Such a Small Thing, Really

543380863I’ve been having a lot of conversations lately about how vulnerability is one of my favorite fetishes. And so, in that vein, I’m delighted to share a snippet from my story, “Such a Small Thing, Really,” that appears in Rose Caraway’s The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30, Volume 3.

His eyes roamed up and down…and in between…her legs. Malik didn’t have to say anything, she could feel it, her skin horripilating from the entitled invasion of his gaze alone. Cocking his head to get a better view, he took his time, tracing the backseams of her stockings with just a look, lingering where they met with the garters, studying the bits of naked skin exposed. Patience. It wasn’t his strong suit, but Malik knew how excruciating this was for her so he would do anything in his power to support her overcoming this hurdle.

“You can begin anytime you’re ready. I’m enjoying my view quite thoroughly so no need to rush.”

The sound of his voice and the feel of his energy cascading over her coaxed her to let go, liberating her from her internal editor, motivating her to do this for him, to do it for herself. It wasn’t the first time she had found herself facing incredible vulnerability in his presence—there was a level of comfort between them that takes time to ease into and she could recognize this sensation in her body. Notably aroused, on edge, yet somehow also slightly relaxed. It was because of this level of comfort that Xiomara was able to start talking him through her fantasy.

Exhaling with determination, she began. “I want…” Deep breaths. “…you to admire me.” Her heartbeat pounding as steadily in her clit as it was in her chest. “I want to feel…how much you need me.” Battling the tension in her throat, Xiomara could already feel the perspiration beading up at the back of her neck.“I want…to taste your…restraint.”

As he intently listened to this fantasy coming to light, slowly dripping off her tongue, something began to stir. Malik had intended to only take her with his eyes while she shared this story, but his hands were formulating plans of their own. After all, she hadn’t told him that touching was against the rules so normally he would consider it fair game. But Xiomara wanted restraint and so Malik fought his nature to run the scene.

“May I touch you?” He swallowed hard.

“Yes…yes, please!” She couldn’t get it out fast enough.

Reaching up to help himself to an even more generous view, he adjusted her lacy hemline to give him full access to her ass. Then he stopped suddenly.

“One of your garters,” Malik sucked in a breath through his teeth. “is slightly askew. Such a small thing, really…but it makes me want to hurt you.”

Xiomara felt her entire body constrict and her breathing slow.

“I’ll suppress this desire…for now,” attempting to match his exhalations to hers, Malik didn’t rush into it. “No need to tear these stockings off of you like I did the last pair.”

These ones were special—brought back from their recent trip to Paris they were silk, designer, and she treasured their perfection—which only made his urge to ruin them all the worse.

“No! I mean, yes! Please…please don’t destroy them!” Xiomara scrambled for the right words. “You promised!”

So he had. And just the threat had worked its magic so Malik swallowed that impulse, running two fingers below the ribbonlike strap, pulling it away from her flesh, and shifting it into place. He released quickly, letting it snap against her thigh with a satisfying pop.

A little noise escaped her lips—Xiomara had been holding her breath and hadn’t realized it.

“Stop being dramatic. We both know that didn’t hurt. Furthermore, I never told you that you could stop with the storytelling.”

Pick up a copy of The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30, Volume 3 at your local, independent bookstore. Or if you have kindle unlimited, you can get it for free! 

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A Moaning Mess of a Girl featured on Sugarbutch Chronicles


I’m honored and delighted to have my story, “A Moaning Mess of a Girl,” published on Sinclair Sexsmith’s site, Sugarbutch Chronicles!

I absolutely adore working with Mx. Sexsmith–one of my favorite erotica writers/editors–and this is my second time having one of my stories featured on their site. I had originally submitted this story for publication in a print anthology under the title “Adding and Subtracting the Threes,” but Mx. Sexsmith suggested “A Moaning Mess of a Girl,” noting that “the piece is SO hot and full of suspense and tease”–deserving something more salacious and telling for online publication. And I couldn’t agree more! (My original title was a nod to the math that a butch/femme couple on opposite coasts of the U.S. is constantly working with in a long-distance love affair.) I really appreciate working with editors who think of details like that that I never would have. (Especially as the majority of my stories are published in print and my online experience is minimal.)

