Sexy at the right price

by Dylan

I don’t normally shop on Black Friday, but today I’m glad I did.

I’d had family members who lived far off over for the day, since they were in the area for Thanksgiving and I likely wouldn’t see them again for a while.  When they left in the evening, I realized it wasn’t very late, and I’d been in the house all day, so I took a walk.  Yes, I went out at night in New York in late November.  Yes, I have no feeling in my skin.

I approached the mall, and while I dreaded the idea of shopping on Black Friday, I had to use the bathroom.  When I went in, I noticed that, while crowded, it wasn’t nearly as packed as it probably was earlier in the day, so I browsed to see what deals I could score.

Now, I may not be the world’s wealthiest man, but what red-blooded male who has a girlfriend can resist a sale at Frederick’s of Hollywood?  I looked through each item picturing my baby in every skimpy, sexy outfit, and settled on this in gemstone green (Ella, if you want the surprise, don’t click the link).

As I sit here, I’m picturing Ella and her hot body dressed in nothing but that delicious little number and the fun I’ll have removing it from her.  I’ll be heading down to Philly for a visit tomorrow.  I’ll be sure to let you know how hot she looks in it at a later date.

Kept waiting

by Dylan

OK, so Ella and I haven’t posted much of late. Seems it’s been basically a solid week since either of us has posted. Sorry to keep you waiting.

But on the theme of keeping one waiting, I’d like to post on one of my favorite sexual practices: orgasm denial. Here, for your reading enjoyment, are three of the many reasons I enjoy orgasm denial (both denying and being denied):

It’s fun during 

It’s greatly pleasurable to watch Ella orgasm. I love seeing her eyes squint as her voice gets gradually louder and louder building up to the release. At the same time, the tension of a denied or delayed orgasm is quite exciting also. I get great pleasure from knowing the urge is building up in her cunt, and building more, as I continue to pound into her. Her legs tense around my waist, her nails dig into my back, and she whimpers, “God, baaaaaaaabyyyyyyy.” And she’ll grasp the nearby sheet tightly enough for her hands to turn red. What’s more fun than knowing your partner is so horny they could go mad?

There’s also the fun of Ella riding me and keeping me in waiting. I love waiting for her. Painful as it may be, I get so excited knowing how in control she is, knowing she’s welcome to ride me and have her way with me as long as she wishes with no worries of sex ending because I cum. A good toy lasts as long as its user wants, right? How much use would I be if I weren’t hard to please her? I go wild when I realize I’m just a cock for her to fuck.

It’s fun after 

Neither of us cool off very fast if we don’t orgasm. So whoever is taking charge gets the fun of teasing the other. It’s a light touch, a kiss, a nibble on the earlobe or neck, a whisper of more to come later that’s only intensified by the orgasm denied earlier in the day. It’s not difficult for Ella to take me out in public when I’ve been denied orgasm and stroke me under a restaurant table as I use all my strength to keep from moaning. Or if she’s been kept in waiting, I can push her against a wall and kiss her extra-sensitive neck as she grasps the back of my shirt. We love to tease, and sex without an orgasm just adds a level of intensity to the teasing.

It’s the ultimate in domination 

Domination and submission are mostly psychological for Ella and me. By which I mean, we don’t use whips or gags and only bind each other lightly. Our actions in a dominant state aren’t to hurt the other person but to remind our partner of his/her submissive state. For example, I greatly love when she has me tied down and takes the precum from my cock and smears it on my face – not for any physical sensation but for the filth factor, the reminder that I’m a dirty, dirty boy. In that vein, orgasm denial is the greatest tool. It clarifies one person’s role as merely there for the amusement of the other. The most intense moment of pleasure in sex is the orgasm, and if the orgasm isn’t there, the sex is merely for the enjoyment of the dominant. Ella rides me and tells me not to cum, but if we’re equals, my pleasure would matter. But my pleasure doesn’t matter, making it clear that it’s all about her. The same goes when I’m in charge. Her twat is then a vessel for my pleasure, and mine alone, since she’s not permitted to derive enjoyment from it.

One of my fond masturbatory memories of orgasm denial was an afternoon when Ella had just finished riding me. She came, I didn’t. She got off and wasn’t about to give my tense body or my stiff dick a break. She proceeded quickly to lower her mouth to my cock and gently kiss and lick. But eventually she pulled away and sat by me as I tried to catch my breath. I thought I was done, until she did what I excitedly remember her doing – she softly grasped my right hand and shifted it into position on my crotch, implying that I was being ordered to masturbate. So I began to slowly stroke. I saw her there, watching me, watching me pant and moan as my hand moved up and down and I could barely lie still. I was a performance piece for her viewing pleasure. It wasn’t about me. When I masturbate, I do it to cum. That afternoon, I was doing it because she got off on watching me suffer and squirm. Just a sex toy.

And to this day, I can hardly keep my thoughts straight when I think about that moment.

