Hello everyone.  Let me start off for apologizing for this blog’s long layoff.  Unfortunately, as Ella noted, timing was bad.  I suddenly got very busy at work, and to top it off, the Devils suddenly became the hottest team in the league (what was that about Martin Brodeur being rusty coming back from surgery?  ).  But I know you folks have missed our wonderfully literate pornography, and for the long wait, I do apologize.

But let’s talk about long waits, shall we?  As Ella noted, after our Super Bowl wager, after which her right to orgasm became mine for several weeks, we decided to change things up.  For the past two weeks or so, she’s been in charge of mine.  And in this blog’s biggest understatement to date, I’ve found it difficult.  Wonderful, of course.  I love being at her mercy.  But difficult nonetheless.  Now, I know much of the sex blogosphere is involved in BDSM and perhaps used to longterm orgasm denial, so my complaints of delightful agony may fall on unsympathetic ears.  But before these last few weeks, I’ve hardly gone more than a day without orgasm since I started masturbating.  So the better part of a week … well, you can imagine.

I get ahead of myself.  Let me start at the beginning.  I had been pushing for Ella to agree to play this game with me for a while.  She has a tendency to convince herself she doesn’t like being dominant until she actually starts doing it.  So it took her a day or two to really get into the game, but she became quite playful.  At first, she would let me cum only on days we had time for phone sex.  That was two or three days in between, usually.  And she’d have me doing things in the days in between.  She learned the joy of sending me to jerk off for pre-determined periods of time.  The first night, we couldn’t play on the phone and I worked late hours, so I came home to find this e-mail:

When you get home tonight whenever you are ready, look at the clock.  Then take off your pants and touch yourself for fifteen minutes, however you want, but build it up so that at the end of the time, you’re jacking off as if you’re going to cum, but don’t.  Then come back to your computer and respond to this email, with the intent being for me to read your response in the morning and grant you permission to cum when you wake up.  You can use any tactics you like, but if it’s not good enough, I’ll say no.

My god, by the end of those 15 minutes, I was thrashing on the bed.  I did just as she said, jerking off as if I was going to cum.  I wasn’t going at it gently.  And I was hoping that, when I described my agony in detail, she’d be merciful.  I’m not sure why I expected it.  Maybe because she wasn’t so into the game at first that I thought I’d get permission the next morning.  But she responded with total casualness.  Just a simple “no.”

It wasn’t just the refusal that made it as arousing as it was, but the simplicity of it.  That I could be aching and rolling and squirming, and she could just smile and shake her head.  “Nope! No cumming for you.”  And she later added that she got herself off thinking of my agony.  How hot it was to be reminded that she could have an orgasm whenever she wanted — and even wanted to when thinking of my pain — but I had to wait for her word.

A few days later, she sent me to jerk off for five minutes.  Comparatively, five minutes was easy.  So I went, did it, and came back to the computer to tell her that, though easier than 15, I was quite wound up.  But I thought I was done.  “Do you need another five minutes?” she asked.  “I think you need another five.  Go do another five.”  It was just a reminder that I was at her mercy.  And when I was done with those five, I got another five.  It was so suspenseful, wondering when my time would end.

Suspense was often the name of the game.  One day she had me on the phone, not to hear me cum but to hear me suffer.  She was between classes, and before she called, she told me she wanted to hear me edge once.  So I edged.  And when I finished, she told me to do it again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  I don’t remember how many times she listened to me grit my teeth and squeal and whimper, but I do remember each time hoping desparately it was the last.  I couldn’t lie still.  I couldn’t keep my ass on the bed.  I couldn’t keep from sweating and tensing up.  I think I left nail marks on the palms of my hands.  God, it was so hot, especially listening to her voice, so calm and controlled, in contrast to my heavy breathing and near inability to speak.  Every moment a reminder of her sexual authority and my horniness.  Not because I enjoyed it, but because she got off on it.

Some days at work, I had to remain aware of where my hands were, because I had the irresistable urge to touch myself.  Did that mean Ella would give me a break?  Hardly.  She sent me more than once to my office bathroom to stroke and edge.  The illicitness, the added arousal at a place where I wasn’t supposed to be so worked up … well, let’s say it wasn’t easy to hide such a large erection.

