House Sitting

On Saturday I was having sex that was so good I decided to dispense with the notion of having an orgasm. That may sound odd, but stay with me…

“I need to water the neighbour’s garden tonight. I decided to wait until this evening so you could come with me have a nosy at the posh house.”

I don’t know if this was the real reason I decided to wait until the evening, or whether deep in my subconscious I had an ulterior motive. I mean, it’s a gorgeous house that anyone would enjoy having a wander round, but still…

The neighbours opposite feature regularly in my sex life. I imagine them admiring his arse as he fucks me over the edge of my bed. I ride my Adam, Doxy pressed to my clit, my curtains open and I wonder whether there’s someone in the shadows watching. “Do you think she’s watching us fuck as she sucks his cock?” is whispered into my ear.

So did I really want to show off their wood-fired pizza oven and the beautiful kitchen tiles imported from Morocco? Or did I like the idea that the next time we got off on the exhibitionist/voyeur potential that two bedrooms that look into each other offers he would have an insider view of the house too?

As I stood watering the plants I watched him walk upstairs. It wasn’t long before I followed. We wandered around commenting on the pristine hotel-like decor of the rooms, all the sheets ironed and cushions perfectly arranged. In the bedroom that looks into mine we discussed him taking a photo of me in my window but agreed the light wasn’t on our side.

As we turned to leave the room I felt his grip on my arms tighten and I could feel myself being manoeuvred. “Not on the bed.” No, not on the bed, me forced to my knees, sucking, spitting and gagging on hard cock. Then pushed onto the bed, trying to maintain the tension in my arms so that I didn’t collapse and crumple the perfect linen. Holding in a giggle as I noticed a spider’s web on the iron bed and found myself thinking “we’re not the first intruders in this room this week.”

“Touch yourself,” came the instruction. And for a while I did. And it felt brilliant. But I was so turned on that my clit was too sensitive. It felt like it does if I’ve been frigging for hours, or over-egging it with the Doxy! When my clit is that sensitive I get little jolts of sharp pleasure that feel like electric shocks, destined to crackle but never explode. So I stopped. I decided to concentrate on all that was good about that moment and not try and make myself come.

I focused on the sensation of cock, driving in and out, then teasing me. It felt so good, and that feeling spread across my whole body in little tingles. When my hair was grabbed and my head tugged up I focused on our reflection in the mirror. I yelped in surprise, pleasure and pain when my nipples were pinched, hard. I turned and looked over to my lounge window and talked of how I imagined him standing in the window and wanking as he watched the neighbour fuck me. I lost myself to the feelings of having my cunt spanked. I love cunt spanking more than arse spanking, and I love having my arse spanked a lot!

Much is written about women and orgasms and ‘well-meaning’ advice for positions that ‘guarantee’ orgasm is regularly shared. For some people these are useful, but I know from the comments I read on my timeline that more often than not they can cause more anxiety than relief for people that may struggle to come during penetrative sex. They add more shame about what our bodies can’t do rather than enjoying the pleasure they do give us.

I used to be very goal oriented during partnered sex but I’m trying to change that about myself. I wrote this post last year laying out why I was going to try and worry less about orgasms. Don’t get me wrong, I have brilliant partners who care very much about my orgasms and are very good at making them happen, it’s just sometimes my brain gets in the way. I wrote then that thinking ‘I’m going to come,’ often chases the orgasm away. That still happens if I think it so I try to just concentrate on everything I love about penetrative sex – the intimacy and cock for cock’s sake. The orgasms come from tongues and toys and fingers!

So it felt good to abandon the orgasm on Saturday. I felt like I was letting my body do the talking rather than letting my mind control my body. And you also know that some fucks are going to keep on giving, long after they’re over. I knew even in the moment that the afternoon was going to deliver many orgasms – they didn’t need to happen there and then. I wanted my takeaway to be all the details, the assault of sensations on my whole body and my mind creating the filthy scenarios that exaggerated the physical feeling, not the memory of forcing an orgasm from an over-sensitive clit.

I rarely dream about sex. I’m always a little bit jealous when someone tweets about waking up from an amazing hot dream. But the filthy memories infiltrated my dreams on Saturday night and I was orgasming even before I got up to make tea on Sunday. And the memory of him standing over me as I lay on the carpet shaking the last of his spunk onto my chest fuelled a later fantasy about multiple men standing over me wanking. It was in my mind at 5.30 this morning when the storm woke me early. So the crashing orgasms came and I’m sure they’ll keep on coming. So yeah, like I said, some fucks just keep on giving.

