poeticdesires

the life and musings of a kinky slut

The View

~ erotica ~

 

I always see her, even when she doesn’t see me. It’s easy for her to overlook my pressed suit and subdued tie. Hospitals are busy places. Few of the staff take notice of the head of security.

She’s the best in her class. Everyone knows it, including her. The scrubs she changes into before each shift only hint at the curves she flaunts when leaving or arriving at our building. I’m sure her little dresses are thrown off and slipped on with little care what others think of her choices. I admire her confidence.

Occasionally, on the way from one meeting to the next, I’ll glance at the operations board. When I see her name, I make a point to slip into the theatre. I stand in back. Watch her work. There is a fierce determination in her eyes, a single-mindedness one can’t help but be attracted to.

People are drawn to her. There is never a moment when I pass her in the halls that I don’t see others surrounding her, whether in admiration or spite. Their safety is my responsibility. Their jealousy is rooted in her.

I glance upon her every day, multiple moments a day, yet she only sees me at home. I often wonder about her fantasy of who I am. Does she imagine me military? She’d only be partially wrong. What does she think I do? What is the story she writes each time she sees me?

Does she know about the motorcycle in the garage? Or the cars that stop by at all hours of the night? Does she ever hear their moans through their gags? Their gasps? Their whispered answers to my directives?

To me, she is the image that welcomes me home from my run each morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the undulation in her body as I pass by. A grin spreads across my face as I make my way towards my shower.

She is the subtle music of my evenings. The slam of her door and the clacking of her heels draw me to my peep hole. I’ve gotten the timing down to a science. I know the number of footfalls, the sound of her approach, when to be at my door for the best view. My glimpse of her ass as she leaves for her fun never disappoints. I smile each time I see that ass walk away, and my pants always get a little tighter.

Her moans are the music I fall asleep to. As she cries out, I lie on my bed, stroking myself, imagining her tight body tensing and relaxing. I fantasize her deft fingers running up and down my shaft, working with the same single-mindedness I’ve seen before.

I know she wants me. I know, should I ever just say the word, or simply gesture, I could have her. But that’s not what I want. Yes, I crave her flesh, to know the smell of her skin and feel of her, of being inside her. But there is something I crave more than her body.

I want her will. I need her to ask, to say the words, to beg for what she wants. Her taunts are tempting, I will not deny, but they do not compare with my craving for her on her knees, breath quick, voice unsure but strong.

Until the day comes when she doesn’t walk away, but instead turns around and knocks on my door. Until she finds the courage to say the words, to do more than flirt, I will simply continue to enjoy the view.

 

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Skin

~ erotica ~

 

I never see him with his shirt on. His chest is sculpted in the way that begs to be caressed, kissed, and licked. He picks up his packages, takes out his trash, and goes for runs only in his pants and sneakers. I never mind the view as I’m checking my mailbox, coming home from work, or going out for play.

I sometimes wonder what he thinks of me, always in my skimpy outfits. The low cut fronts. The short skirts. The too high heels. How does he image me behind his apartment door? Does he enjoy the brief glimpses of me, the view I purposefully give him? Does he want what I want? To feel his skin against my skin.

There are only three apartments in our brownstone. Our landlord lives in the basement, her separate entrance granting her a separate life from ours. He occupies the first floor apartment. I get the second. It was a bitch to move into my home, but the private balcony makes up for the hassle.

Mornings I get up, take my cup of coffee, slip into my silk robe, and stand outside watching the mist dry up as the Sun rises. He takes his jog the same time five days a week. I wonder if he notices me each time he comes home in the low light of the morning.

There is nothing under my robe. I enjoy the feel of the cool air seeping in against my skin. My nipples crease and rub against my robe in ways I wish his fingers would. I lean against the banister, cross my legs, and squeeze my thighs together imagining all the things I want him to do to me. My robe is short. If he dared glance up, he’d catch a peek of what could be his.