But it was her most recent rule that was the hardest.  On what was my third day, we were planning on having phone sex.  But when we were on the phone, she told me she had something new in mind.  In the six days remaining of my period of bondage, I was allowed one orgasm.  I could have it any time I want.  (Ella loves to make me make decisions when I’m her playtoy.  She says it’s because she loves to watch me try to choose and because, by making a choice, I have to choose my own agony.  Maybe she can expound on that)  With the three days I’d already waited, that made nine.  Nine days, one orgasm.  Good god.

The rational choice would be to cum on the fifth day, right?  Well, whatever might’ve been rational, I knew when I woke up the morning of the fifth day that it was going to be that evening.  Folks, I think I learned what the word “horny” means that day.  It was a day off work, meaning I had little to distract me.  I was hard all day.  I could not think about anything but burying my face in Ella’s hot snatch, getting her juices all over me, hearing her moan.  I fantasized about her sucking my cock while telling me not to orgasm.  I wanted her to tie me up and ride me and smile and my pain while she came.  I wanted to get on top of her and fuck her with more ferocity than I ever have.  I was so hot that day I had to change my underwear in the middle of the day.  I was so fucking hard and so fucking wet.

And that night, after she made me stroke slowly, then quickly, and wait for her to cum … WOW.  I’ve had better orgasms, but never from mastrubation.

Well, I’m hardly feeling all that much better right now.  I’m on my third day right now, and I actually had to move my laptop from my lap to my coffee table, because my lap keeps moving up and down, humping and fucking the air.  I want Ella’s cunt.  I want it now.  But, thankfully, I’m going to have it.  She’s visiting tomorrow, and her current plan is to release me.  She’s told me that, as soon as she sees me, she doesn’t want to tease.  She just want to take advantage of my frustration and have a good, hard fuck.  So I’m going to get to cum at will.

Unless, on another whim, she changes her mind.

I just got a comment on this blog that made me feel very sad.  I’m going to reply to it here, so hopefully other people see.  Here it is:

So whatever happened to Jazz Sex & Soup? Are you guys done posting forever?

Oh dear.    The answer is NO, we are not.  We just both got swamped with work at the same time — the busy part of D’s year started up, and I’m concentrating on graduating.  But don’t worry!  We didn’t run out of time for smut, just writing about it.  And after the rousingly successful aftermath of our Superbowl wager, we decided to turn the tables.  In fact, I’ve ordered Dylan to write a post before the week is over about the agony I’ve been forcing him to endure, so stay tuned.  I can’t imagine he’ll misbehave…

There’s a substantial pleasure I get from watching Ella cum.  But, as I have rediscovered over the last few days, I get a different but equally tremendous pleasure in watching her struggle not to cum.

I didn’t take long to take advantage of my victory after the Super Bowl.  That night, after using my new sex toy’s mouth, I mounted her and took her slowly, hoping to get her as worked up as I could, making her denial all the more difficult.  Her breath got heavier and more strained, and as she grew hornier, she told me something she may regret now.

“It’d probably be even harder for me to hold back,” she said, “if I’m on top.”

I was, of course, anxious to test this hypothesis, so we flipped over and Ella began fucking herself on my cock while I whispered in her ear all the things I was going to do to her these next weeks.  Make her beg to cum.  Make her finger fuck herself on my whims.  Have her masturbate in public bathrooms.  Call me and use her vibrator at inappropriate times.  Ella will gladly tell you that she loves it when I say dirty things to her, so as she fucked herself on my cock and listened, she got closer and closer.  I asked her if she would cum without permission.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” she said as she breathed heavily, “because…I lost…the bet…and…I’m…a whore.”

“My little fuck slut?”

“Yeah.”

Within seconds, she was on the edge of orgasm and had to slow down as her teeth clenched and she held her orgasm inside her.  Her eyes squinted and her nails dug into my chest with tension.  Of course, as she slowed down to a near stop, I was only encouraged, and began to buck my hips against her from underneath, forcing her to squirm in agony as she struggled so hard to obey.  And I had her bouncing up and down on me for quite a long time, until I could take no more and I flipped her over and orgasmed in her.  Her panting had hardly slowed down when I pulled out.