I should note that we are not as intense in our orgasm denial as some couples. The longest one of us has ever been denied is a whole day. But we do like being creative about it. Readers, do you partake of orgasm denial? And if so, what are some fun ways to make use of it?

Two new spots

by Dylan

On Saturday night, I took Ella out to dinner at a beautiful Italian place in Philadelphia. We’re going to have to remember the place, since we enjoyed the reasonably priced food and service (if you’d like to know where it was, hit us up.) Our conversation over dinner was intellectual as we discussed films based on literary works for a paper Ella is writing. We’re nerds, as you’ll come to discover over time.

But Ella’s apartment is some distance from this restaurant, and it was a nice night, so we decided to walk home rather than take the subway. We continued to talk about movies, but as is often the case, we had trouble keeping our hands off each other. It often begins with a casual touch – a light kiss on the neck, followed by nibbling an earlobe, a shameless grope – and grows rapidly, with one of us being the aggressor. Saturday was no different. I took the lead as I forcefully shoved Ella against multiple walls – not hard enough to hurt her, of course, but enough to clearly assert my dominance – and teased my baby by coming in close for a kiss and pulling away as she reached for one, holding her back with my body pressed firmly against hers. I kissed several times along her neck and collarbone to work her up before finally pressing my lips to hers and allowing her hands to wrap around my head as our tongues met.

It was in this spirit that I noticed, as we crossed a bridge, a stairwell leading to what seemed a relatively deserted area. No harm in checking it out, I figured, and I led my darling down the staircase to discover under the bridge just what I’d hoped – a wall, a fence, and a street leading to nowhere. Hardly a reason for anybody to come by.

Not wanting to waste time, I grabbed Ella by the hair – she does so enjoy when I use her hair as a tool of domination – and guided her to the wall, which I pushed her up against, and I began to kiss roughly as I grinded into her, my hardened cock pressing against her leg. I lifted her shirt to display her bra-covered breasts and lowered my mouth to taste the sweet skin of her chest and, with my fingers, reached under her bra to tease her nipples. She let out a soft sigh of pleasure as she stroked my hair and I licked more and more on her breasts. When I eventually came up for a kiss, she happily returned the favor, sliding her hands under my shirt and teasing my sensitive chest.

“How daring are we?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” my hot girl responded. “I might be daring enough to blow you here.”

As it turns out, reader, we’re not as daring as we’d like to be, not due so much to our own failing but to circumstance. It was a Saturday night, around the hour that most people go bar-hopping, and we were just blocks from a college campus. The timing and location could have been better, and Ella and I told each other as we left our newfound spot that we’d return at a more opportune time.

We did not return there before my brief visit ended. But there have been nights since then that I have fantasized about our return. In my fantasies, Ella puts me up against the wall and kisses me, as her hands reach down my chest and stomach and begin to undo my belt. She unzips my pants and frees my engorged dick, which feels the chill in the cold air, compounded with the wetness of her tongue, which, as she kneels, licks at the head and underside and tastes up all the precum. She counteracts the coldness of my surroundings by taking me deep into her hot, wet mouth, the feeling of it intensified by the hotness in contrast to the cool night air. I want to roll my eyes back in my head but I have to keep a lookout for the unlikely passerby, and Ella takes the opportunity to look up at me and watch me bite my knuckle to stifle the moans.

More than once since Saturday I’ve jerked off to this fantasy. Two great new spots found in one night. Next time, we might have to just skip dinner.

Rushin’ fingers

by Ella

I mentioned a few days ago that I lost my virginity to Dylan a few years back.  That was in autumn, and since I believe I also mentioned that Dylan and I met and started dating in July, the astute among our readers will have surmised that for approximately three months, we weren’t having sex.  I was relatively sexually inexperienced at the time, so we took it slow.  A few weeks after we met, Dylan spent the weekend at my house to go to a music festival.  (I know, that doesn’t particularly sound like taking it slow.  We live in different places, it’s hard to date like normal people under those circumstances.)  It happened that my parents were also out of town that weekend, so we had the run of the place.  That weekend was the first time Dylan went down on me.  Prior to that, I had, of course, made out with a fair number of boys.  I’d let boys touch my breasts, and I’d done my share of dry humping (I am a big fan of dry humping).  Beyond that, I had on two occasions received some rather unenthusiastic, experimental oral from an equally inexperienced lover who wished that I’d had the foresight to shave, and I had never really been fingered.  It was with this background that Dylan stripped my pants off for the first time.  He put his tongue on me carefully that first night, trying lots of different things to see what I liked.  I’m not sure how clear my signals were.  I would be lying if I said that it blew my mind — often when I experience a new sexual sensation for the first time my primary reaction is ambivalence, as if my body isn’t quite sure what to make of the new feeling.  My first really dedicated oral experience was no exception — I felt a mixture of pleasure and confusion, excitement and nervousness.  After swirling me around with his tongue and lips for a little bit, Dylan cautiously slipped a finger inside me.  I remember relishing the feeling of penetration, and once he was sure that I liked it (he wasn’t nearly as attuned to my pleasure then as he is now, of course) he began to slowly pump it in and out of my pussy.  I liked that, so he picked up the pace.  Everything was going well until, all of a sudden, I was hit with a massive wave of pain.  I yelped, he pulled out, and I whimpered pitifully for a while.  It was not at all sexy.