Happy National Orgasm Day folks, may your orgasms be banging and worry free and at the time that suits you and your body best.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Invisibility

“So I just told them how it all works. I didn’t want to keep it secret because I am really proud of how my relationships work.” Me to Exhibit A, a few weeks back.

I have become friendly with a group of neighbours in the last six months or so. Things started with typical chat about taking in parcels and cleaner recommendations, then someone decided to host Christmas drinks. I thought it would be a couple of hours of small talk, pleasant but not memorable. I wobbled home at gone midnight after an evening of copious wine, raucous laughter and chat that ranged from women’s health in Africa to local running routes to one neighbour confessing her husband tells her off for being an exhibitionist when she stands naked in their bedroom window. Basically, a crowd of people who are right up my street – literally and metaphorically!

One Saturday in April someone pinged the WhatsApp group to see who was around. Remarkably, we were all free! A few hours later we were round a table in a local restaurant, feasting on charcuterie and planning a street party so we could meet even more of our neighbours. Fast forward to the second May bank holiday and we’re having a planning BBQ to finalise party details…

It’s the weekend after Exhibit A and I have been to Luxembourg and the neighbours are asking about my trip. I don’t know if there was something about the way I was talking (I definitely didn’t talk about photos and fucking in musty tunnels!), or whether some penny dropped by chance, but the face of the-neighbour-with-the-big-house-who-always-hosts fell and she exclaimed: “Oh my God! I am so rude. You have a partner and I have never invited him to any of our get-togethers!” I laughed and reassured her it was all fine, thinking it was easier not to get into detail of why he doesn’t regularly rock up to events as my plus one. Then she asked if he would be coming to the street party and I just thought ‘fuck it’!

“I don’t know, I will mention it. I know he and his wife are planning quite a low key weekend but they might want to come.”

Nobody flinched but I could see questions behind eyes so I clarified. It’s ethically open, Livvy and I are friends, I was at their wedding, he loves meeting new people so if any of our street get-togethers happen to coincide with when we have plans I’m sure he’d like to come. Simple statements of fact, a chorus of ‘oh wow’ and ‘that’s cool’ and then onto deciding what games we would put on for the kids. But that straightforward explanation of relationship status when you’re not in a traditional set-up is still relatively rare.

I have written before about being a very happy second and everything I wrote then still stands. I still have zero interest in the trappings of a full time cohabiting relationship. And I still recognise that I thrive from having the security and affection that comes with a partner who means more to me than a fuck buddy does (although I love my straightforward sex dates with fuck buddies too!). But something I have found myself reflecting on over the last year or so is the issue of visibility when you’re a secondary partner living in a society that still doesn’t widely embrace non-monogamous set-ups.

A lot of the time you have to be pretty invisible and it can occasionally make you feel wistful. You have to modify your behaviour, think about what you say, and occasionally lie. Last summer Exhibit A and I went to see a friend of mine do a reading of his work. At one point when EA was looking at his phone my friend mouthed over ‘Is that your chap?’ and shot an ‘appreciative eyes’ look at me. ’No, just a friend,’ I mouthed back. What I really wanted to say was ‘Yes! And I know – hot, eh?!’, but I knew that my friend is friends with EA’s sister. When someone asks how you know them at a party (or a wedding!) you hide your affection and say you used to work together. You spend a lot of time being aware of your actions. I am the most ridiculously enthusiastically tactile person but I once asked whether I could touch EA when we in a pub; he looked at me oddly so I reminded him that we were in Livvy’s sister’s neighbourhood.

Of course, in the sex blogger community there’s no need to hide anything and outside of the community some of my closest friends and a couple of family members know. But broadly speaking a partnership I really value remains largely invisible to the outside world. Nobody is doing anything wrong or intentionally trying to hurt anyone; for many people in non-monogamous relationships it’s still easier, for numerous reasons, to keep things quiet in their wider lives. My situation is in no way unique.

Although I reflect on this from time to time, I don’t dwell on it. I spend enough time overthinking the things I can change without overthinking the things I can’t! But for my own processing of feelings I allow myself to acknowledge that having to hide something that you put work and emotional energy into, and that you’re really proud, of isn’t always easy. Which is probably why the conversation with my neighbours felt like a little victory and why I relayed it with such delight!

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Flashbacks

“Turn round and get on all fours.” My mind will still occasionally drift back to my first experience of doggy, on a futon mattress in a flat in Acton, more than half a lifetime ago.

I love flashbacks. Moments become a library of visual stimulation I flick through when I’m alone, settling on the one that’s right for right now. The memories most frequently pulled from the shelf almost always involve fucking from behind.

Me, pushed over the bed. Him, his arse to my bedroom window. “Are you thinking about your neighbours watching us?” Yes, yes I am.