We repeated the whole process about half an hour later.  I still didn’t let her cum.  It made me feel so powerful, watching her do all the work and experience all the tension as I lay on my back and watched the show.  She kept riding, hoping that I’d have mercy.  “I could cum at a moment’s notice,” she said between breaths at one point.  But I wouldn’t allow it.

And the next morning, not long after she’d woken up, I flipped her on her back and ate her frustrated cunt.

The day after the game, I went back with her to Philadelphia, and took advantage of my ability to withhold her orgasm until the last evening of my visit — Thursday night — and, thankfully, she was feeling extra submissive that evening.  I spent a long time fucking her mouth in that way we love so much (I do so love when she grabs my butt while I do this and pulls me closer so she can get my cock deeper down her throat) and I held her down by getting on top of her and pinning her wrists.  (We both love this, because, as we discussed later that evening, she feels like I’m more masculine as my strength holds her down, and I love watching her fight back unsuccessfully.  Unlike when I tie her up, she genuinely can’t escape.)  After a long evening of teasing, we began to fuck — for the second time that evening — and when she was on top, I finally, finally, let her release her frustration.

She’s in Philadelphia right now and I’m back in New York.  I’m thinking I’ll take further advantage of my authority shortly after I post this.

Ella and I have decided on the terms of our bet.  Thanks to those of you who helped us out.  We really appreciate your input!  While we didn’t take any of the provided ideas directly, we were definitely inspired.  So, here is the plan:

The bet itself

We are betting on a spread of 6.5, favoring the Steelers.  Ella has Pittsburgh and I have Arizona.  (For those who don’t know about sports betting, this means that if the Cardinals win, or they lose but come within 6 points, I win.  If the Steelers win by 7 or more, Ella wins.)

The terms

- The loser cannot cum without the winner’s permission for a predetermined amount of time.  Specifically, the term begins immediately after the Super Bowl is over and ends after dinner on February 22, which is day 2 of a visit I have planned to Philly.

- The loser may touch him/herself without permission, but may not refuse to touch when ordered to.  The winner can give the loser guided masturbation instructions.

- The winner must respect the loser’s commitments.  In other words, no forced teasing when time is an issue, when the loser is at work, in class, doing homework, etc.  (Hey, we’re kinky, but we’re not a full-on M/s couple.)

The irony

We’re not sure, but since we both like being dominated, we actually both might want to lose this bet.

The anticipation

Right now, I am sitting here contemplating what I will do to Ella if I win, and fantasizing about what she’ll do to me if I lose.  Either way, I’m anxious to see what the fate of the next 3+ weeks will be for me.  It’s a tremendous turn-on, and I am rock hard with excitement.

In the interest of getting me interested in the Superbowl, Dylan has proposed a friendly wager.  Since I have no money (seriously, I have no money), we are going to have a sex bet.  The idea is that whoever wins the bet wins some sort of sexual favor from the other.  We’re betting on the spread.  It’s all very sophisticated.

The only hitch is, we can’t quite decide what the stakes should be.  Various iterations of the original idea were that whoever won would get to tie the other up, or get tied up themselves, or choose  who would be the restrainer and who the restrainee, but ultimately we rejected the idea of a bondage game as a little passe.  We play bondage games all the time, and after all, this is the Superbowl.  It seems to demand something a little more daring, a little more risky, a little more…of a gamble.  Reader: seeing as you’ll get to read a lavish account of the outcome of the bet, it only seems fair that you should have some say in its creation.  What terms should we establish?  Weigh in in the comments.

(For those of you following along at home, he’s rooting for the Cardinals and I’m rooting for the Steelers.  I think.  Team selection was all very arbitrary on my part, I assure you.  If you need me, I’ll be the one with my head cocked in confusion, haphazardly calling out, “Go Eagles!”  I’m a good little Philly girl, to be sure.)