At night, when I go out to play, I purposefully take my time leaving. I close my door louder than is needed. I don the heels that clack on the old floor. I want him to hear my departure. I want him to rush to his door, peer out through the peep hole, and watch me as I go. I want him to feel a tightness in his pants as I saunter, switching my hips and moving my ass, in my temptation for his touch.

When I come home, I want, just once, for him to react. To hear the slam of the building door and the click of my heels. To peer out of his peep hole, see me, and not take the temptation anymore. I want him to open his door, rush towards me, grab my arms, look into my eyes, and kiss me with a fire burning hot inside of him.

Each time he doesn’t stop me from entering my apartment, I close my front door just as loudly as when I left, and rush to my bedroom. I wrip off my dress, throw myself onto my bed, and pull out my vibrator. I roll around in my sheets, grinding against my toy, and imagine him fucking me. I moan with pleasure. I scream as I cum. I know my bedroom is just above his. I know he can hear me. Even at 3am, when most of the world is quiet, I let my pleasure ring out for his ears to bask in.

Until he knocks on my door and tells me he’s had enough. Until he looks up at me one morning on my balcony and beckons me down to him. Until he ends this game we are playing, I’ll keep tempting him. With my walk, and my noises, and my skin.

 

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Men

This is a rant.

It is by no means what I wanted to be my first blog back since a necessary hiatus for school. It is not what I wanted to be doing right now. My finals are on Tuesday.  I need to study.  But even after I stripped off my work clothes, slipped into my comfy pj’s, and curled up on the couch in the family room, I still found myself so full of GAH!!! that I had to write this.

Privilege, to some, is a dirty word. I don’t like getting into conversations about privilege because they always get sidetracked, or people get offended, or for any number of reasons why it is a sticky subject I’d rather not get caught on.

But my day, all six hours of it thus far, has been dripping with the kind of male privilege and misogyny and oh-my-god-I-hate-the-world that life can only bring when you least expect it.

It started when I was leaning against a wall before my 8am gig. It was 7:48am, and, though I could hear the rumble of people in the truck, I had no urge to help unload before I was on the clock. I don’t work for free.

So I was dicking around on my phone, reading my Twitter timeline, trying to not be tired even though I’d only gotten 4.5hrs of sleep. Then one of the truck drivers tried to start a conversation with me. Mind you, I was ten to fifteen feet away engrossed in my smart phone. One would think body language alone would be a clue that I didn’t want anything to do with anyone for the next eleven minutes. I gave one and two word responses, never looking up from my phone, and he thankfully took the hint.

Ten minutes later, I pulled out my work gloves. The second truck driver, who did chat with the first driver, noted as I was getting ready that someone had said good morning gentlemen, so they must not have noticed me.

“Whatever. I’m usually the only woman, or maybe one of two, on a crew. I honestly don’t care.”

And I didn’t. I wanted to get the job done and go home. I was tired and annoyed and knew that if anyone else tried to talk to me I would probably snap at them. I get very bitchy when I’m tired.

So we got the gear inside and started working. As I suspected, I was in fact the only woman on my crew; no big deal.

We got about half the gear setup when I noticed two senior guys on the crew chatting. And then I heard the crux of what they were going back and forth about. And I just had to laugh.

I knew both guys from other gigs and liked both guys, but they were pretty much opposite ends of the political spectrum. My gig was in DC, so their talk had shifted into politics. One was spewing one side’s talking points, the other was countering with his side’s views, and then the two came to a moderate middle ground.

I chuckled as I caught a sentence fragment here or there because all I could think of was how ridiculous it seemed to me. Two better-off-then-most white men coming to a compromise on political views, yet I knew they would probably never get to the heart of so many economical, political, and social woes other people who don’t look like them face every day. The white male well-off privilege in that moment was so ridiculous I had to giggle, or else I’d scream. And my bank account would not have appreciated the screaming.

Later on, as we were close to finishing up, I helped some guys with a simple project. I don’t know how or why it happened, because I wasn’t paying attention to their chit-chat, but some guy offhandly said something to the effect of, “Who doesn’t like girls kissing? I love lesbians. Don’t all women love lesbians?” Thankfully his comments were not directed towards me.  I rolled my eyes and kept working.

