the life and musings of a kinky slut


Sex is not love; but we are really REALLY good at fucking.

He laid naked on the bed, hard and waiting, the literal embodiment of my wet dreams.  I was so incredibly wet.  I didn’t masturbate this morning, wanting (if we were to actually fuck) to feel everything.  And I felt everything.  I came at least half a dozen times in our 35 minutes allotted.

As I climbed on top of him, I asked, “When you cum, can you cum inside my mouth?”


I couldn’t kiss his lips, but I could nuzzle my face into his neck and smell him.  Breathe in his scent deep.  Lick his skin.  Kiss his neck, his chest, suck just a little… But then I had to stop because I wanted to bite him. 

Rules rules rules. 

I rubbed my clit up and down his length a few times before a mere flick of his hips sunk him deep inside me.  Thus began a litany of curse words, exclamations, and moans.

“Tell me when you cum.” 

Most every time I obeyed with a jumble of barely intelligible words, but they got the point across.  This was some of our best fucking.

So many positions.  I rode him to my climax twice.  He graciously sucked on my nipples as I pushed against the wall, leveraging my weight to get my hips to rock just right.  There are multiple avenues to my orgasms.  With the delicacy of dealing with my nipple rings, I had forgotten sucking on my nipples is one of my favorite pathways to pleasure.  

After I half-collapsed on top of him, panting hard through my second orgasm, he rubbed me and whispered, “Breathe.”  I asked, “What do you want?”  His answer, “You on top.”  He bent his knees, grabbed my hips, and thrust up into me over and over again.  I moaned into his ear as another orgasm blew through me.

He twisted us into missionary, my legs around his waist, then by his ears, then twisting into a scissored position.  I loved the scissor the most.  He pushed my hair out of the way so he could see my face.  He kept smacking my ass.  I curved my legs around him to pull him in more, possessively wanting every inch of him in me.  I gripped the bedframe; it rocked even harder with our exuberance.

I had orgasm synesthesia with his dick inside me.  The three I remember were a pale green forest color shining through from the sunlight, a pale blue fabric like one would use for a light kerchief reminiscent of the clear water in a stream, and a pale gold silk draped across his brown skin.  I don’t remember which three orgasms triggered the visions, but one of them was definitely from the scissor.

One orgasm I had was incredibly long.  He rubbed on my clit, sensitized by our fucking, and it broke quick.  But it, and I, wouldn’t relent.  He kept rubbing and rubbing and I kept cuming and cuming and I refused to tell him to stop.

He turned me face down.  Nudged my legs together.  “Spread your ass checks.” And slid into me.  I was so very wet and he felt so very good.  He bent down, ran his head against mine, growled into my ear, bite my back hard enough to bruise (swoon), and held me close as he thrashed into me.  It was as if he wanted to meld us into one undulating flesh.  It was wild and carnal and intimate and connected.  Like I said, some of our best ever.

He pulled out, flipped onto his back, and I began to worship his cock.  The problem with wanting him to cum in my mouth was that I also wanted to languidly suck his cock for days.  Not conducive, as it were, for the hot finish we both wanted.  I rubbed his cock on lips, licked up and down the shaft, sucked on his balls, and wished for more time.  I always want more time with his cock.  I pushed his hand in my hair, encouraging him to fuck my face, but I could tell this was not going to finish him in our short amount of time.

He pushed my shoulder, shoving me back into missionary.  My legs around his waist.  His teeth on my breast.  I came again as he frantically fucked my unending wetness, his desperate sounds now filling the air.  He pulled out, said, “Suck it,” and I obliged as he came into my mouth.  I sucked and sucked and sucked until he pushed me off of him.  I licked up the cum on his leg and in his pubic hair.  His cum had no right to taste that good.  It was honest-to-God creamy and delicious.  If I had known how good his cum was, I would’ve asked to do that from the beginning.

Before we fucked, after he had to go back to the front desk to get the key card fixed, as I closed the blinds and we both began to hastily undress, I asked him a question. 

“Would you still want to see me even if there were no sex?”

“Yes, we are friends.  I’ve told you this before.”

“I know.  It’s just that I often need people to tell me something over and over and over again before it sticks.  It’s hard for me to believe people like me for me instead of what I can do for them.”

After we fucked, I remarked, “I’m 50/50 on if that was the last time.”

He replied, “I kind of don’t want you to fuck me again.  I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you.”

“I haven’t decided yet.  We’ll see.”

I’m glad we’re friends.  Before the amazing fucking, there was drinks and French fries and funny conversation.  I laugh when I’m with him.  I feel free and more myself, less the mask I have to wear for the respectability the world requires.  I do want to see him again, with or without the fucking. 

Maybe coffee next time. 

And wearing pants.  

And I am not allowed to play with my hair.

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