Crack. A new lover’s hand meets my arse, and my face is pushed further my pillow. He later comments on how hot my sound of appreciation was at that first smack. There’s nothing like the first time you realise someone is good with their palms.

“Watch this,” he says as he chucks his phone down in front of me. The sensations overwhelm me as I simultaneously feel him and watch us.

3am on a too-hot summer night. We are still awake. My lounge windows are low and knelt in front of them I can lean out of the window and grip the outside window ledge, biting my lip so I don’t let my sounds echo in the silent street.

Fresh from afternoon tea, I’m dressed like a lady. In the toilet near his office he bends me over and pushes my flowery frock up over my arse. I sit on a packed commuter train home with my knickers in my handbag. The next time I wear the dress is to a wedding and I smile at the memory as I sit in the church.

On my knees in front of my mirror, watching his hands on my hips and expressions of pleasure dance across his face.

Our eyes lock over her back as he fucks her, her face between my legs.

Ping. An email arrives moments after he leaves. A photo to add to the memory bank…

Journeys

I rarely travel with lovers but they’re often with me, in my phone, livening up long journeys…

8/8/2013

We’ve been exchanging filthy messages throughout our train journeys, his to Bristol, mine to Wales. I’m tucked into a seat by the window, bags piled up on the seat next to me to hide my hand wedged down the front of my jeans. As the train slows to halt, a cock shot appears on my screen and I orgasm. I never thought I’d come in Crewe station.

2/9/2013

I don’t notice the gridlocked road between Entebbe Airport and Mulago in Kampala, I’m too busy recounting the story of my night flight. My thumbs fill the screen with details of what my fingers were doing, 35,000ft above Sudan. How I felt too vulnerable with my night mask lowered to enjoy masturbating, yet when I pushed it up to observe my fellow passengers sleeping the orgasm was quick to come.

6/2/2014

I arrange the Rambutan, snap some photos and press send. The images arrive seconds later to recipient in a city in Eastern Europe. The following morning I grab the bag of fruit and head out into the Jakarta smog. Later I giggle to myself as I idly peel away rind, pop the flesh in my mouth and think about where they’ve been.

21/10/2014

I arrive in Addis Ababa tired, hungover and sick. I’ve travelled through the night the day after a university reunion and I have a cold. The whole team heads out for injera but I crawl into bed. I’m feeling sorry for myself. As I’m drifting off my phone lights up. A cock shot from home always make me smile. And this one is magnificent.

8/3/2015

We just made our connection in Qatar, our kit didn’t. A tyre blows on the long road out of Dar Es Salaam. Twenty four hours after leaving home we pull into the hospital compound. A huge mosquito breeding tent is pointed out to me. It turns out it’s one of the biggest malaria research sites in the world. I text a new man in my life – he’s a bioinformatician specialising in mosquitos. He’s more excited by this news than he is by photos of my tits. That one doesn’t last.

5/2/2017

He’s been sending me videos of himself wanking. They are hot. I’ve wanted to come all weekend but I’ve been on a creaky camp bed in my friend’s lounge and drinking wine and playing with her puppy has taken precedence. Sunday afternoon and I ease into a huge first class seat on the train back to London. I arrange my coat over my lap and tell him I’m going to watch his film and make sure I come before he does. Time passes and he texts: “Tell me when you’ve come.” “Oh, I already have. I’m eating the free cake now.”

25/8/2017

“Good morning to you (when you rise and shine!)… current status…pretending to be planning a client workshop, actually taking photos of my cunt on a train…”

“OMG you’re the best! 😙😙😙”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Ghosts

I’ve been a fan of photographing cemeteries for years. Way back in winter 1995 I was out photographing a snowy cemetery as my Dad called my university landline to try and get the news to me that my Grandad had died.

My business partner knows I still frequent these places with my camera – he just doesn’t know that these days my photography more often than not includes naked people! A couple of weeks ago as a late birthday present he gave me a book about where significant people are buried in London. Knowing I had this image lined up for today’s photo I thought I’d see which ghosts haunt Kensel Green Cemetery.

Alongside one Mr WH Smith (founder of the UK’s biggest high street stationers for the non-Brits) and Harold Pinter I read about Henry Spencer Ashbee. Ashbee was a city merchant by day but was also one of the country’s most prolific collectors of erotica and an occasional author of erotic fiction and personal memoirs under various pen names. He bequeathed his entire library to the British Museum but they burnt the majority of the erotica.