Dylan went down on me many more times in the next few months, and we both got much better at it.  He asked me to shave and I did, and we both got to know my body much better — he found out the best ways to pleasure me, and I got better at processing different sensations and figuring out which I liked best.  I’ll say right now, though, that I love being eaten, but I have never orgasmed from oral stimulation.  As far as I can tell, I can only cum from masturbation and penetration.  Part of this may be the fact that I can’t seem to manage multiple orgasms (and I am fiercely jealous of women who can), so in both of our minds oral sex is cast as strictly foreplay.  I get it regular, though, because Dylan loves foreplay (perhaps someday he will post on why he loves foreplay more than many men) — but for many, many months, while our love of cunnilingus flourished and grew,  Dylan never again ventured to put a finger inside me.  That first afternoon (which, on account of the residual pain and the blood, we later concluded must have broken my hymen) had been so traumatic for us both, and oral (and not long after, the sex itself) was so satisfying, that for many months, the subject of fingering was tabled.

One night, probably about a year later, Dylan was feeling more submissive than usual, so I assumed my dominant role.  I got him naked fast and stripped myself slowly, enjoying the power of being clothed while he was totally exposed.  When I finally got my pants off I sat in my desk chair and knelt him at my feet.  I made him hover there for a while and watched him whimper plaintively, eyeing my wet cunt hungrily and straining slightly forward with his lips, even as he struggles to obey my strict injunction to look, but not touch.  When I finally gave him permission, he dove between my legs with a low moan and I settled back in my chair.  This, I reflected, was probably my favorite position to be eaten in.  Kneeling below me, he has a lot more motion and freedom than when I’m lying on my back.  I usually slide my hips to the edge of the chair and rest my ankles on his shoulders — and from there, of course, I have a perfect seat to enjoy the show.  Dylan loves eating me, especially when it’s been withheld, and this evening he went to it with particular gusto.  His enthusiasm was contagious, and before long I was squirming uncomfortably in my chair (naturally, I had been pretty hot to start with, so it didn’t take a ton).  Sensing that something was missing, I ordered him to stop licking my clit and fuck my pussy with his tongue.  Always obliging, he plunged it into me and I yelped at the sudden penetration as he continue to work his lips on my cunt.  When I finally let him fuck me, I was so worked up that I came fast and hard.

This eager tongue-fucking was the reintroduction of penetration into my oral sex experience.  A few weeks later he slowly and cautiously inserted a finger into me, watching me carefully to gauge my reaction.  My moan of pleasure told him all he needed to know — aside from a little bitching about his fingernails being too long (I am a total baby about things like that), my pained reaction to his finger’s first foray into my pussy seemed to be alleviated, and he began experimenting with more confidence.  He quickly learned that I am a g-spot girl, and the classic come-hither finger motion makes me writhe and gasp and squeal like oral never had before.  Before long I was begging him to suck my clit as he fingered me (to be honest, I think that in my state of hyper-aroused hysteria the demand comes out more like, “Do that thing…you know…that thing I like…” and he is left to interpret my muddled request).  I had wholeheartedly re-embraced manual sex into my heart and Dylan’s fingers into my cunt.

Which brings me to this weekend.  There are so many things I could talk about, but I am going to focus on just one.  One of the evenings we spent in bed (the sex all starts to run together) he took his customary, well-worn spot with his shoulders between my knees and plunged a finger into me.  I moaned a little more sharply and loudly than usual, and without waiting for him to begin to work my pussy with his hand, began sliding my hips up and down his inserted finger.  I fucked his hand, hard, grinding my hips desperately up and down with increasing speed, and he later told me that he soon stopped moving his hand altogether.  “I figured, if that’s the pace she wants,” he explained, “I’ll let her have it!”  After watching the frantic bucking of my hips and listening to my increasingly frenzied moans for some time, he hissed up at me, “You want something better?”  I nodded, unable to speak clearly, and he lost no time in replacing his fingers with his cock.  The next night, encouraged by my previous enthusiastic response, he inserted his fingers eagerly.  Rather than wait for me to begin working my hips, after his first few slow, careful strokes, he plunged them as deep as he could and began pumping them in and out with furious speed.  Readers…I simply cannot tell you.  I cannot describe adequately to you my abrupt wail of shock and pleasure and desperation.  I cannot tell you how my back arched involuntarily, thrusting my pelvis towards his vigorously moving hand.  I cannot tell you how my arms writhed, one moment twining the sheets tightly in my fists, then stretching behind my head in tense luxuriance and sliding slowly back to grip my pillow tightly, before losing awareness of them altogether.  I cannot tell you any of this, beyond these small snippets, because aside from these, I have few memories that managed to transcend the massive wall of pleasure that I have eloquently dubbed “fastfingers.”  (You will learn that I am not particularly clever at naming things when I am attempting to demand them during sex.)