I should have written this a long time ago.  It’s a follow-up to D’s last post, and especially when we were featured again in AAG’s Fleshbot roundup (thanks!), I wanted to capitalize on the readership spike.  Unfortunately, the post didn’t happen.  I’ve been busy with the beginning of the semester and the end of my college career, and I just couldn’t make it work.  But I do want to share some thoughts on what Dylan wrote about a few weeks ago, and it is never too late for that, as far as I am concerned.

For me, sexuality has a ton of forward momentum.  I’m sure many people would agree with that assessment — no matter what you’re doing, sexual activity is moving, however indirectly, to some moment of climax or completion.  Often orgasm; but gentle, teasing caresses on my stomach and inner thigh lead my lover’s fingers to plunge deeply into me, and as I softly swirl my tongue around the head of his cock he begs not for orgasmic release, but just for me to take all of him into my mouth.  Everything is leading somewhere.  Nearly every sexual act seems to have not only a firm sense of direction but also an instinctive understanding of the timing of the progression, and I think that for this reason, for all that I love it, oral sex can be troublesome for me.  For Dylan and me, oral sex is strictly foreplay.  I have never been able to cum during oral, as I think I have mentioned before, and while I have sucked him to orgasm a time or two, particularly before I lost my virginity, nowadays D likes to save it so he can fuck me when I’m done enjoying the taste of his dick.  Oral sex, for us, isn’t particularly leading anywhere.  There is no definite endpoint, no sexual zenith, and while there is an understanding that we’re ultimately going to fuck, the moment of his transition from my mouth to my pussy never seems to approached by the act of the blowjob itself.

I realize all of that sounds like an incredibly esoteric way to describe cocksucking; but suffice it to say that while I love sucking Dylan’s dick, love it beyond all reason, the act has very little momentum for me.  I am eager to get my mouth on him and I know exactly when and how to do it, but once I’m down there, I always find myself grappling with the problem of when to leave.  Of course, sometimes he helps me out.  Sometimes he grabs me by the hair or the leash around my neck and jerks me up to eye level so he can hungrily suck his flavor from my lips and push his dick hard into me, and sometimes he flips me over onto my back and shoves his face between my legs so he can get a taste of his own.  Other times, though, I find myself making a more or less arbitrary decision about when the blowjob ends (because really, I could suck him all day), and in some small way I find this aesthetically unsatisfying.

About ten hours after Dylan wrote his last post, he was on a bus to Philadelphia, and two hours after that he was in my apartment.  That night, we maneuvered into one of our favorite new foreplay techniques.  This time, I lay on my side and he knelt by my head and fucked my mouth slowly and deliberately.  As his groans increased, my cunt began to ache in a way that it normally doesn’t from the simple act of sucking cock.  I was gripped by a powerful desire for him to increase the speed of his movement in and out of my mouth.  I pulled back, and as he dove in for a breathless kiss I murmured agaisnt his anxious lips and tongue that I wanted him to fuck my mouth faster.  Happy to oblige, he shoved his cock back into my mouth at a quicker pace, and I immediately realized exactly what I wanted.  I pulled back yet again and gasped that what I truly and desperately wanted was for him to fuck my mouth exactly the way he would fuck my pussy.  I wanted him to speed up because I know his sexual rhythms, and I knew from the tenor of his moans that if he had his cock buried in me he would have started pumping me faster and harder.  Our new game had an unintended and unexpected consequence for me: it replicated sex closely enough that it allowed me borrow that familiar crecendo.  Everything I love about a blowjob, with the momentum of a good, hard fuck.

We did not do exactly what I wanted that night.  Excited as I was by the idea of taking the blowjob all the way to completion, the reality was that I still wanted to get fucked, as I always do.  After the buildup of the enhanced oral experience, though, I came harder than I have in a long time.  Someday I’d like to complete it.  I doubt he’ll argue.

Ella once read on another sex blog that after sex, a man will use memories of certain things done during that night as masturbation fodder.  She asked me if this was true.  I told her it was.  And on that note, I want to tell you about something I’ve jerked off to many times, something that happened in our most recent sexual encounter, which, as Ella noted, was some of the best sex we’ve had in a long time.