We finished up soon after that. I was happy to be done early.

I walked to my Metro stop and took my spot on the platform, waiting for my train.

“Excuse me, Miss.” A young guy about ten feet away from me was trying to talk to me. “Hi, I…  Why did you scrinch up your face like that?”

“When I’m on the Metro, I feel like I’m in my own little bubble, so I don’t talk to people.”

“Well, I just wanted to say your beautiful, and could I have your number?”

“Thank you, that’s very sweet, and I appreciate your asking, but I have no interest right now, so I’m going to have to say no.”

“Well, how could I go about getting your number?”

“Um, I usually meet people through my friends and at social gatherings they set up, so I don’t meet people randomly in public.”

“Well how am I, oh what’s your name?”

“I don’t feel comfortable giving my name to someone I just met on the Metro.”

“Well how is someone suppose to meet you or get to know you if you put up these walls?”

“I get that, but I don’t feel comfortable right now, so thank you for the offer, but no.”

I walked about twenty feet down the platform, putting about ten people between us.

It would have been fine if he had stopped after the first try. If he had just said, “Oh, okay” after I gave my no. But he didn’t. He pushed. And kept pushing. And even though there were at least one hundred people on that platform, I did not feel safe with only ten feet between us.

I know logically he probably would not have done anything, but that made me no less rattled. I tried to study for my Bio final, but even after I’d gotten on the train on a different car than his, I found myself worried that he would reappear and try his advance again. Or maybe do something more than talk.

This is not the blog I wanted to write. I wanted to wait until Tuesday evening after finals when I knew I had time and brain space to write something sexy or fun. A girl in a dress has been dancing around my mind lately. But instead that was my half day. And now all I want to do is yell at someone, or cry while I punch a pillow, or curl up on my couch and watch Young Justice cartoons while eating Chinese delivery. That last options is probably going to happen after I hit post.

The past thousand words is a skewed perspective.  There were other guys today who were nice to me in the non-creepiest of ways.  One guy offered me a cookie during our break.  Another guy and I enjoyed chatting randomly about cars.  I actually enjoy working with the white guys from the political conversation, even as I wonder if they will ever understand what I go through every day.  It’s hard for the nice moments to stick when the shitty ones have such a strong effect.

I work in an industry and live in a country where a black female is expected to be many things. But I refuse to placate some desired male ego for “them digits” or to smile because you tell me to or to be timid and pleasing because that’s how you think I should be.

When I’m tired, I’m bitchy. Deal with it.

No, I do not enjoy seeing drunk girls kiss. In fact, it annoys me and kind of offends me.

And no, I am not going to give my phone number to some random because he asked for it, especially not when he makes me regret having put my knife in my backpack instead of in my pocket.

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His Laugh

We both laid on the hotel room bed.  I was pleasantly tipsy.  He’d been getting high for the past few minutes, vaporizing his pot and laughing as we spoke.

For part of the conversation, I laid on my stomach and looked up at him, my chest resting on a pillow as he stood tapping the small box that held his weed, and stepping back and forth lightly on his toes.

I liked his laugh. It was an unassuming kind of laugh, not quite full-throated, but with an unexpected lilt to it that indeered him to me. When he was finished with his vaporizer, he sat down on the bed.

I’d rented the room for New Year’s Eve.  I’d wanted a spot for me to drink, and had invited some folks over that I hadn’t seen for awhile, work friends who I don’t normally see unless chance puts us on a gig together.  All the rest were gone now, though.  It was just me, and him.

He’d taken his outer shirt off.  Only a gray tank top covered the small wisps of chest hair that peeked through.  I remember thinking I had the same tank top at home.

I asked if he minded if I took off my pajama pants.  He didn’t.  I snuggled down into the bed, turned to my right, and smiled at him.

He’d stopped laughing.  His face was relaxed; his speech slow and smooth.  The weed had taken hold.  I was all grins and happiness.  The wine had me in good spirits.