I understand, readers, that fastfingers is not a particularly new or original move.  This is why I am trying to impress upon you (and I hope that I have successfully done so) that for many, many months I didn’t think I liked to be fingered, which is why it came as such a delightful surprise to learn that I do like it very much after all.  So all of you who are thinking, “Harumph!  Ella, I thought you were going to tell me something I didn’t know!” — I make no pretense of originality!  It doesn’t so much matter to me whether something has been done before, by someone else.  Why should it?  When I stumble upon it for myself for the first time, my own sex life (and my writing) are that much enriched for the discovery.

Wow!

by Ella

So, Dylan left me on Monday.  I’m always a little swamped with work after he leaves (on account of doing pretty much nothing but fuck while he’s here), so I hadn’t given JSS a lot of thought until last night, when he said, “Wow, did you do something to drum up a lot of blog traffic?”  I hadn’t, so I went to look at the stats and saw that we were sitting at a cool 200 page views for the day.  (This was big, since I believe our max daily clicks before yesterday was something like 61.)   Imagine my further surprise upon arriving home from work today to find our click count at…600 and climbing!  (The WordPress stats machine had to change the scale of our graph to accomodate the huge spike.  It looks like the stock market upside down.)  At first I actually thought we’d been hit by some kind of spambot, but it turns out we were actually hit by…a Fleshbot.  (Hah, I’m so clever.  I didn’t even plan that pun.  That’s just how I roll.)  Seriously though, many thanks to the good folks at Fleshbot for featuring us, and to AAG for choosing us for the roundup!  (She’s been so good to me.  She sent me a huge basket of sex toys a few months ago, you guys.)  It seems a shame to have this burst of visibility and no new smut to show for it — I’m writing a paper right now, and it would probably be irresponsible to neglect my schoolwork to write dirty stories for the Internet, but I promise you all some dirty tidbits about our weekend when I get back from class.

Also one more thing — we love comments, you guys.  Love them.  We get so excited when we get comment alerts, you have no idea.  It’s totally adorable, actually.  It makes us feel important, and to have so many page views with no comments is a little disheartening.  So please, if you’re reading and you like what you see, feel free to drop us a line and let us know!  We’d love to get to know you, and honestly, you’d basically make our week.

Off to a good start

by Dylan

I am writing now from Ella’s apartment, since I’ve come down to visit her for a few days while I’m off work.  Though our most exciting times are when we’re together, for obvious reasons, we don’t spend as much time writing because, well, we’re too busy fucking.  Priorities, friends.

But, as you might have imagined, it didn’t take long upon my arrival for us to start, shall we say, enjoying our time together.  I arrived around dinnertime, so we made dinner plans, and then, with hardly a chance to say we missed each other, our bodies did the talking.  We, standing, pressed closed up against each other, our lips interlocking and our hands roaming.  I slowly caressed her chest, then did so somewhat more aggressively, squeezing her breasts, and she returned the favor.  As you may remember from other posts, my nipples are very sensitive.  With one finger, on each hand, Ella can have me weak in the knees, moaning and panting.  She knows it, and she loves it, and she takes advantage often.  Naturally, though, my baby hardly stopped at my chest.  With one hand still there, the other found its way to my crotch.  My cock, already hard and straining, provided another source of amusement, as she stroked and teased me until she began to undo my belt, then fall to her knees.

Ella has been of late suffering from a blow job fixation.  She loves performing oral sex and her last post was so focused on giving head that it her mind became set on it.  Her text messages that I received during work let me know about it:

“I want to suck you so bad, baby.  I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I’m thinking about sucking your cock again.  The fixation is growing.  Blow off work and come to me now.”

“You know I get like this sometimes.  I can’t think about anything but sucking cock until I get to do it.”

And the most telling:

“I think that’s the first thing I’m going to do when you get here.  Get your pants down and stuff your cock in my mouth.”

My baby kept her promise, and there she was, on her knees, freeing my cock – which had been for days anticipating this moment – and hungrily wrapping her lips around it as her eyes looked up at me to watch the expression of ecstasy she’d so hungered for.  I braced my hand against the wall behind her to keep myself from falling, and she, naturally encouraged by my moans, moved her mouth faster and took me deeper.  And she let out her own soft sound, a little breathy moan, muffled by my dick deep in her throat, reminding me that this blow job was not just my pleasure, but hers too.

