enough to plow into me. Of course my wet pussy takes every inch, greedy, insatiable. It hurts, I have not been fucked in a long time, your slamming into me stretches me open and fill me up. I can feel the tip of your cock ramming my cervix over and over,  feeling you in my belly with each thrust. Fucking me with violence, calm, confusion, hate and love.

The couch moving and sliding from its position, is not adequate for the type of pounding you need to give, so I brace myself to the floor, a firm strict downward dog– ass up, pussy sloppy from being fucked, my wet pubic hair matted with my own cum and liquid, the smell of cock and corn muffins fills the air. From this angle your cock sinks even deeper into me, causing a yelp of pain- yet I continues to meet each thrust. I want as much of your cock as I can get inside of me.

Between grunts and growls the weak and whimpering cum slut I can be manges to stammer the words,
“Please please–cum in my mouth, please.”

Recently I viewed Angela Shelton’s film, “Searching for Angela,” a very intense self portrait, as well as being a very intimate look into the lives of women. I learned of Shelton when hearing her speak at 140 conference and started following her on twitter, she was inspirational and and a great positive flow about her. Though it took months later for me to come back to the film– I had no idea the content of her film would be about female sexuality and the abuse of that sexuality. It was a heavy film.

I began thinking most women have experience rape in all the ugly various forms it come in and many time committed by someone we love or loved at one time. Perhaps it is willing act or one of consent on some level. But, what when it becomes a fantasy?

I am equating my occasional rape fantasy with the longing to be completely wanted. To be wanted so badly that this man cannot control his emotion, his longing, his cock.

It is a fantasy.

A fantasy started when we are young, the prince will come a rescue you and take you away from all this strife of ordinary living. It similar to wanting a lover to chase you, to pursue you. To want you so much they are going to come back after the fight, after the wrong doing, in heat of strife and argument and take you. Take me. I am so angry and red and full of rage from whatever passion argument drunken twist has taken us that I want you to punch back through my front door and take me, fuck me, push me to the ground and fill with that rage and cock and anger. My mouth covered by the power of you hand, my body pressed to the floor by a limb I cannot see. Crushing. But, my ass in the air as you fuck, reaching for your cock– and I hate you and I love and fuck you with that. The words of hate we spewed, the fractures we continue create fucked away, fused back together with spit and cum.

This behavior can easily become twisted and sick though. In reality most men do not come back, they do not behave like a prince, nor my fantasy rapist. They leave, and even if they did want to come back, they generally don’t. The fight for love is not there anymore, I think time must kill that fight.

My first rape like fantasy took place in tenth grade– with a horrible racist skin head punk rocker. He was an awful boy, much later on in life he tossed a friend of mine out of a plate glass window during a bar fight. He was crazy, no control–and never tried to have any. I was disgusted by him, but –what can I say– I fantasized about him fucking me, violently. I thought about infuriating him, I thought about him losing control on me, I fucked myself while I thought about him raping me behind my high school. Spewing indignant syllables, spit flying and is  cock slamming from behind– secretly enjoying every bit of it, my young cunt taking it.

Damn this fucking heartache life.

I am alone and I am not. They come fractured, and I don’t help– as much as I want, I can’t help, nor can I seem to turn away.

Only twice have I been asked to stop writing about someone, about the person in my life, about the emotion, power, sex and energy I have with them. I refused the first time. I have not refused, nor agreed this time. On both occasions when the question hit me I felt a brief, yet deep, disappointment. I like writing about the amazement and joy I get from fucking. And I guess I have this sort of need to share my search and loss for love– but more than anything –I’ve really been hoping for a sweet cock who would get that, and let me do that. I am conflicted, confused, a bit brokenhearted –I don’t altogether understand the motives, much of the time  I don’t even understand my own.

I’ve been accused of having sex only to write about it–a fact I have on more than one occasion contemplated myself.

Do I fuck to write? And if I do, is it wrong? To live and write about living.

We fight against this love at every turn. Internal and external. Past those last loves we refuse to let pass. These moments of joy get lost to moments of fear, panic, anger and loneliness. The future you refuse to see so therefore will never manifest, and only gets buried in these words and symbols of my search for the man who can be my true cock.

NYC was a love filled goodbye in hopes that on my return my SF cock would be willing to take the leap with me. But since returning I have felt a vibe of disconnect, perhaps deceit, and possibly slivers of disgust– yes we fucked instantly and yes my previously locked pussy that refused to open for NYC, spread like flowering flesh wound to his cock.