I’ll give you a taste, but only a tease since you can access the entire story for free here!

My butch Daddy, your unique flavor of female masculinity and dominance was set to high heat the moment you laid eyes on me, stirred to a quick boil that first night we spent in your precariously lofted bed, bubbling up and spilling all over my body every day since. I feel blessed to witness you coming into your own so thoroughly, to get to experience it firsthand. Mmmm…your hands. How I long for them. So rough and strong, you never knew to have pride in them until I purred under your touch as you stroked them down my exposed back, cupping my ass. I cooed my craving into the curve of your neck, letting you know just how much the ascendancy of those hands turn me on. My femme instinct smelled the butch all over you long before you ever used the word to describe yourself. I sensed it burning inside of you, eagerly awaiting a femme like me to show you just how desirable female masculinity can be. To express how it’s one of the many parts of you I honor and cherish. To prove to you that I just can’t get enough.

Did that pique your interest? Read the story in its entirety here!

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In Her Sights



Happy Lupercalia, loves! I didn’t want a holiday that involves whipping and knives to pass without at least giving a nod to such play (spoiler alert: I went with the latter) so here’s an excerpt (or a few excerpts because I’m feeling generous) from my story, “In Her Sights,” published in Alison Tyler’s Bound for Trouble: BDSM Erotica for Women.


I once watched an artist painting a portrait of his lover. Witnessed the lascivious nature of his brush dipping into the pigment, the amative blending of colors just so on the palette, before he ever touched tip to canvas. Working assiduously to infuse his lover’s very soul into the eyes; languidly lingering on the lips, introducing sex to the mouth. He studied his subject’s face so intently, so intimately, his lover shackled under the weight of his regard.

I’ve seen that artist’s look in Lux’s eyes, una mirada muy particular, sensed that fixed stare effusive and sumptuous against my surface, and then felt her go deeper. Entering my fleshy sex with her fist, farther still with her gaze.

My clit skips a beat.

I can’t get past the way she’s caught me and holds me captive with that gaze—knowing and profoundly intense. She twists her wrist one last time and my cunt clamps down as I submit to the waves rippling, then ripping, through me. “Mmmmmmm…that’s my good girl.” And then she’s gone. Pulls out of me with not the slightest warning and I cry out, suck in and am left wanting. So painfully wanting. My shyness begging to break away and cast my eyes downward, to bring my hand to my face and deflect at least a small portion of it all. Me muero de la timidez—I might just be the first case known to femmekind who succumbs to shyness. But just as this thought flashes hot across my flesh, her control seeps into my abyss and I’m hooked. Inescapably. Tethered up in her resolve.

 *   *   *

She’s shaking her head back and forth. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Staring into me with eyes that say, Fuck, yes to every last turn my body takes, todas las curvas de mi cuerpo. Something about it—an action that traditionally reads as no when she really means just the opposite—consumes me with desire. She devours me with that look. Captivating in every sense of the word—I am her captive. After our first several days spent together, I felt like watching her do that was so imprinted on my clit that I could come just from having her shake her head at me from across the room. And at the very least, it made my knees give out. It always does.

Lucky for me, she likes me on them.

Lux is detail orientated, as am I; her focus makes it abundantly clear that none of my efforts while down there are lost on her. She relishes the sensuousness of the senses—the wet, lustrous noises of the head of her cock hitting the back of my throat; the sight of me thrusting enthusiastically against the shaft, crimson red lips wrapped around the length of her; the pressure of me fucking her back while she fucks my face; the essence of my ravenous cunt wafting up. She opens her mouth to breathe in every last note, tasting metallic.

*   *   *

What gets her off more than how I deliciously pique her senses is her ability to pierce me with that gaze. Lecherously peering, Lux pries into the depths of me, the heart of me, her dick growing harder at the discovery of something so depraved and pure. Her orgasm mounting hastily at my naive nescience in letting her in. As she pierces me farther, the metallic flavor wraps around her tongue and spills down her throat, filling her up.