Of course, she wasn’t prepared to get me off then and there, nor did I want her to.  We were keeping ourselves on edge for the sex we were preparing for in the evening.  The first night I visit her is always intense.  We haven’t seen each other for weeks, and we’re aching to fuck like animals.  So after we came home from dinner and let our stomachs settle, we were in bed and all over each other, hands and mouth.  And, thankfully, her oral fixation hadn’t died.  We had our fun with more than just standard blow jobs, but this time, good rough oral fucking.  I grabbed her hair and guided her down on my dick, pulling her back and forth, slowly at first, then more quickly.  And we also played a game we both discovered we loved – she lay on her side as I placed my dick in her mouth and rocked back and forth, fucking her mouth like a cunt.  She’s since told me she loves it because it allows her to actually watch sex as it happens.  For me, it’s a power trip.  I can use her mouth just as an orifice, and the knowledge that I’m doing so blows my mind while she blows my cock.  As our loyal readers know, power games are a house specialty, and we’ve discovered a new ingredient.  (Perhaps she, in another post, can explain better why she enjoys it so much.)

My short stay with my girl is far from over, though.  I brought a camera and may be taking nude photos of Ella at some point.  We also discovered a secluded spot outdoors which we may, this weekend or in the future, go back and take advantage of.

It’s shaping up to be a good weekend.

Memories of anticipation

by Ella

Man, Dylan never gets off my back!  I posted yesterday, but now not only is he still winning, but he’s clamoring for me to bring back the smut.  Well, okay.

I lost my virginity when I was nineteen years old, a little over two years ago.  I was a sophomore in college, and Dylan used to come visit me at my dorm.  He and I met and had begun dating the summer before, after I had already made my living arrangements for the year.  Luckily, I had managed to snag a coveted single room (as a result of having a job in the dorm), and I had acquired a double bed from a graduate student I knew.  The freshmen on my hall used to teasingly refer to my room as my shag pad, and Dylan had every intention (as soon as I was ready, of course) of making that nickname accurate.

Dylan has said before that I like to plan things, and he’s right.  My first sexual experience was no exception.  We had decided to do it the first time he visited me at school, so that we would be out of our parents’ houses and I would be in my own space rather than his, which was more comfortable for me.  We even chose the day — it would be a Saturday, the first full day of his visit.  He had been teasing me all day,  preparing me for the evening, but before we went to bed we went out into the courtyard of my dorm with many of my housemates to watch a movie (A Funny Thing Happend on the Way to the Forum) projected on the wall of the building.  It was a chilly night in late September, so we dragged my quilt outside and snuggled under it together on a bench.  We sat there quietly for a while, but reader, my hands are wont to roam.  I got restless (I have very little patience for slapstick comedy) and before long I was rubbing his stiffening cock firmly through his pants as he squirmed in startled delight.  (There are not many things I enjoy more than feeling a dick grow under my hand or in my mouth.  It makes me feel tremendously powerful, not to mention being extremely hot.)  After a few minutes of that, I undid his belt and opened his pants to give myself access to his naked cock, now completely enlarged and throbbing.  I stroked it gently, teasingly, enjoying his tense pleasure and stifled gasps as he attempted to hide my illicit contact from the eyes of my classmates.  I have no idea how long I rubbed and teased my anxious boy (it was two years ago, as I said), but I remember with a thrill how he seized my wrist jerkily to halt my motion and prevent me from driving him over the edge and making him cum all over my blanket in a courtyard full of people — knowing, I suppose, that he would be unable to contain his moans of pleasure through such a strong and public orgasm.  I reluctantly withdrew my hand, damp with sweat and precum, and allowed him to refasten his clothes and recover.  As his panting slowed he leaned over and breathed in my eager ear, “Don’t you worry.  You’ll get it later tonight.”

As it happened, I did not get it later that night.  It turns out, reader, that I am terrible at losing my virginity.  The evening ended in pain and tears and soothing words, and all thoughts of a long-contained orgasm were quickly forgotten.  (Do not despair, gentle reader!  My sexual anxiety was remarkably short-lived — as I recall it, and Dylan may correct me if I am mistaken, we had sex four times the next day.  Naturally, our sex has improved immeasurably since then, but I believe that day still holds the dubious distinction of being our record number of fucks in one twenty-four hour period.)

The upshot of all of this is that my first sexual experience is hardly the stuff of fantasy.  The evening was not a complete bust, however, because the memory of that furtive handjob in the courtyard remains some of my most treasured masturbatory fodder.  It was my first cautious but enthusiastic foray into public sex, and to this day it might still be the most daring.  (We have not become particularly less courageous, but the circumstances of that night were ideal.  Situations like that do not often present themselves.)  I love the power that public handjobs give me over my lover’s body.  I relish how his nails dig into my knee and the way his face twitches as he tries desperately to maintain composure and public decency.  I especially love his pleading, vicelike grip on my arm indicating that he is dangerously close to cumming — and the fact that if I don’t want to stop pumping his cock, I don’t have to.  While we share a fantasy of blatant exhibitionism, I feel (and I believe he agrees) that there is a powerful appeal to covert sexual play with the danger of revelation.