And that’s when I realized it.  That was the moment I knew, if I made a move, if I leaned over and kissed him, my night would end quite differently than how it had started.  I could’ve fucked him that night, if I wanted to.

I wanted to.

He wasn’t the kind of guy I’m usually attracted to. He was only a few inches taller than me. He was smallish, not skinny, but fit enough. His hair line had retreated a bit, which when I think about it was odd considering we’re the same age. Yet I was, I am, attracted to him.

In that moment, I wanted to know what it was like to have him inside of me.  The feel of his kiss on my lips.  Would he be playful?  Fun?  Funny?  Would we laugh throughout our fucking?  Giggle as we came?  Or would he be different than his normal outward appearence?  Would he be fierce?  Authoritative?  In control?

I wondered about it all in a moment.  But a breath later, I made my decision.

“I’m heading out.  Thanks again for getting the room.”

I didn’t kiss him.  I didn’t say a word.  I walked him to the door of the room, hugged him bye, and wished him a Happy New Year.

As I think back on it now, I wonder if I made the right decision.  I do work with him occasionally, which could’ve made things awkward.  But I haven’t seen him since New Year’s.  I miss his face a little.  And I still smile when I remember his laugh.

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No Expectations

I didn’t go into the party expecting to play.  The invitation promised good food, tasty drinks, and friends.  That’s all I needed.  Still, I dressed cute and literally let my hair down, an act I don’t often do.

People were slow to arrive, but the house eventually filled up with some of my favorite people.  We feasted on turkey, sweet potatoes, and various desserts.  We drank wine and cocktails and recounted stories.  I was happy I attended.

In my social circle, it doesn’t stay normal for long.  After dinner, people began grinding on each other.  Hugs were close, long, and featured wandering hands.  Finally, one person was bent over and their behind was assaulted by two people at once.  The play of the party had started.

I ventured downstairs.  While sitting and chatting, a friend asked me to tie them up.  They wanted painful rope.  I was happy to oblige.

I lashed my friend’s leg into a tight futomomo.  I similarly secured their opposite arm.  I attached the two limbs together with a taut line hitch.  I then stepped back as the other person in the scene began playing with my friend.

As I waited while they enjoyed their fun, a second friend admired my rope work and then asked to beat me.  I consented.  Before our scene began, I gave my second friend a quick rope lesson on the futomomo tie.

Right before we were to start my beating, my first friend asked to be untied.  I loosed their binds.  They thanked me for my work.  I was happy they enjoyed their tie.

My second friend sat in a chair while I sat on the floor.  They used their elevated state to put more power into their punches.  They struck my chest and my shoulders.  My body ached from their strikes for a few days.

After my beating, I went upstairs for a cup of water before coming back downstairs.  As I entered, a third friend approached.  When my third friend and I had initially greeted earlier, they scritched my head.  Seeing my positive reaction, they gripped my strands tighter.  I then asked them for hair time later that evening.  My re-entry to the downstairs sparked the granting of my request.

They seized my hair, then rolled it this way and that.  They bit and nuzzled my neck.  Their free hand wandered over my body.  They pulled my head back for a kiss.  My eyes closed, I let myself get lost in the sensations.  They whispered to me, “We should do more of this at Winter Fire.”  I agreed.

After my hair time, I went back upstairs, went back to chatting with friends.  A fourth friend and I talked about our plans for Winter Fire.  We have a traditional scene we both were looking forward to.  And then I asked a magical question.  “Where is your kit?”

Back downstairs we went.  In a private room, we closed the door and shared a stare.  They put on a glove.  I crawled across the bed, hung my hips over the edge.  It took no time for their fist to slip in.  I screamed, cursed, moaned.  I told them how I’d missed their fist in my cunt.  And I came over and over again.

Going into a situation with no expectations can be comforting.  It’s no loss whatsoever if nothing happens.  Going into a party with no expectations and then having more fun than I had imagined possible: priceless.

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Biting

Teeth are not sexy.  Yes, white straight teeth can make a person seem more appealing, maybe a bit more attractive, but teeth themselves are just a part, not a feature.