Excited to find out more I hopped over to Wikipedia. I discovered a character in Sarah Waters’ Fingersmith was based on his life. But I also learnt that his daughters’ excessive education irritated him, his wife’s suffragist support angered him, and he became estranged from his gay son. How awful. How often we expect liberal views to be prevalent in all aspects of a person’s life and how disappointed we are when they aren’t. I hope that in 2018, almost 200 years after he was born, his views would have softened and he would now be championing the rights of his wife and daughters and proudly waving the rainbow flag on behalf of his son.

In the meantime, I’m delighted to present one of the fiercest supporters of rights I know, the gorgeous Honey and her hot biteable butt!

February Photofest

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Do Not Delete

Yesterday I read this smoking hot guest post about the effect of a leather skirt over at Girl On The Net’s place (if you haven’t read it yet go and check it out and then come back!). It reminded me of some photos that Exhibit A took of us way back in early 2015.

This morning I went looking for them. I couldn’t find them. They weren’t in the folder with all the other photos we took in that hotel room. Then a little creeping dread came over over me. I remembered deleting those shots. I didn’t like them. I didn’t like the way my tits looked, the weird expressions on my face or the roundness around my middle. I kept them for a short while but every time I looked at them they made me feel bad so eventually I deleted them. After much rummaging in my recycling bin I found them and recovered them.

So what do I see today?

I see a snapshot of a really hot moment and remember a happy 24 hours. I think my tits look pretty good actually. I like the way he’s gripping my leather skirt. I smiled when I saw the green wristband that was such a part of him for so many years. I chuckled at the memory of his dinner turning up with teeth in it. I remember it was the first time he talked to me about Livvy and I feel a little bubble of happiness at everything that has happened on that front since. I think about walking in the New Forest and playing pool. I recall being annoyed that they’d run out of croissants by the time we went down for breakfast and picking all the chocolate out of a pain au chocolate. I grimace that we were charged £42 for two gin and tonics!

And I feel sad that it’s taken almost three years to appreciate the photo.

How many of us have deleted a photo in haste not realising that with it we have closed the door on a whole host of happy memories? How often do we take a photo then fail to appreciate the nuances of the shot because we are focusing in on our perceived flaws? Why are we not kinder to ourselves?

I’m glad I read that leather skirt post. I’m glad I fished this photo out of the recycling. I’m glad I’m sending it out into the wild. And I’m resolving to not delete in haste again and to zone in on the memories of moments, not the bits of me I don’t like.

One present moment

“Life is all memory except for the one present moment that goes by so quickly you hardly catch it going.”

He wasn’t working at the time so weekday afternoons were our default time for hanging out. We’d chatted lazily over tea, I’d come under the rhythm of his tongue and we’d polished off an early evening dinner.

He had evening plans. I had a girlfriend coming over for wine and chat.

His plans were cancelled.

He stayed to say hi and took a glass of wine. The chat was relaxed and the wine good. One glass turned into two and before I knew it the bottle was drained. He got up to get another bottle from the fridge. He returned with the wine but minus trousers.

Confident. Brazen. Hot as fuck.

A clarion call.

My stomach flipped and my cunt pulsed. I felt the colour rise in my cheeks. But none of us acknowledged the adjusted dress code. He topped up our wine, sat back down and we picked up the conversation. Through the loaded atmosphere and increasingly disjointed chat my friend and I made eye contact. Eyebrows raised in slight question and half smiles communicated wordlessly that we were both good with this.

The conversation tailed off, both of us watching as he teased himself hard, gripping his cock through his underwear. It’s funny how we remember detail. The underwear sticks in my mind. Hard cock profiled through fresh white cotton. He eases them down. I dip my head but hesitate, enjoying being stood on the edge of a moment.

He pushes my head down in what felt like slow motion and then I am sucking his beautiful dick. I could have stayed in that moment for much longer, feeling him thrust into my mouth and enjoying the moment of exhibitionism and thrill of us being watched. But I force myself to pull away. I look up, catch her eye and nod.

It all speeds up then. In one swift movement she’s on her knees in front of him. He’s gripping the back of my neck and kissing me with an intensity I rarely feel, as if he’s communicating the pleasure he’s getting from her mouth through the force of his kiss. My fingers in her cunt as I slide down onto his cock. Me smiling as I sit back for a minute or two and sip my wine as I watch her ride him.

Then he’s pushing her to her knees and directing her face between my legs. He fucks her from behind, the force of his thrusts pushing her tongue harder onto my clit. Of all the flashbacks I have of that evening this is the one I feel most keenly. The moment of locking into eye contact with him, appreciating the pleasure play across his face as he fucked her, watching his expression flicker between calm and concentration.

That was more than eighteen months ago but I think about it often. Present moments may go by quickly but I close my eyes and this is yesterday.

This was written for Exhibit A’s Manic Street Preachers-inspired prompt. You can read the other entries here