Often times in my apartment (I no longer live in a dorm), my baby and I sit in my shared living room and watch TV.  Our close proximity on the couch usually spurs some swift, casual caresses — he’ll squeeze my breast quickly, I’ll run a finger or two over his nipples with one hand as I rub his cock with the other, but only for a second.  At commercials we’ll kiss, and our lips and tongues will play cautiously, questioningly — because with these caresses we are probing each other, testing the waters for the possibility of more later.  Often, though, I don’t really want to wait for later.  I suspect that if I suggested we go into the bedroom he’d be up in a heartbeat, but what I really want is to slip my hand inside his pants right there and feel him stiffen under my fingers.  Many nights I lie in bed alone and slide a finger across my clit, thinking about smiling at him as I pump his cock under the blanket’s scanty protection.  In my fantasy, I duck my head under the blanket to take him in my mouth, sliding my lips over the head of his dick and greedily licking up all the precum before slowly lowering my nose to his belly.  I would love to suck him in my living room and feel him twist his fingers tightly into my hair under the blanket, guiding my motion but also struggling not to cry out.  I give a mean blowjob, and in my fantasy I do some of my best work, knowing that at any moment one of my roommates could enter the room, forcing me to sit up quickly and hope they won’t notice.  Perhaps I hope they do.  But while we are alone I can suck him slowly and deliberately, running my tongue along the underside of his cock and over the head, swirling it between my lips as he throbs and pulses in my mouth.  I always get off incredibly hard when I imagine his grip tightening on the back of my head as I take him all the way down my throat, sucking him harder and faster until I have drained every drop of cum out of him.  In my fantasy, I always swallow.

Of course, sometimes it goes further.  Sometimes I imagine that as I suck him he slips a finger into me while he rubs my clit with his thumb.  I climb onto his lap and grind against his cock — but that’s another story for another day.

A justification

by Ella

Dylan’s been on me to post more.  He’s been citing the post count score — “It’s 5-4!  Now it’s 6-4!  You’re losing!”  He’s fighting dirty.  He knows I cannot stand to lose games.  I invent games specifically so that I can win them.  He is goading me.  It worked.

Last time we met, Dylan wrote about a cyber game we played the other night.  I think he’s much more into cyber sex than I am.  I absolutely love the idea of it, but when it comes right down to it, as he said, I feel a little silly describing things that I’d rather be doing.  However, I do like the buildup of it, and I like that it’s much easier to act out fantasies online than it is in person, sometimes — there’s more room for suspension of disbelief when you’re not face to face with a person, which made that night’s game a lot easier to manage.

I do very much like the “other woman” fantasy, and after his post the other night I’ve been trying to think about why.  I think that what I love about it is the feeling of power that I so rarely experience in real life.  There is something unbearably intoxicating about the idea of being so attractive, so alluring, so incredibly desirable that a man is willing to betray his partner to have you.  Needless to say, I am not a cheater, and never will be (and hopefully I have also never been cheated on), but what red-blooded woman could deny the appeal of being seen as such a succubus?  In a previous post I alluded to some insecurities I have about myself and particularly my appearance.  Realistically, on a good day, I am willing to concede that I actually am pretty attractive.  I have a pretty face and a nice smile and, apparently, fuck-me glasses.  (I did not know that was a thing.)  However, I firmly believe that nine times out of ten, you show me a 21-year-old girl who claims to have no body image problems, and I’ll show you someone who’s just too insecure to admit them.  I am no exception to this rule, and I know that Dylan thinks I’m hot as hell, but I also know that his attraction to me is magnified by his affection for me.  All of this makes the idea of seducing a man away from his lover particularly intoxicating.  In this fantasy, I am a knockout.  Also, I have great clothes.  Every girl’s dream, right?

Well, kind of right.  I won’t deny the allure of the fantasy — as long as it is a fantasy — but as I said before, it’s not something I would ever actually want, even if I thought I could get it. Because I was thinking the other night, as we were playing this game, if Dylan’s character’s girlfriend was so unsatisfactory, why didn’t he just leave her?  Of course, it was a game, so her negative characteristics were emphasized, but of course it also really happens, and the question remains: why stay with someone who doesn’t make you happy or sex you up right?  There are lots of reasons.  Sometimes there are kids, sometimes there is shared property, sometimes you just can’t face a breakup or a divorce, but it seems to me that a large part of the time, one of the reasons is that you still care about her — perhaps you even still love her — but you’re restless and just want to sleep around.  And then when I think about being that other woman, really being her, the appeal fades.  Why do I want to be with someone who could betray a woman he cares about?  Sex talks, and at least with Dylan, I know what it says.  I know that as he’s kissing me and fingering my cunt and forcing my head down on his cock and finally fucking me, he’s telling me, as he told you a few days ago, that he loves me, and if that distorts the purity of his attraction to me, I’m comfortable with that.  I don’t want to be with someone whose sex is saying, “I’m just using you to break the monotony of sleeping with my wife or girlfriend, and I get off on the thrill of going behind her back.  This has nothing to do with you, specifically — you were in the right place at the right time.”  Not only is it wrong to sleep with a guy who isn’t single(obviously it is wrong), but it doesn’t particularly stroke my ego, when you look at it that way.  So yes, I love the other woman fantasy, but no, I will never be the other woman.  I’ll still masturbate to the idea, and probably role-play it a few more times before I wear out the appeal, but I would never want that fantasy to become a reality.