However, when a fuck buddy snuck up from behind once and whispered into my ear as a greeting, “I gonna bite your cunt,” before they bear hugged me, that shit was hot.

I am amazed, at times, how much biting can turn me on.  How nuanced what a seemingly simple sex act can be.

There is a spot, right where my neck meets my shoulder, that unfortunately does not get as much attention as my slutty nature would love.  When people sink down into that flesh, I feel instant arousal in my cunt.  My legs become jelly.  I find myself both grabbing their hair, pulling them in more for the bite, as well as grinding my hips into their crotch.  Biting my neck right there has gotten me almost to the point of orgasm.

Certain sections of skin are more sensitive than others.  When my stomach or my inner thighs have been biten, the sexual exchanged turned from hot and bothered to torturous and cruel.  I went from moaning in pleasure to whimpering through the pain.

My skin takes up bite marks really well.  In a memorable impromptu scene, a friend sunk their teeth into multiple spots around my neck.  My friend is very good at biting; for this particular exchange they latched on and held.  I yelped, then moaned, then ground my hips onto my seat.  When they had biten each side of my neck, as well as the back of my neck, they were so impressed by the indentations in my flesh that they pulled out their phone and took pictures.

When I reminisce about the different types of biting I’ve experienced, I’m put in awe by the varying range of places and circumstances.  I’ve had my feet biten during a foot worship scene.  I’ve had my breast biten so hard and for so long at the same spot that a nickle shaped bump lingered long after I walked away.  My ears have been nibbled while making out.  My ass has been biten in the midst of the two of us rolling around on a bed while naked.  And yes, my cunt has been biten.  I gave a delicious scream when my fuck buddy did it, held on, released, and then bite me again.

Biting, remarkably, is one area where the switch in me likes to come out.  While vigorously masturbating, or in the midst of really good sex, I’ve brought my own wrist to my mouth and sunk in.  For those partners who will allow it, I’m a big fan of biting their necks in the same spot I love.

However, what I especially enjoy is attacking nipples.  I’ll start slow with my stimulation, licking around the areola and flicking my tongue at the tip.  Then I’ll graze my teeth against the nipple before surrounding the base and letting my teeth clench.  I’m slow when I bite down, knowing each person’s pain tolerance is different.  It is a delicious taste to have another’s flesh in my mouth, compressed in between my teeth, as well as experience the sensation my damn self.

I am a big fan of biting.

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Five Years

For Christmas, while shopping for my friends, I bought myself a ‘Q & A a day’ five year journal.  The premise is simple: one question for each day in a year for five years.  The tagline reads, “365 Questions, 5 Years, 1,825 Answers.”

I started writing in my new journal Christmas night.  Currently I fill its pages, a few lines at a time, just before bed.

I like the comfort of it, the consistency.  I like having something to look forward to each night before I lay my head down to sleep.  And already I’ve enjoyed reading back the short passages, the small windows on my days.

The brown book with black writing lives on my bed, sharing space with Tessie.

A smart man might call what I am doing a practice.  I will not disagree with such an assessment.  But I will glean yet another incite into my purchase.

The next five years will likely include some of the starkest changes of my life.  I am already in school, though just barely.  Eventually I will be a graduate student.  Afterwards, another piece of fancy paper will adorn my wall; letters will precede my name.

I want to find a life partner, possibly start a family.  I hope that adventure will start soon.

I have made something of a name for myself in our world, and am just now seeing what my enthusiasm for kink and sharing it with others can lead to.

Right now is an exciting time in my life.  I am looking forward to living it, and eventually reminiscing on all that is to come.

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Grateful, Naughty Edition

He noticed I wasn’t wearing any underwear.  That made me smile.

A few nights later, he fucked my face while praising my intelligence.  Oh.  So.  Hot.

~

They didn’t care that I was on my period.  They taped down a chuck and went on with the show.

For a moment, I was the center of attention.  I felt hot and sexy, washing away the shame I had around fucking while bleeding in a fun and playful romp.