What exactly made that sex so great?  It’s hard to tell.  We didn’t do anything explicitly unusual.  Maybe we were just both really horny.  We definitely were quite energetic and passionate that night, and I do remember cumming harder than I have in some time.  But it wasn’t during the penetration that I received my fondest memory.  It was during foreplay.

My baby noted in her last post that she loves to suck cock.  I have no problem indulging this passion of hers, and I often find myself pushing her head down during foreplay.  She’s more than happy to oblige.  Some time ago, while I had her on her knees, blindfolded with her wrists and ankles cuffed behind her, I stood in front of her, positioning my dick right at her warm lips.  No hesitation on her part; after all, she’d been begging to suck me ever since I had untied her from the bed.  So she devoured me hungrily, and my knees weakened as I felt her warm, moist mouth engulf me and listened to the soft moans she let out.  In the spirit of the game we were playing, where I was using her, I decided to try something.  “Don’t move your head,” I said.  And she kept still as I did the work, shifting my hips back and forth and fucking her mouth like a cunt.

This has become a favorite of ours.  For me, I love the feeling of power it gives, as well as the fact that it’s like being on top during sex – you control the pace as you fuck your girl – but with a different feeling than a pussy.  For her, or so she tells me, it enables her to actually see sex as it happens.  And for this reason, we’ve done it many times, in many positions, each one with its own distinct feeling.  One of the best I can remember was tying her hands above her head and having her lie on her side, while I lay on my side and fucked her mouth.  The view from the top was quite lovely.

I tell this history to describe the moment I referred to early on in this entry.  The moment of foreplay in our most recent night of lovemaking that has been a masturbatory memory for better than a week.  Shortly after I came up for air when I finished eating her cunt, I rolled onto my side and pushed Ella’s head downward, implying I wanted my favor returned.  Far be it from her to refuse, so I rolled further over onto my back while she lay on her side and faced away from me.  I wasn’t sure who it was that initiated it, but after a while, she rested her head on my stomach.  Somewhere, one of us had given the other a clue that one of our favorite moments was about to happen, in a position we hadn’t tried before.  You know how when you’re excessively horny, your hips can sometimes buck themselves almost against your will?  That was the motion I made.  I lifted my hips repeatedly into the air, moving my cock in and out of Ella’s eager, open mouth.  My head was hanging off the bed, and for a moment, I tried to keep it up to watch the action, but gave up and allowed it to hang.  Letting loose like that while I fucked the mouth that rested on me was phenomenal.  I can’t describe why, exactly.  Perhaps it was the looseness and effortlessness of it, but it was intense.  And as always, my girl softly sighed and moaned as I fucked her from below.

It was hardly the climax of the evening, but it was something I can’t get out of my mind.  Nor do I want to.

Soon after I finish this piece, I’ll be packing up as I’m headed down to Philadelphia tomorrow afternoon.  I’ve already asked her how she’d feel about me tying her up again.  While I haven’t gotten an answer, I still intend to pursue my plans … and if she objects, put her mouth to better use.

In his last post here, Dylan alluded to my recent dry spell.  He’s absolutely right.  For the last few weeks — months, even — my interest in sex has waned, and our blog activity has reflected that.  I have no good explanation for this unprecedented chilling of my sexual urges, and even the incident he wrote about last week, while it was a relief for us both, did not represent my ordinary drive.  I grew concerned.

As he wrote that post, I was thousands of feet in the air, flying to Los Angeles to visit my father and his family.  Understandably, I did not think much about sex for most of my trip until suddenly, on my last night in Cali, I felt a powerful urge to watch porn.  I get those once in a while, for reasons I don’t thoroughly understand.  Armed with Shamu, my black and white Delight, porn is never necessary for me to masturbate — in fact, a lot of times when I watch it I end up feeling a little let-down afterwords, because I cum so quickly and effortlessly that I don’t feel that I’ve really enjoyed everything that she has to offer.  Sometimes, though, I feel compelled to watch porn, and that evening was one of those times.  I came readily, felt the familiar mild disappointment at the speed, and went to sleep.