I would probably take the clothes though.

Role play

by Dylan

Ella has a fantasy. One that she sometimes feels bad about but is often turned on by the idea of. She wants to be “the other woman.” She likes the intrigue and the illicitness of that idea.

On Thursday, her fantasy came up in conversation. And we began to imagine roleplaying it in person. How exactly would we do it? At first, I suggested that we could go to a bar, and we would just “meet” there, and although I mention my girlfriend, she’d take me home with her.

As we talked about how this would play out, we began adding more wrinkles, until we settled on a new game: I’d be her TA who had a girlfriend, and she’d be the student who flirted mercilessly. And though we, at first, were planning on how we’d play this game in real life, it quickly became a cyber roleplay game. I was still thinking about setting it up in real life, but she played the role so well that we both got right into the game. At this point, we’re in my office:

E: maybe it’d be getting a little heavy
E: and we’d be standing kind of close to each other
E: and not quite touching
E: and talking real slow and carefully
E: and you’d tell me
E: because you’d be thinking everything over
E: and you’d say, “you know…i have a girlfriend”
E: and i’d say “she doesn’t have to know”
D: mm, i could do that
E: you know what i mean?
D: yeah
D: this is a good plan
D: would we fuck on my desk?
E: probably not right away
D: no?
E: maybe i wouldn’t even fuck you that day
D: what would we do?
E: maybe i’d kiss you for a while
E: and maybe i’d kiss your neck and run my hands down your body
E: and maybe i’d brush my hand against your crotch, i bet it’d be hard
E: don’t you think?
D: i shouldn’t be doing this…
E: but maybe
E: then i would give you a quick peck on the cheek and brush against you one more time
E: and leave
E: cuz i think
E: i want you to chase me a little
E: i think for a few weeks
D: oh my
E: maybe i’ll brush up against you walking down the hall
E: or corner you somewhere and kiss you
E: or come up to your desk and lean over so you can see down my shirt
D: what if i’m with my girlfriend?
E: why would you be with your girlfriend at school?
D: like, eating lunch somewhere near campus
E: oh, well then
E: i’d come and say hi, and sit down with you for a few minutes
E: i’d sit on your side of the table, and rub your leg under the table
E: but she wouldn’t see
D: risky
E: very

And now we’re both intensely into it. My dick is ready to burst from my pants. Ella is clearly getting off on this power exchange, both the real Ella and her character. The fact that she, as a student, who normally has to be obedient, is taking command, is incredibly sexy for both of us. And the realism of the idea of being rubbed under a table where trouble is just on the other side makes it even more intense.

After weeks of teasing, she requested a special meeting with me in my office, where she dressed sexy yet classy:

E: i think i’m wearing some sort of knee-length swishy black skirt and a white blouse, with a pink camisole underneath
E: and black heels

A tempting outfit to say the least. I couldn’t help but picture her removing that blouse, one button at a time – or me having that pleasure – to discover her delightful lingerie. My character, knowing how flirty this dirty student has been, is wondering just what is beneath those clothes. He doesn’t know, after all.

I’m dressed like a professional – black slacks, button-down blue shirt and a tie. (This, by the way, got Ella excited. She likes me dressed up, and I told her that if we played in real life, I’d dress up for her. This made her rather happy.)

Both of our characters knew what she was there for, even though we took a lot of time admitting it. We were subtle…though not really. After she asked about the scene in Paradise Lost in which Adam discovers sex (I was a renaissance literature TA, it’s a passion of mine, and I’d like to add as an aside how happy it makes me that Ella knows enough about poetry that she can pull that little nugget out in the middle of a sex game), we talked about our own relationships, lamenting that we were very accommodating to our significant others but got not nearly enough in return:

D: my girlfriend, bless her heart, doesn’t have the same interests as me
D: she’s turned off by the idea of oral sex, for example
E: oh, why is that?
D: she doesn’t like the taste
E: i can’t imagine that…

Of course, our interest in each other’s intimacies was purely academic. We were studying human sexuality. She was more than willing to help me with my research. But when she came over and straddled me on my chair and kissed me, she added the words that she knew would get my pants utterly, utterly wet:

E: in this case
E: it seems to be leading to me feeling your cock getting hard under me
E: and you learning that i’m not wearing any panties under this skirt

What is it about a skirt with no panties that’s so incredibly delicious? Is it the fact that touching her pussy is so easy, but she can still go out in public? It’s inexplicable, but the concept drives me crazy.