The two of them are some of the best people I know.

~

Having me lie on top of him, pressing against him.  Being able to be around me, if only for a night.  He was happy to see me.  I was happy to have him in my home.

~

I don’t know if he’s kinky.

He’s green.  Very green.  He occasionally drops cringe-worthy comments.  (No, my pegging you is not me taking your virginity.  How many times have we fucked?)  He never really knows what he’s talking about.

I keep explaining.  He is learning.  And, until he gets it, until he knows if this is for him, the fucking and good conversations will do.

~

My year was full of amazing sex.

I attended fourteen events.  Fourteen; it’s hard to wrap my head around that.

I met new interesting people in new and interesting places.  I left pieces of myself as I went.

Looking back on my year, I can’t help but be grateful for every fuck.  Every fist.  Every kiss.  Each piece of rope.  Every piece of leather.  And each whiff of the sweet smell of cigar smoke.

To everyone who was a part of my sex life in 2013, an orgasm and a sigh at a time, I am so grateful for all of you.

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Grateful, Nice Edition

I sat at the kitchen island, my latest Santa hat beginning to take shape.  As everyone began to form a circle, I put my project away, stood, and held hands with a brother on each side.  My older brother, in whose house we all stood, was on my right; he said the blessing.

After his prayer, I took up my seat at the island again.  My younger brother sat to my left.  A baskatball game played on the television above the counter across from us.  One of my nieces sat to my right.  We three waited patiently watching the game as our elders prepared their plates first.

Another relative sat at the end of the island feeding my great-nephew.  Until that moment, he’d been the tiny tornado causing all types of little kid trouble in the kitchen.  With food in his mouth, and soon filling in his belly, he had finally calmed down.

My older brother and his wife buzzed about the stove and serving tables making sure everyone was happy and getting well fed.

For the entirety of the Christmas family dinner, I had an at times awkward, but always grateful, smile on my face.

~

I can’t remember where I was when I got the email.  I only remember reading it and thinking, Really?  Really!?!  And a grin so huge it hurt sprung onto my face.

I know I screamed, though again I don’t remember where I was.  I don’t recall calling attention to myself in the act, so I was probably in my car.

It is one thing for friends to praise my writing.  I am grateful for every blog comment and link from another site I receive.  But there is a sweet satisfaction in an acceptance email from a publisher.

It may be just one story in one antholoy, but it is enough to keep me going, enough to keep me hopeful.

~

I’m not sure when my classmates realized it, but I do remember the first time I felt it.

It was the first day.  I sat front row in both my classes.  I’d already read the first chapter for each professor.  I’d already studied the elements my Chemistry professor recommended in her email, and I’d already taken notes for my Biology lecture.

From the first day, though I didn’t quite believe it, I felt like the know-it-all Nerd Girl again.

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Bad Pain Bad

For the past week I have suffered through the worst back pain I have ever experienced. It hurts when I stand up or sit down. It hurts when I bend for things. Occasionally it hurts if I sit a certain way or twist my hips.

This shit sucks.

I took for granted my mobility until it was taken away from me. A simple act, such as loading and unloading the dishwasher, is now a torment. Washing my hands in the restroom. Putting on socks. Everyday moments I gave no particular mind to are a struggle.

One of my coworkers gave me the information for their chiropractor. I will call as soon as I wake up tomorrow.

At first I thought this was simply my body’s reaction to work slowing down. Since my job is physical, I thought my body would simply rest and then return to normal. But I am not getting any better.

Yesterday the possible culprit dawned on me. Just before Christmas I attended a company holiday party at a bowling alley. I bowled three games while tipsy and then woke up achey. I initially wrote it off; now I’m afraid I can no longer wait for things to magically get better.

My main coping mechanism for pain is crying. Many times in the past week I’ve stopped myself from even starting. This isn’t the fun pain of a scene, the joyous wave of sensation I’ve sailed before. This is the bad kind of pain, the scary kind, where I don’t want anything else but for it to stop.

I hope it will, soon.

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