Digging my heart out of the soil in which it lies

I’m a little torn on how to write this post. Do I talk about the snarl of feelings that popped up and had to be talked through? Do I just jump forward to the hot sex and write something more fun to read? If the latter, does that make me one of those people who are clearly editing their actual lives out of the erotica?

It’s not that we have a serious talk every time we have sex, we have had some excellently fun romps that have lacked both a need to communicate feelings or blog post about a post-gym cowgirl session that was 5 minutes of bliss followed by 25 minutes of “oh god, my legs are telling me that was such a bad idea, but you know nothing legs!”

On the other hand, it’s not like the talk was about anything deep or world changing. It was more the realization that we both have weak points at being engaged with certain things and/or at certain times, and I have to get over my fear of being the Ruiner of Fun and letting it keep me from saying no. The Ruiner of Fun isn’t about being mean. I love mean. I love giggling while he whines. What I hate is feeling like I’m putting the brakes on things and punishing him for enthusiasm; I love his enthusiasm when properly applied. I need to get over my feeling that because I said “I want to play with X toy” that I’m somehow locked into it as a Serious Pinky-Swear Promise and can’t be like “whoa, hold the fuck up, Simon didn’t say” when he’s like “SO CAN I GET X TOY OUT NOW” and looking at me all shiny-eyed and shivering with excitement. We also need to work on that transition from things like sitting around eating dinner to play when we agreed on play earlier but one of us is just not in the headspace. And by we, I mean me mostly.

So, ok, that happened, and I guess I just talked about it. Ugh. Why is real life so real?

That aside, the rest of the evening was lovely. We’ve had our plans to break out the harness and bend him over the bed interrupted by biology, exhaustion and worst of all… housework. As my ass enthusiasm in general remains unabated, we agreed to try again.

It did not initially go well, as outlined above.

I’m not a big fan of a lot of femdom tropes. Sometimes the problem is the not the basic idea but the way they’re commonly played out in public and one of the worst in the performance thereof is the use of “worship”. Usually, it seems to break down to a guy wanting to eat pussy or suck toes. There’s not a damn thing wrong with those things inherently, but the word in question seems to be trotted out by doofuses who wouldn’t know reverence if it came down from the heavens and brained them with a holy scroll. Sometimes, though, I can almost feel it when KB touches me. It’s one of those things I don’t know how to ask for. How do you express something that is literally a mystical concept? And that’s even assuming I didn’t feel like a complete horse’s ass asking for it to begin with, without an internal eye roll at the airs I’m putting on. I have a hard time, even four years into this relationship, allowing myself those airs. All the same, from time to time I’ve brushed the edges of something I desperately want, the specific type of electricity between us I yearn for.

Last night it was a breath away as he touched me, trying to get me into the headspace for sex and hopefully more. It’s when I can feel that, the way one can feel in the air a storm coming, that I feel like I’m drawing power. Last night, it was the difference between pegging because we both enjoy it, and me feeling that the most important thing in the moment is what I wanted to do with the toy I own. While different people get different things out of pegging, for me it’s an act that’s more carnal than I ever would have expected. Yes, I love the sounds of his moans, the feeling of control, the back and forth verbal exchange that underscores the give-and-take of the energy. But I also love the feel of his hips in my hands, the way he pushes back against me, pushing the toy against me. I can feel the physical intensity of it to the point that my cunt clenches and I feel a buzzing in the clitoral area, strong enough that it builds and builds, and I find myself pausing to ward off my own orgasm. Sweeter than getting off is the feeling of leaning over his back, putting my weight to him to pound him at another angle, and just going and going and going and getting lost in it.

I usually finish with him riding me, and last night was no different. However, when I stepped away from him, I instead told him to get on his back. I wanted those beautiful wide eyes looking up at me. I don’t think I can go as hard in that angle, but having his legs wrapped around me, being able to see his face are worthy in their own ways. I could feel my legs giving out after some time, but I was getting drunk on his gasps and pleas and couldn’t stop.

The feeling was infectious. When I finally gave out and had him mount me, I felt like I never wanted to tell him to stop. He told me he could just keep going forever if not for the frailties of the flesh.

This is what a good scene feels like for me, not contingent on actions, but on a completed circuit.

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