As the game moved on, there was plenty of power play. In this game, she was the dominant because of how much she teased me in the weeks leading up. She had used her body to get me to do what she wanted:

E: it’s gotta be strange for you, you usually have power over all these students
E: but now, all of a sudden…
E: i kind of own you, don’t i?
D: you’ve seduced me away from my girlfriend
D: used your hot body to make me cheat
D: controlled me
D: so yes, i suppose it is
E: and i’m pretty sure it’s against all sorts of rules for you to sleep with a student…
D: i could get in plenty of trouble, even for what little we’ve done so far
D: i could lose my job
E: oh, i know
E: so yeah, i guess you could say
E: i get off on the power

We decided that, in the future, the TA should be taking charge, given the natural dynamic of the student-teacher relationship. Either way, we came to the realization that, though we often play power games, this game had a different taste to it. It was a “real” power exchange. When one of us submits, it’s usually purely for the sake of sex. And hey, that’s fantastic. We both love it. But in this game, the exchange of power was legitimate. I was surrendering to her not for the simple fun of it, but because she had actual power over me. In other words, I wasn’t even surrendering. She simply was in control for a real reason. And if we play this game and I’m in charge, it’ll be because I’m the TA. She won’t want to fail, will she?

Ella loves the cyber sex game, but she hates the actual sex part. The foreplay and dialogue is what she enjoys the most. Once there’s actual action, she begins to feel a little silly, meaning our game had reached its end. This is both good and bad. Bad for obvious reasons, but good because it means we’re headed to the phone. And my girl got more interested in hearing me orgasm when she heard:

D: you should know i’ve been touching since we started

Needless to say, after at least an hour of stroking myself, I came very, very hard when we were on the phone, especially since I waited until Ella got off before I let myself. She said it was one of the loudest phone orgasms she’d ever heard from me. I aim to please. And I can’t wait to roleplay with her in real life.

A followup

by Dylan

So, Ella and I have turned off the filth temporarily. I’m OK with that. So long as it’s only temporary, that is.

My girl mentioned her desire in her last post to delineate that which is and that which isn’t available to our readership. Naturally, although we’re letting you into our bedroom to view our intimacy, there are things which won’t show up online. There’s a part of each of us that’s private enough that we won’t post here about it, and Ella wants to clarify in advance where that line is drawn.

In general, she’s much more deliberate than I am about such things. Ella spends a lot of time thinking about the future – her future and our future. Where will we be in a few months, a few years. How long will we be together. We had a conversation recently in which we acknowledged the possibility that we’ll someday get married. It’s not probable, we agree, but possible. That’s a subject for another post. The point is that the long look ahead, while common for her, is atypical for me. She’s a planner. I believe things work out naturally because of our natural trust.

This, in part, is why I don’t worry as much as her about clarifying what does and doesn’t go on the blog. It all comes down to how well we know each other. In any good relationship, there’s an unspoken knowledge about the other person. A good significant other knows his or her partner well enough to judge their needs and reactions without it being spoken. I can remember a time, recently, when I was at my baby’s apartment, and though she didn’t say a thing, I could tell something was upsetting her, based on nothing more than the way she rested her head on my chest. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but I’m so in tune with her that I didn’t have to ask if anything was wrong. I had to ask what was bothering her. Similarly, she’s often known, before even bringing it up to me, exactly where I’ll stand on some political or social matter. I don’t want to turn this blog into a political soapbox, but suffice it to say I have very strong principles, and Ella is familiar enough with them to know exactly how I’ll react to something. We’re tuned into one another. All our little quirks are so familiar to the other.

This is why I don’t worry about laying out what is and isn’t OK to post. Ella and I know the limits the other would set even without saying it. I trust her. I know that when she has an idea about posting something, I won’t have to tell her whether or not it’s allowed. She’ll know. And I suspect my girl has the same trust in me.

But there is a distinct way in which we are different. For Ella, sex can be purely physical. For me, it cannot. We spoke recently about the idea of an open relationship. This isn’t going to happen any time soon, but she said she would be able to handle the idea of sleeping with someone else and making it pure sex with no attachment. Sex, for me, isn’t just physical. It can be filthy, as you should know, reader, but even the dirtiest of sex for me has love in it. I love my baby. Madly, insanely, passionately love her. And that’s the reason I can have such wonderful sex with her. I wonder if the reason she senses so much love from reading my posts is that, even though I don’t say it, she knows that when I talk about sex with her, I’m also talking about my love for her. She knows me so well that I don’t have to say it.

At the same time, I don’t at all mind saying it. She’s the most beautiful sight in the world in my eyes.