When D arrived at my house 48 hours later, I was pretty much ready to jump him right in the foyer.  The porn had awoken my baser impulses, and for the first time in weeks, I was myself again, and horny as all get-out.  I was allegedly taking care of my younger brothers, the younger of whom is handicapped, so we behaved ourselves during the day — not a difficult task, an autistic child and two enormous, over-excited (and soon-to-be sick) dogs kept us fairly busy.  In the evening, however, my teenaged brother had gone out and the younger was upstairs watching a movie, and we found ourselves alone in the kitchen.  A long, thick silence hung in the air before he swiftly closed the distance between us and bent me backwards over the kitchen counter and kissed me fiercely.  His hands drifted up to my breasts and his lips down to my neck (among my favorite places for both), and out the corner of my eye I could see my white knuckles as they gripped the edge of the sink.  After a few anxious moments, I pulled away (not without difficulty) and somewhat breathlessly suggested we go up to my bedroom.

Recall, friends, that at this point the evening was far from over.  Neither brother had settled in for the night, and I still had several responsibilities before really getting down to business with my man; we enjoyed at most a thirty-minute window of freedom.  It was a curious limbo — not long enough for sex, I was sure of it, but surely long enough for most anything else, though I would be lying if I said that as he tumbled me into bed and shoved his hand roughly between my legs I never entertained the thought of just trying to be quick and quiet.  As our mutual desperation grew, I even suggested it, in a quivering burst.  He chuckled.

“That would be irresponsible, baby,” he reminded me.  “You’ve got a child to take care of.”

I pleaded with him and myself in vain.  “He’s watching a video,” I pointed out.  “And anyway…I’ve never been all that responsible.  It’s just a question of how irresponsible we’re both willing to be.”

Dylan soon decided that he, at least, was irresponsible enough to yank off my shirt and lock his lips to my breasts, and not long after that I found myself quite irresponsible enough to unzip his pants and eagerly shove my hand inside to feel him rock-hard underneath, and find that delicious little spot of moisture at the tip.  In that moment, I marveled slightly; in that moment, I wondered who I had been these past few weeks, how I could have been confronted by the possibility of that delicious wetness and not longed to lap it up.  Finally, though, we got too close — anxious as we both were, it turned out I wasn’t irresponsible enough to fuck in my bedroom with my little brother awake in the other room.  Alice in Wonderland ended soon enough, however, and I brushed his teeth and put him to bed.  Our other brother returned home and busied himself with his guitar in the downstairs rec room, and it seemed that my work for the day was done.

With the younger one asleep and the older one otherwise engaged, Dylan and I retired to my parents’ bedroom, where I was to sleep while they were away.  (I believe it has been mentioned that I am a week away from 22, and Dylan is nearing 24.  We have been together for 2.5 years.  Nevertheless, my parents will not let us be in a room together with the door closed, much less sleep in the same room.  I think they really must know that we ignore the rule, though — it’s more for their peace of mind than anything else, I imagine.)  We had barely entered the room before we were tearing viciously at each other.  He had my shirt off in a second, and buried his face between my breasts as he lowered me onto the bed and kissed slowly down my belly, letting his lips hover longer on my pelvis before sliding my pants off and driving his tongue into me.  He emerged, sticky and sweet like a bear from a honeypot, and climbed up the bed to kiss me as I pulled futilely at his belt, anxious to finally taste him.  As soon as he helped me off with his pants I buried him in my mouth, remembering as I always do why I love to suck cock.  After a few minutes of desperate, vigorous licking and slurping he shoved me onto my back and fucked me fast and hard, and we both came within minutes.  The whole thing couldn’t have taken much more than a quarter of an hour.

The irony is, that was not the best sex we were to have that weekend, nor was it the best we would have in my mother’s bed.  But perhaps Dylan wants to write about that.

The “Tet Award,” according to a recent dream of mine, is given annually to the sexiest and most sexual couple in America that year. In my dream, Ella and I were three-time winners. We were nominated in 2008, but I told Ella I was near certain we wouldn’t win, given her recent lack of sexual interest. I feared that the timing of her cold streak – the end of the year – would strongly influence the voters.

While I’m proud that I think highly enough of my sex life to think it deserves an award, I’m sad to say that the latter part of my dream wasn’t too far off. Ella hasn’t been driven towards sex of late. Why, we don’t know. But when I was there last, we actually spent more time out of bed than in it. Go figure.