I want so badly to watch her watching me, to see the story her eyes tell of how pleased she is with everything happening below, to witness how she possesses me so thoroughly with just a look. But I can’t. My eyelids refuse to open when I’m choking so on su verga tan larga that I can hardly suck in any air while I suck her down. I suppose it’s a question of bodily physics and mine adhere to the shut-eyed-cock-choking phenomenon. I pull her out just momentarily to steal a peek and witness the glorious look of dominating satisfaction carved into Lux’s face.

“Well done, baby girl.” Warmth and pride on her breath. “Now get up.” I long to dig my nails deeper into her luscious cheeks, clutch at the meat of that divine ass while I’m swallowing her whole; but knowing better than to argue with that tone, I rise. Markedly laconic, her words are sparse at times like these but always poignant. Pointed. As sharp as her stare and steel. “Facedown on the bed,” she instructs. Later the words will pour off of her tongue and spill all over me. Flood my mind and my senses. This moment exists almost entirely in the unspoken desire that blazes from her eyes; she descends farther, filling me with more than I thought possible. I’m voluntarily enslaved.

Words cannot circumnavigate these waters.

*   *   *

She regards me with such intensity I feel desperately vulnerable and still somehow safe enough to let her in. Though she needs no invitation. Lux fully knows this is hers for the taking. So she takes it and I accept my role as willing sacrifice, laying my body down before her. I allow her to forge away at her own pace; accept whatever is left when she is done. Her eyes taste every last curve.

She takes her time and drags the stainless steel slowly across my skin, trailing where her gaze left off, the tip occasionally digging into the plumpness of my thighs, my ass, testing their give. And, oh, do I give. The cold, keen edge gives rise to a chill blushing across my surface and I feel her lust tear into me, shredding any last lingering defenses. I only wish her blade could penetrate me so deeply. Before I can finish wishing and just as I gasp loudly enough for the neighbors to hear, my remaining lingerie hits the floor in pieces and I wonder if I didn’t perhaps wish too hard. Lux’s knife is too sharp for this kind of play, too near to breaking flesh. And if I don’t take control of my involuntary shaking, she will.


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Blood in the Rain IV

1183115454Cecilia DuValle and Mary Trepanier have done it again just in time for Halloween! I’m pleased to announce that my story, “Fifty-Fifty,” will be included in Blood in the Rain 4!

They wanted to cringe while getting hot, so I delivered. And so you’ll notice that this story is pure fantasy–the usual rules of BDSM are out the window for added titillation/horror. So keep that in mind: pure fantasy. I was feeling inspired by The Hunger so you might also recognize nods to that vampire lesbian cult classic. Though I like to pride myself on my lesbian vamp being a bit more edgy. ;)


“Close your eyes. Now put the glass directly under your nose. Inhale deeply.” I did as instructed, I mean, how could I not? Her inflection was both dominating and sensual—a balance I find irresistible. But I’ll admit to peeking when I heard a clinking noise. My glimpse revealed her placing a long, shallow box filled with tiny glass vials on the table. “I can hear you blinking.”

Bossy and brusque. I kind of liked it. So I acquiesced and squeezed my eyelids shut again.

I felt her turn back towards me, moving closer. “What is this scent?”


“Now take the glass to your nose again. Two short sniffs, one long. Then sip.”

“Oh, wow! I can taste the cocoa!”

She repeated the process several times.


“Yes, scorched earth.”


“Star anise.”

“Berries…no, cherries.”




Then a new clinking noise. One I knew well. The distinct sound of metal on metal. And I could smell it long before it neared my nose. “Ohhhh…leather.” Unable to stifle my obvious arousal.

“Very good. So you are familiar with BDSM.” Her assumptive habit becoming more apparent as she slid her palm down the inside of my elbow. “Safe, sane, or consensual?”