The way he makes my cunt wet without even touching me, his kiss to my skin his hands wrapping around my neck, and his back hand across my cheeks –sends me elsewhere, to complete other worlds. For long stretches of time, all I think about is having his cock in my mouth. A good fuck with him makes me want to cry in pain, joy and love. At not getting it make me want to cry too, a wail of cock want and longing. But, still I felt a distance– I chalked it up to the situation of balancing two men, of being gone.

But the disconnect lingers.

Our joy easily disintegrate like dust. I feel it, actually I have probably felt it the whole time–the beginning and the ending all in one.

Threads of disconnection
connecting
-root
-splay
-earth

Guttural wave from cunt
wails heartache
-cry
-choke
-fuck me

I spent my weekend, hell a week, doing just that, worshiping like a cock sucking devotee. Most of of my time spent with my mouth turning him from soft to hard, edging him close, then backing off. When his cock was not passing my lips, I was wishing it was–all I could think of was tasting his come slide down my throat, splashing across my tongue and making a mess of my promiscuous slut girl face. I almost, almost, had little concern for my own gratification, his cock seemed gratification enough. Lucky me though–he took care of me just fine.

There are moments with this man, when time comes to a stop–or when it spans beyond what I know as time. For the most part I am an eye closer or at least they drop to slits when fucking, and especially when getting close to cumming–but with him it is different. When my head tilts back my eyes are still on his and when his cock enters me our eyes lock and I can see this barely there strand–silver and clear that shimmers slightly in the flicker of the light– that connects from his retina to mine. The power of it all is really quite strange, wonderful and overwhelming.

And yet while I feel this insane closeness and connection to this man, it also seems like he will only be a moment. I think he is a bird. Not able to resist flight, but too habitual to fly off forever into a life with me. So…while I feel strongly about this man, I have been trying to keep in mind my New Year’s vow– to “let it be.” To let myself enjoy while I can, to love him when I can, freely and to accept him and his cock as a rare gift–that was perhaps not supposed to be given to me at this this time, or even not at, but somehow a rift in nature made the exception possible.

Languidly playing on my bed, rubbing, touching, looking, attempting to find some form of understanding–that we will never understand anyway, we talk causally and free.

Lackadaisically the words roll out of my mouth, “Have you ever fucked a girl in the ass?”

“No, I’ve tried, but it never did work. A few women said sure fuck me in the ass, but when it came right down to it…the pain was too much, my cock was too big.”

I thought out loud, “I would never say you could fuck me in the ass, not with that cock.”

We laughed and played some more.  I guess a seed had been planted and I was now thinking about my ass, “Why don’t you slip a finger in my ass.”

Drawing his finger to my mouth to coat it with spit then back down he slowly slid it into my ass, as he did so I could feel my pussy opening, breathing, wanting more. I love how my cunt feels when a finger or more is filling my ass. It is not the sensation I feel in my ass, but the sensation that my pussy feels from something being in my ass.

Soon I am slow grinding on his finger, and my fingers and his slip around my ever slicking pussy, my clit grows firm and tall, and I want more. Between my thighs he stands, I reach for his hard cock, and guide it to my pussy, sliding it around in the folds of fat flesh, coating it with me, then I slide it in and we fuck for a bit, while he continues working his finger my ass. I could’ve come like that, but I wanted more. I began to guide his pussy covered cock to my tight ass hole, first the head.

“Slow,” the words push out in a heavy breath, and we switch gears into slow motion and our eyes lock, between breaths of pain and lust,  his cock begins to fill me, and my greedy pussy is loving it, growing, blooming, wanting more and more.

It took time, the connection was strong, it made it possible for his big cock to fill my tight ass. Everything worked, soon his cock was fully inside me, and soon after that I was thoroughly enjoying riding his cock, bucking my ass into him.

My pussy was electric, on fire, full and slicked out. It always astounds me when it gets like that. I could feel my come approaching, I could see his come taking over his body.

“I wanna come, baby, oh can I cum, cum with me.”  I probably mumbled some lovely filth about filling my ass with cum.

And we fucked and bucked into each others bodies, our eyes penetrating, my ass full and pussy in sever fluctuation–breathing on her own, alive and wet and full of want.

In a rare moment we come simultaneously, locked into each other, that strand connecting our eyes, the connection of cock to ass, he filling me and me open to all of it.

with a mind that should be analyzed

lover, but wife to never be
perfectly captured
perfectly lost

in composed frustrations