Despite the lack of sex, I enjoyed my stay. Really, I can’t get enough of her. Just being in bed next to her while we sleep makes me happy. But still, I longed for a good lay while I was there.

As the visit wound down and we sat on the couch watching TV while I got ready to catch my bus, I gave my darling a kiss. “Hold on,” she said. “Kiss me again.”

Never one to pass up the opportunity to kiss a beautiful woman, I obeyed. “Huh,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m actually aroused.”

Guess how long it took before I jumped on the opportunity. And jumped on Ella. Not to say there wasn’t plenty of foreplay. Oh, there was plenty. But we still wasted no time getting from her living room couch to her bedroom where I shoved her up against the wall and put my mouth to good use, as she finally seemed to appreciate it. I missed my bus, but I can’t complain. It was worth it.

Ella and I have not had sex since then, but we haven’t had the opportunity. I left that evening (would’ve stayed if I didn’t have work the next day), and the only time I’ve seen her since is Christmas, when we were both at her parents’ house. We’re sneaky, but her family isn’t easily fooled.

Ella is in California as I type this. As usual, I hope distance doesn’t keep us from our games.

Ella has insisted I clarify, the title was her idea, not mine.

Oh, my friends, I can only apologize for my total neglect of this blog.  I’ve been terribly busy with my semester ending, and…well, that’s really it.  I have a lot going on right now, and something had to fall by the wayside.  Thank goodness there are two of us, yeah?  Not that Dylan’s been writing a ton either.  It’s a busy time.

Anyhow, I should preface this by saying that Dylan is back again (and has been nagging me to write), which is another reason we’ve been busy, and it makes me want to talk about something that hasn’t been mentioned here before.  When we first started fooling around (I promise I won’t start every entry like this), Dylan said to me, “I’m going to tell you right now, I don’t always cum during sex.  It is pretty much unpredictable.  It has nothing to do with the quality of the sex or my degree of arousal.  IT IS NOT ABOUT YOU.”  After a few months it became a minor issue.  He focuses on getting me off first, and then if he can cum, he does, and if he can’t, he doesn’t.  I prefer when he does, of course, but when he doesn’t, I don’t take it personally.  That’s healthy.

But I prefer when he does.  My favorite, of course, is to get him off when I’m on top.  I like being on top in general — I’m the most likely to cum that way myself.  He can always see when I’m getting close, and he tightens up his pelvis so I have something hard and firm to grid against.  I love that.  On the rare occasion that I can get him to cum when I’m on top as well, I feel immensely powerful.  It’s difficult, though, and I rarely manage it — most of the time, he flips me over a few minutes after I get mine.  When Dylan is trying to cum, he fucks me very deliberately — he pumps me fast and steadily, with a look of quiet determination.  When I’m trying to orgasm, there’s a steady escalation of excitement until I peak.  I don’t always know exactly what’s going to get me off on a given day, so I experiment until I find whatever rhythm works for me that day.  When Dylan’s trying to cum, he fucks with an agenda, and he knows how to do it.

But as I’ve said, despite his regularity, sometimes it doesn’t work.  I can always tell when it might not work, and that’s when I like to get involved.  I play with his chest or kiss his neck or thrust back against him…but my favorite thing, and what seems most likely to send him over the edge, is when I beg.  Dylan loves to hear me beg in general — we play dominance games, and I know he gets a thrill from making me plead for a touch or kiss, but this is not that game.  This is just me, Ella, so desperate to see him cum that I’m gasping in rhythm with him.  I’m not begging because I have to or in exchange for a favor — it is real pleading, no game.  “Please, baby,” I whisper, “please cum for me.  Please, let me see it, I want to see you cum.”  He grunts as I spit out the words — encouraged, I continue, urging him on, begging him to cum inside me, telling him how much I want to see it and how much his orgasm enhances my sexual experience.  It never fails.

In the moment before I cum, I can see my orgasm reflected in his eyes.  I wonder if he can see it too.

(It is with great sadness that I inform you that Dylan’s delightful gift from his last entry did not fit me.  Tragedy.)