I welcome Winter

My body in winter is so much more than the sum of its summer parts.

In winter, the exposure of my body is not a necessity. It is a desire. An aching, disturbing need.

All summer long we remove layers like so many sheaves of paper from an untidy stack, relishing each moment of cool reprieve before the endless swirling heat of even the most British summers returns. I loathe it. The constant film of sweat on skin, seeping into my hair and clothes and making me wretched.

Winter is the shivering pleasure I cannot wait for.

On misty workday mornings, I glance down at myself approvingly. My coat is thick and a scarf is wound about my neck, but here, between the coiling wool and the shiny brass buttons, is a thick wedge of my own chubby décolletage, a display of sensual flesh for any casual observer to enjoy, and for me to take sinful pride in.

I wear my flimsiest bra, anticipating the moment the chill northern winds permeate the many many layers of clothes I am wrapped in, and my nipples stand to attention, desperate for visibility.

I enjoy the feel of them, their painful stiffness when the temperature drops. The way their colour shifts from milky coffee to a deeper, almost reddish brown as the skin contracts and the texture shifts from soft and meek to stern and unforgiving

I lie on my winter bed, refusing to relinquish my summer sheets – revelling in my goose flesh skin, the persistent teasing lick of the icy breeze on my inner thighs and cunt.

If the summer is my tiring, consuming job of work, the winter is my lover, for whom I wait in eager, panting anticipation, and give myself to them when December arrives.

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Four acts in Oral fluids

I

It might have been our second date (my place, light bondage, showing off, Chinese food). I was straddling his waist.
He might have said “If I asked you to, would you spit in my mouth?”
I shook my head no. That was too Uber-Domme for me. Too far beyond the kink persona I was still moulding for myself.
He accepted this and we went back to inflicting pain on his nipples.

II

He makes me spit on his cock. Every time I make a direct hit, the moan that escapes him makes me melt.

III

He makes me spit on his cock.
He makes me spit on his outstretched palm.
I look up into his face in adoration as he wipes the mess from my forehead down to my mouth.
I say thank you.

IV

It might have been near the end (the best sex, the sweetest confessions, the unbreakable love)
I was straddling his waist.
He looks so vulnerable, so sweet with his sorrowful green eyes and breath caught as he watches me.
“Open your mouth.” I say gently.

All fingers and thumbs (Kink of The Week)

The concept of ‘fingering’ had never much appealed to me. The idea of being impaled on someone’s digits like a finger puppet made my blood run cold, and if a porn scene ever headed in that direction, the sight of the person whose fingers were doing the playing pistoning their arm back and forth like they were chopping firewood made me feel queasy.

I get it now though. I understand. The first time I allowed him to gently extend one of his digits inside my cunt – as he ate me out like a man who’d been starved for a month – I writhed on the bed, alarmed that it felt so good. We’d compared the size of our hands – his dextrous guitarist’s fingers versus my chubby toddler digits, complete with dimples where my knuckles ought to be – and laughed. We joked about how small hands make everything look bigger, but I didn’t think about how longer, more nimble fingers could reach the places that need to be reached, and even conjure the unicorn with the right kind of external and internal pressure. I began to find myself whining “Finger me” with startling regularity. And he always obliged. I had always thought the act was something that men did because they thought women liked it, not because it actually felt good to receive it. I was wrong. I was very wrong.

I’m still getting there. Sometimes, because of my inexperience and his relatively large size, penetrative sex isn’t an option for us, but his fingers…. As he ducks his head to worship at the altar, or directs me in using a toy with his fingers reaching the parts my own, babyish ones can’t….. I might not ever be able to go back to masturbating without his hand between my thighs, my fingers hooked through his. Being fingered feels too good. It might be my favourite thing.

As soon as I saw this fortnight’s topic, I knew the only way I could end a post on fingering would be with this image from the always hilarious FRED FLETCH on Twitter. Sure, it’s not exactly sexy and is pretty jarring coming after the above, but this is my blog and I’ll do what I like so ner.

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The past is another country (with better spelling)

I have a lovely and caring boyfriend who often brings thoughtful and charming gifts – a bunch of flowers in my favourite colour, chocolates that bear an uncanny resemblence to his chosen pet name for me, every brand of throat sweet when I came down with tonsillitis two months into our relationship…. He’s pretty wonderful.
Not long after we’d started seeing each other, he was going away on a business trip, involving an internal flight.

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