“Ummmm…are you asking me to choose just one? Isn’t it supposed to be all of the above?” She cuffed one wrist, quickly followed by the other. “And I thought we had moved onto risk-aware consensual kink or personal responsabil—”

“Time is up. I choose for you. I will do my best to keep you safe. But do not count on me maintaining a sound state of mind.” Ale jerked my arms together behind my back, locking them in place with the restraints. “And you can forget about giving a green light. All I see is red. And in my world red means I take what I want.”

I won’t lie. It got me wet. It shouldn’t have. But it did.



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Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink

1db1b08c-9d57-423e-8aac-7edbbe43f90a_1.3877840507ae0f06d25a7b23392e6334My story, “Use Me,” that appears in Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink, edited by D.L. King, takes on a different vantage point than you’re probably accustomed to hearing from me. What can I say? I like to stretch my legs from time to time. ;) This anthology is filled with so many titillating stories, a few of my long-time favorite erotica writers, and a couple I didn’t know who surprised me in the best ways possible. Unspeakably Erotic is also up for a National Leather Association International award, was a finalist for a Lammy, and won a gold medal IPPY (Independent Publisher Book Award for Erotica). I hope you’ll pick yourself up a copy and consider giving it a review on Amazon (those reviews really do help with sales). Here’s a little taste to get your curiosities piqued:

“You heard me.” I grab her hand away from her clit, pinning her wrist above her head, pressing my body firmly against her, extending the torture just a bit more by shoving my cunt hard against her ass. I hold her—one hand wrapped around hers above and one hand below, gripping her hip firmly. “Now I want you to take a deep breath and feel the tension disperse throughout your entire body.” She inhales perhaps as deeply as humanly possible in that moment, nevertheless, she’s not going to get off that easily.

I delight in pushing her and this will indeed be quite the demanding task. Nothing seems to excite her more than a challenge. And nothing gets me hotter than her living up to it. An endlessly licentious cycle.

“Deeper,” I whisper with an intentional hot breath in her ear, reveling in its effect on her body as all her little hairs stand on end and every inch of her skin prickles with goosebumps. “I want you to use the energy of that orgasm…” (so close to the surface, we can both still nearly taste it) “…and push it into the farthest reaches of your body. Feel it pulsating down your legs, all the way into each toe, sensing the tingle and intensity of all that fervor.”

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I’m particularly proud of my story, “The Fetters of First Love,” that appears in Corrupted: Erotica and Erotic Romance for the Modern Age, edited by Charlie Powell. It’s all about women reclaiming their power and resisting the myth that that which liberates them also corrupts them. And my story features a femme who thoroughly enjoys her butch lovers but ultimately finds true love in herself.

Here’s a little snippet of my story for you:

Marielos had taken a class on rope bondage at the local, feminist-owned sex toy shop and practiced doing plenty of different ties on herself at home as well. But this would be the first time she had attempted to restrain herself while getting off. Ensuring her safety scissors were nearby in case of an emergency, she began by hitching the lengths of rope through the steel bars of her headboard. Then, with meticulous precision, she wrapped the hemp cords around her lower calf and upper thigh, bending her knee so that they were touching. Careful that each pass lay flat and did not bind too tightly when she flexed, she continued to loop around her forearm. In her practice sessions, Marielos had become quite the expert at creating ties without the use of both hands. Making good use of her mouth, she clenched the rope with her teeth, cinching her knee closer to the bed post, leaving herself spread wide.



And then she forced herself wait.

The anticipation compelled her to squirm and drip, her teeth digging into the fibers. Only once she had passed the point of no longer being able to take it, did she slide in her first finger. Slowly. Searchingly. Making herself want it even more, teasing her pussy just so. And then pulling out completely, leaving her hole longing all the more. Releasing the rope from her mouth, she finished her self-bondage by curling the remaining tails around her long, black braid such that when she moved her head, she was pulling on her own hair. A most exquisite sensation indeed.

Folks often ask me how they can financially support my writing, if I get a cut of the profits off the final product and usually I don’t (normally I get paid a flat fee) but in the case of this book I get paid royalties so, YES!, you will be helping independent writers by buying this book. Please get yourself a copy of Corrupted today! And thanks, as always, for your support!


