This week I’ve been painting the living room, but it does tend to cover your clothes, unless you take precautions…
See who else has been splashing stuff on the surfaces by clicking on the link below.
Thoughts of you flow in rivers from my mind when I find myself in the shower. The slip of soap, the warm fingers of water shooing it away. The bubbling glass doors that tease the outside viewer.
Would I be pegged from behind, or maybe milked in a reach around by you? Maybe the force of being pushed up against the glass will create a sort-of ruined orgasm by frottage. I imagine your forearm across my shoulders and neck, you using your other arm to leverage yourself against me. As I get aroused by the force of your dominance, the position of my body in subservience to you, I can feel you up against me, naked, wet and shaking, your erect nipples dig into my back like thumbs.
But the glass is no longer a shower, it is the window to a hotel balcony, late at night. Below us the city traffic streams in iridescent snakes, under the golden glow of the urban nightscape. We can watch below, safe in the anonymity of the darkened room.
And now I feel you fully, as your outstretched arm finds its way between your legs, pumping your cunt with practised fingers as you grind against me. As your breath quickens, you keep up a steady stream of orders: “Take it, fucktoy, c’mon. Who owns you? You’ll come when I say you can and not before, we’re going to ruin that pretty little orgasm all over the glass and I’ll make you lick it off as I wank my clit…”
You bark an orgasm, rhythmic. Thrusts. Jolt. Through. Me. As you grasp and twist the climax from deep inside, croaking “come, now, Darling”. The change of tone and cracking vulnerability push my edging cock past the point of no return and I let you hold me tight against the cool, wobbling glass as the white streaks seep around the edges of my belly.
The other day I posted a blog post that I very nearly didn’t, and I wanted to explore why I found it problematic, and what it says about me as a sexual person. The post itself was here and was simply an image of a semen-covered screen, with words of tribute underneath. The inspiration and collaborator on the piece was Violet (@fireandhoney). Recently she and I have committed ourselves to D/s and I am proud and happy to be the sub at her feet.
There were a few reasons why I was initially uncomfortable with it. First of all, pictures are not really my thing in a blog – #SinfulSundays notwithstanding. My language is verbal not visual – I take pictures but without really a sense of them speaking more powerfully than my words. But mainly it was the picture contents: a screen with an image I had recently ejaculated over. Within the scheme of things, pretty mild – an implied sexual experience, and so-subtle-you-might-miss-it transparent traces over the bright backlit screen. Especially mild from a man who regularly celebrates acts of sexual licentiousness in fictional settings on the same pages.
Violet and I had been discussing the issue of documenting our new relationship on our respective blog pages – how it would work, what would we show etc. And so we had the question of whether I would post this on my blog. I decided I would, but I never promoted it across twitter as I would with a piece of writing and I wanted to understand why I felt embarrassed, even ashamed, to do so.
I’ve talked elsewhere of my longstanding body-image issues and how it made me feel I was undeserving of sexual gratification as a young man. But in coming to terms with the reality of my desires in recent years, and realisation of my Submissive nature, I realised a hitherto repressed side: an exhibitionist. Yet even here there is a paradox – I am an anonymous exhibitionist who doesn’t really do sexual. It was only when confronted with posting the picture of my cum-covered device that I realised the pictures of my naked body I have shared via #SinfulSunday and #GymLockerPics are not sexual at all. I had been sharing pictures of myself under the guise of sexpositive pride and all the while they were actively trying to hide the very thing they I had convinced myself I was revealing.
They may have been celebrations of my semi-naked form, but devoid of sexual context. Genitals hidden by strategically placed deodorant cans, creamers, padlocks and swimtrunks told of an eye that preferred its sex jokey. The reaction I was going for was a smile not a gasp; I was still that 18-year-old trying to hide his shame, but this time turning it into a joke. In short, my ‘visual kink brand’ was about seaside smut not honest sexuality explored. I was worried my readers’ smiles would turn into disappointed frowns like maiden aunts at a Chubby Brown review.
Maybe I should cut myself some slack. We can’t all be Robert Mapplethorpe and I am not under legal obligation to show what fizzes my whizzbangs. There are, let’s be honest, more important things in the world. But it took the proof of my physical, sexual self in public to make me realise that I still have a way to go before I’m comfortable with the raw evidence of my inner feelings. Thanks to Violet for helping me to realise this, and helping me to keep trying.
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