I've been exhausting myself with feminism lately. I've been saddened and frustrated with how many arguments are uphill, how many points go unanswered or dismissed, how many times a day I feel the need to be feminism super-girl. I posted about it here (a new reddit group! And it's a lady safe space! Hell to the fuck yes!), and the chief advice they gave was: take a break, get off the internet.
Which I have intentions to do. Soon. But before that, I thought I'd get back to what this blog was supposed to (but maybe never was) about. Sex. Kinky, feministy, well-written sex.
It's basically porn. But I like it! And I think it's good for me to remember that there are really great, hot, sexy things in kink and feminism, and not just assholes and MRAs. Hell, this is the reason I got into this in the first place.
Without further adeui:
We're laying on the couch; he came over to comfort me, after a bad dream, I think. I'd woken up from a nap, startled, the way waking sometimes happens in daytime. We're pressing together, slanted towards the back of the couch, the weight of different parts of my body pressing on his body pressing on my body pressing on him. A big tangle of pressure.
Some days, I like this; cuddling, being sweet to each other. Some days, I love it. And some days, it pulls from this place in me that makes every touch, every breath, into another bet, another bump in the stakes. I tell him it's one of those days, leaning down to whisper in his ear, how I'm turned on, inexplicably, so fast after the jolted waking into the word. He pets my head, tells me to hush. It just makes me wetter.
His hand makes its way over my thigh, thrown over his torso, traces the skin up to the top and back down again, his palm flat against the inside, then the outside, then the inside again. Never quite stopping at the top, barely grazing the fine hairs there, waiting until I beg for it. Which I do. His hand finally stops, after I've asked nicely, sweetly, like a good girl should. He slaps my thigh open, displays me to the empty living room. His fingers make their way up, pressing on the outside of my swollen lips, just pressure. I hold my breath, look him in the face. He meets my eyes, examining, like a scientist would a specimen, the utmost objectivity, and slips one finger into the wet, the lightest pressure on my clit, slowly, so slowly, back and forth as we breath. He keeps looking. I pant, objectified, wetter by the second under his hand, his little object, his salivating, dripping play thing.
In one move he's up, standing above me; he snaps his fingers and point to the floor. I kneel there, as quick as instinct, watching his fingers shining with my slick, and then my eyes to the floor. I expect his cock in my mouth, but instead:
"Go get your collar." I scurry to the bedroom on all fours, swollen, feeling my lips rub against my clit with every step. I pull out the tiny drawer in the bedside table, and grab the collar with my teeth. I crawl back to him, in the kitchen now, and kneel again in front of him.
"Good girl." He tells me, and takes the leather out of my mouth, and lays it around my neck, the familiar weight, the familiar click as the padlock closes at the back.
He strokes my hair, reaches down, unzips his fly, and pulls out his cock. It's hard and big and the skin is soft in my mouth. He thrusts in and out, pushing down into the back of my throat. I gag and sputter, long lines of spit trailing out my mouth when he pulls all the way out, slapping my face with it, asking me if I want it, if I want to taste it. I nod, my mouth open, eyes beginning to well, gazing up at him. He stuffs me with it again, and again, and I loose track of the time and the thrusts. At some point, my dress comes down, my bra comes undone. My hair is falling out of it's pins and I'm a mess, disheveled, his fingers pinching each nipple, still pushing down my throat, pulling harder at my tits with each thrust, a mathematical calculation of the angels and momentum of pain.
"All fours. Now." He pushes my head away, and I flip over, hiking my skirt up, the entirety of my dress bunched around my middle, bare ass in the air. He runs a hand up the outside of my thigh, and I feel his cock resting on the small of my back. He slaps me, open palm, up the flank. Lightly, like testing a good horse.
"Touch yourself." His hands grip either side of me, fingers sinking into the flesh of my hips, and he teases my lips, still dripping, with with head of his cock. My fingers are furious and fast on my clit as he slips inside, fucking me slow at first, then faster and faster. Face in the linolium, hard points of cheekbone and shoulder against the floor with every thrust, I'm swelling for him. He slaps me, open palm still but harder, as he fucks me into the floor. He runs a finger down my back, resting the hand over my ass, the thumb pressing on my asshole, holding me like an animal, calculated and raw.
"Do you want to be a good girl?" His voice shakes with each thrust.
"Yes Sir."
"Be a good girl. Be my good girl."
"Yes Sir Yes Sir Yes Sir." I mumble into the floor.
He gets faster still, his hands digging in, hurting all the right places, all the right places wet and slick and on fire. And then, in a sudden movement, he pulls away. I feel a hot over my back, feel it land in my hair, a sticky mess.
I pause, collapsing a little.
"Did I tell you to stop?"
"No Sir." I start in on my clit again, right back to the edge again, but my hole is aching, empty. My fingers can hardly find it, I'm so wet.
"Go get the black toy. Don't stop touching yourself. Kneel on the bed."
I crawl to the bedroom and find the dildo, black silicone, and hold it in my mouth, one hand running circles between my legs the whole time. He walks in, stands in the corner, watching.
"Fuck yourself with it. Fuck yourself for me."
I spread my knees open wide, hold the toy underneath me, and slowly lower myself over it. It slips in, tight, up past the swollen, pink outside, and I'm riding it up and down, up and down, holding the base to the bed with one hand, flicking fast on my clit with the other. I'm moaning for him, trying to look at him, tearing up with shame, face flushing, every time I do. I'm cresting, close and desperate for it, filling up fast.
"May I come Sir, please Sir?" I look at him and falter, suddenly embarrassed, knowing that he's watching me, that he sees everything.
"Who do you come for?"
"You Sir." He walked towards me, takes the back of my head in his hands, pulls my hair down, making me look at him. I rub against his chest, riding still, eyes squeezed shut.
"Look at me."
I whimper.
"Look at me."
I open my eyes, my face shining with tears and spit.
"Yes, you may."
It comes out a gasp, and I'm crying, a hot mess of come and sweat, clothes hanging off me, his come down my back, tits bouncing against him, hands slipping between my legs, cunt grinding against the toy for all I'm worth, crying out and coming hard, Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Yes Sir.
I fall into him, and we collapse on the bed. I cry, and he pushes the hair back from my face, and we kiss.
"There's my good girl."
I smile at him, big relief smile, still crying. He wraps me up in his arms.
"Yes Sir."
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