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Blood in the Rain III


Blood in the Rain 3, edited by Cecilia DuValle and Mary Trepanier, is on sale this week for only 99 cents! I’m proud to have my story, Give Me A Penny, included in this anthology as well as another story in Blood in the Rain 2 too! (Only sad that I didn’t know about the first in the series before it came out!) Here’s a snippet from my story to entice you:

Trejú seemed to thrive off of sex, blood-feasting, and vengeance. When she wasn’t engaging in at least one of those acts, she was plotting a new and creative way to do so. I assume that’s why she first began presenting me with knives.

She stood on my doorstep, displaying the bundle proudly as if it were a bouquet of roses. “Handmade by authentic gypsies!” Trejú only ever used that racial slur to refer to her people in jest, usually when she wanted to make fun of gadge’s stereotypes of the Roma. Consciously or not, we who do not possess Roma blood have many negative assumptions about Romani, and she would often choose humor as a way of dispelling them.

“Give me a penny.” Trejú kissed my cheek and walked right past me, letting herself in.

I closed the door and turned to face her. “Why?”

A storm surfaced in her gaze. “Prikaza. Bad luck to give a knife as a gift. You must pay me for it.” Slipping her arms around my waist and pulling me firmly against her body, my cunt already hot against her thigh. “The cost? One cent. Plus whatever else I can take from you before the night is through.” She grinned at her own cleverness.

Just as her gift was far too dangerous in my hands, so was her mercurial nature.

I’m particularly proud of this story because it’s the first I’ve written that includes a Romani character (at least explicitly stated). Writing characters of color into my erotica is important to me because all too often erotica features mostly white characters or fetishizes the skin color of and/or stereotypes about people of color. In this story I also consciously chose to have my Roma character be queer. Perhaps because of the stigma within our own culture, I’ve never seen a queer Romani character represented in books, movies, or TV shows and I wanted to prove that, yes, we do exist! Where have you seen positive media representations of Romani characters? I’d particularly love to hear about queer Romani characters! Please educate me in the comments!

Blood in the Rain 3 will cost you less than a dollar only until December 18th…so hurry! Maybe use that extra penny to buy a knife off someone? ;)

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Get it! Getting It!

gettingitHere’s an excerpt from my story, Taking the Toll, in the newly released Getting It: A Femdom Anthology edited by S.B. Roark and Sienna Saint-Cyr, published by SinCyr Publishing.

Normally I’m coming right now, thrashing about in the sheets, my body a creature of habit, after so many years it’s more than difficult to control. My lover staring down at me, grinning wickedly as she reads it all over my body—witnessing just how hard it is for me to stave off that orgasm. I’m her own personal open fuckin’ book and she’s enjoying the read just a little too much.

“Go put on your uniform.” Before I can even protest, drop to my knees, do anything to distract her (she’s getting to know me a little too well), she gives me that stern look that always makes me weak (obedient) and raises her eyebrows with the Am I really going to have to say it again? look and I’m up, heading towards the closet. Looking over her shoulder with a smirk she adds, “You remember your safeword, angelita?”

“Sí, claro. Red, yellow, green.”

“Good girl.” She eyes me one last time all I’m thinking is green, green, green.

Creative as hell when it comes to this stuff and quick as fuck, I can tell her mind has taken off into a full sprint as she leaves the room to collect whatever props she can find that will help bring the swiftly mounting fantasy in her head to life. She looked into my mind through my body’s divulgences, revealed my secret, and immediately ran with it. Didn’t even hesitate for a second. If she had, I would have feared judgment; instead I feel completely at ease, protected and cherished. Her presence and demeanor make this place safe for me. Of course she wants to go there with me. She gets it. She gets me.

Wondering just what she’ll come up with, I finish pulling off my red lacy thong (definitely not part of the uniform) and I’m about to switch it out with the white cotton panties when it hits me and I slide the more scandalous version back on. Sure, we’ve played around with the naughty school girl fantasy plenty but never before have we done any specifically catholic play, and I have a feeling this defiance might just bring it to another level.

This is my first time publishing with SinCyr and I’m especially excited about doing so because their values align beautifully with mine. Their tagline is “Shifting rape culture one sexy story at a time” and their mission statement is “To provide sex-positive, body-positive, and sexually empowered characters and content to readers of our erotic and romantic fiction. To educate on topics ranging from non-traditional relationships to BDSM, consent, healing trauma, and more, for readers of nonfiction.”

Wanna get Getting It? Buy it here! (Free for folks with Kindle Unlimited.)

In the past I’ve always been paid a flat fee for my stories and I’m happy to say (for those of you who have asked) that I’ll be receiving royalties for this anthology! I’m so very appreciative of you purchasing a copy because it will directly support me and my work!

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Blood in the Rain II


Wanna win a free copy of Blood in the Rain II, edited by Cecilia Duvalle and Mary Trepanier that contains one of my stories?

Enter here!

There’s even a quote from my story featured on the back cover!

Here is an excerpt of my story, First Bite:

She had folded me over and abandoned my needs centuries ago, time and space falling away, but I would not move until she willed it. Desperation had set in when I felt my panties fall to the floor in one swift motion. I hadn’t sensed her approach, I startled and jumped, the blood coursing wildly through my veins. The chilled, sharp tip of something keen-edged traced its way from my ankle up to my inner thighs, pausing achingly close to my cunt just before she grabbed the skirt that was gathered at my hips and used it to yank me up and around. By the time I was facing her, it was cut in two and I had just a glimpse of the black fabric in my peripheral vision as it fell away.

The knife clattered against the concrete, spinning across the floor. Her tongue invaded my mouth. Her hands all over my naked flesh, mine digging into her leather, clawing to grab a hold. She lifted me deftly onto the back of the chair; I wrapped my legs around her waist, our tongues battling to go deeper, and suddenly I was being carried across the room, slammed up against a wall. We wrestled our way around each other’s bodies, I tried to tear off as much of her clothing as she would allow, and no matter how much I pressed up against her, how entwined our bodies became, I still needed her closer.

And then she was inside me, and I was gasping for air. I took her fist because she offered nothing less.

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Sunday Mornings Like These

51ZM5ZBNMGL._SX341_BO1,204,203,200_I figured since Sinclair Sexsmith has honored me as one of the Best Queer Sex Blogs (color me fifty shades of flattered!) that I ought to give y’all a little more action. ;)

I’m not much of a romance writer–this might be a one time thing–but do not fear, my contribution is plenty smutty as well (breath play, anyone?). I wrote this story for the partner I always dreamed was possible but I was unsure whether I’d ever encounter this lifetime. Published in Kristina Wright‘s Best Erotica Romance of the Year, I submitted “Sunday Mornings Like These” just months before my partner magically appeared in my life. Well, magically reappeared, actually, as he had been my one-night-stand ten years earlier when I was touring in Europe with my drag troupe…but that’s a post for another day. I wrote this story knowing deep inside myself that such a thing existed–queer love based in truth and trust, magic and mysticism, spiritual/psychic connection, watery and vulnerable emotional depths, sweet and filthy and fully-embodied kink, a passion so fiery it takes us to the cosmos and delivers the Divine onto this plane as well.

I began falling in love with my partner in fewer than two weeks (record timing, even for a Libra like me)…well, two weeks + ten years (but who’s counting?). His presence in my life and our profound connection (lightyears beyond anything I could’ve dreamed up in my boldest fantasies) have taught me to embrace my intuition and it’s been through that fierce embrace that my powers have expanded in unimaginable directions. As we were lying in bed together this morning (9am for me, 9pm for him as he’s currently in Jakarta), we were reveling in how it’s still so impossible to put words to–this woo-filled, woo-ful connection we delve a little (or a lot) deeper into every day.

I wrote this story for him, knowing he existed somewhere, not knowing he was right under my nose all along. I wrote this story as a premonition just before our love story began to unfurl in shockingly similar ways. And just now rereading it I realized in the story I gave a nod to a new offshoot of theory he was to invent before he even knew he would write his dissertation on affect theory. The powers of femmefestation never cease to astound me. Basically, this story is magic. I hope you enjoy the excerpt:

The timing was all off. These are not the kinds of words a woman wants to hear before going in for a kiss, but it was fitting with my awkward nature so I just went with it. He cradled my face in his palms like I was the most precious thing in the universe and kissed me like I was the dirtiest.

My lips were eager to keep moving even after I had torn myself away.

“I need to learn to trust myself.”

Shit. Did I just say that out loud? Staring off somewhere far, far away, a profound realization was swiftly coming into focus. I needed to place my confidence in me alone. Trust in what I felt–the steadfastness in my heart, the authenticity I sensed in his touch, the beauty unfurling within me. My intuition was pleading for attention. It already knew how this story would unfold. And once I learned how to believe in myself above all others, the rest would fall into place.

I leaned in again and our kiss deepened, my body pressing into his, his hand snaking around into my hair. He tugged ever so slightly, testing the waters, then reveling in my responsiveness. A moan originating in my mouth, reverberating in his. A kiss so satisfying it felt like making love. And just before we parted, he placed a crystal of light on my tongue. I didn’t know it at the time, but the more truth I spoke, the more it sparkled and shone its light into the world, spreading magic that glimmered to far reaches, illuming every corner. We spent the rest of the night in his bed, surprisingly clothed, sharing bits of our pasts in between passionate spells of making-out. The more I opened up to him, the more the crystal sparked and tingled in my mouth, joggling hidden depths of myself, unearthing long-forgotten secrets and bringing them to light. Secrets cemented so securely that I had mistaken them for truth all these years, blindly accepting them as fact and simply building upon them.

The crystal tasted like refracted light after a long rain. His kisses tasted like coming home.

* * *

And then he started in with his fingers. It was around that time that my legs finally gave out and I joined him on the linoleum. He worked two and then three fingers into my cunt, fucking me so slowly I thought I might cry. Forcing me to feel every millimeter from his fingertips up to his knuckles, sliding in and out of me so sweetly, causing me to emit new little sounds each time his thumb pressed firmly up against my clit. Then without the slightest bit of warning, it was as though he were hit by a bolt of lightening. His thrusts took off at a feverish pace, my voice crying out unearthly noises and my body spasming in sensory overload. Before I knew it, his fingers were curling up, stroking my G-spot, and I was shooting all over the place. I shrieked one final time, a long, hot stream raining down on both of us.

“Mmmmm…It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman who would squirt. I was hoping….” His sentence drifted off as he marveled at dreams become reality soaking into his jeans. Cum not his own dripping down his pant leg. Yes, it had been much too long. For both of us. I was beside myself–not wanting to move an inch–my naked body glistening with all kinds of juices juxtaposed with his clothed self. I lay there unabashedly blissed out, having not known it was possible to lose one’s self so entirely in desire like that. Going there with him was just another way in which I embraced more of myself, shimmering in my truth.

And so it was that cracks began to form in my deep-seated fear of vulnerability, innocent beams of light peeking through the foundation at first, gradually forming hairline fractures that would soon enough break open, leveling the entire structure. I won’t lie–not anymore, at least–this looming demolition scared me shitless. If it had not been for a swiftly mounting safe-haven that enveloped me in its place, I may have been tempted to run.

That was six months ago. And now I’m beyond grateful for having stayed. Especially on Sunday mornings like these. When the sunlight has already been creeping in for hours and the sex is still exploratory. Tracing his fingers over my hips–a haptic continuation of his visual admiration–I’m spellbound under his regard. His eyes take in all of me, his hands take all they can. I feel seen, unabashedly beautiful, with every sweep of his fingertips across my skin, his gaze going deeper still. Each slow moment more crushingly intimate and blush-worthy than the next.

But that’s just the tender build-up. I’m the type of girl who doesn’t need much, if any, foreplay. Which is exactly what makes his leisurely pace all the more excruciating. He’s slow. Likes to tease out every last drop of anticipation, driving me to the edge and back again. And then, just after the point where I think I’m going to lose it, he’s flipping me over, taking me from behind with a frenzied rhythm.

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