Bikini Shopping

I love to look at bikinis. They come in as many styles as the women who wear them.






I'm not sure the Wicked Weasel designs are meant to be worn in public.



Although that would be nice.



When does a bikini stop being a bikini...



...and become a sexual aid?



Depends on how it's being worn.

Fucking The Alien

Occasionally I've found myself in bed with someone I didn't really know. Sure, I knew her name, and the general specifics, but it wasn't like it was a long and intimate getting-to-know-you process. We ended up with our pants off and dicks in pussies.

We fuck before we think. At least we try to. But ultimately we have to be ourselves, be charming, try to impress and convey ourselves as solid, sane, responsible (I brought protection), and worth the trouble.

We're trying to get to know the other person as well as possible; at least, in a deep and physical manner not normally enjoyed in polite company.

Who the fuck is she? I don't care, I just want to get off, I think. I want to cum inside her.

Eventually, we find someone we spend lots of time with. It may be our significant other, we may marry them, and spend years fucking each other, doing the same thing over and over, doing new and experimental things to keep it interesting. Sharing those deep fetishes we always wanted to try, and we're finally comfortable enough with the other person to share, to try, to not freak them out.

You want me to dress as a nurse? You want me to sing what?

Often, though, we still don't know how she'll respond. Will she understand? Will she laugh in my face? If I'm vulnerable, will she reciprocate? Or will she look at me like I'm crazy? Like I'm from another planet?

Those star-crossed moments are fleeting and rare. The actual eye-to-eye "I get you" moments, in which it is magic, both of us are on the same wavelength, we're both in love, both laughing, both about to cry, both into it and getting off, one on top, the other underneath, rocking, humping...

More often, I'm doing what she wants or she's doing what I want. It's give and take and there are rules. The mindless roller-coaster sex is good when it happens but I get lost in the moment and forget to enjoy who I'm with - in the orgasmic explosion.

She doesn't know what I'm thinking.

It doesn't last long. If there's a hole that's wet and she's willing to show it and share it, I'm in. But she might as well be an alien to me, I don't know her and she doesn't know me. But fuck she feels good naked.

UK Road trip

I don't travel like this. Not for want of trying.

The Ben Wa's

I got them mail-order, because I am shy, and I wouldn't know where to get them in a store anyway. They were two metal balls, larger and heavier than I imagined, about the size of golf-balls, and slightly off-balance.

They were silver-beautiful and clicked quietly and contently when they were rocked together. And I could put them up my cunt and they wouldn't fall out. Because of their size, in spite of their weight they didn't roll or work out of my vagina, so when I sat down and squirmed a little, they rocked and clicked silently back and forth up in me.

The effect was subtle but intense. When I walked I could feel them inside me, and I quickly knew that inserting them before going to work was a deliciously naughty and sexual boiling under secret that lasted the entire day. They were up inside me and rolling bck and forth, off-center and bubbling together, clicking in my thick fluids, turning me on like fingers up my cunt… or a firm cock.

Not fucking me hard, not banging against me or stimulating my clit. It was more of a rolling and continuous tickle and reminder. I couldn't forget them for long, because when I would stand… or sit… I would get a twinge of fuck-sex up my pussy.

The effect was cumulative. Soon I found myself splashing on the edge of orgasm for minutes at a time, not quite arriving at a climax, but rolling ever so pleasantly on an erection of pleasure, feeling flushed but not exploding. Like that first swallow of the 2nd drink, right before the tequila starts to go to your head and begins to turn. That drifting flight of pre-orgasm that you hope lasts forever, but then he cum, or you cum, or the phone rings, or you get a cramp.

Alone, with the balls, I could control it and slow it down. There was no need to speed it up.
I wouldn't have wanted one of those vibrating butterflys that you wear on your clit. That would have been too intense, gone to quickly to cumming. I couldn't have kept a straight face, kept the smile off my face, the blush out of my cheeks, the stammer or the moans. I would have cum with that worn under my panties, quietly humming away.

With the balls up my pussy, I could slowly roll to a flowing and continuous orgasm all day long.

Erect

About 6 minutes after this photo was taken, cum was streaming down my cock.

The Tequila Talking

Last night I went to a bar with my wife and had a margarita that was closer to the type you'd make at home than one you'd receive at a bar for a nickel less than $6.00

Strong as shit, and in a plastic glass. They must drop on the tiles a lot around here. The tables up front were filled with college+ aged people, in uneven groups of 3 guys to 1 girl, or 2 girls and no guys. No one was quite matched up yet. But with a couple of those margaritas in 'em, they would be soon.

I soon had a couple of them in me, and I knew that the next thing I wanted in was my cock in my wife.

We got home after too much rice and grilled tacos, and I pawed her like a freshman. Hands down her pants and up her top, in a sloppy mauling way only the booze gives me permission to do. She was a couple sheets to the wind as well, and let me lick her and slobber on her tits, then her stomach, then her pussy.

I lapped her like a fence-painter, burying my face into her open legs, getting her wet as possible, maybe she'd like it and feel orgasmic, but I was more interested in lubrication, getting my cock up inside her.

My cock, so hard rammed home and humped away against her. We slipped sideways and giggled, so sloppy and awkward, and taken by lust and horny abandon. I'm not sure I felt my impending cum before it started to happen. I pulled out and paused, frozen, hoping to last longer, and a rope of sticky precum oozed out of my hard cock, unable to stop it and barely feeling it.

Not orgasmic but so primed the pump that it fairly jerked and crawled out of my cock on its own, knowing pussy was open, wet and available.

My wife went down on my cock and I stayed hard as my head spun. Leaning back, she managed to coax my erection to a new aware state, now sensitive and more aware of the small subtle and urgent nerve-firings that tequila-drenched maulings had deadened. Her hand and tongue, light and casual, licked the sperm off my balls and shaft.

I fingered her pussy, and felt a honey-thick wetness coating her crease. "Can you do me again?" she asked.

This time, slower, and wanting to feel the painful ecstacy as I entered her, I carefully lowered myself into her love tunnel. Now the warm sleeve of her pussy generated a new wet heat that tickled and fingered my sexual drive in phrases. Not a marathon but a series of kisses, pauses, words and whispers.

She breathed with me and felt each slow and assertive thrust, half drunk and fully getting fucked. Lubricated and sloshed, open and abandoned.

I pulled out and fingered her clit, which was drenched in a slimy foam and erect, a popcorn kernel swimming in honey. I licked her and the taste of my salty spunk mingled with a spicy musk of roses and tequila. She said she could feel the tequila sting on my tongue. It hurt so good, and her hips bucked up against my mouth as she orgasmed into my face.

Devil In The Details

This picture I stumbled upon this, a perfectly and fetishistically clearcut photo.

Here is the site of all my trouble. This crevice between her legs, a mount that curves downward to a crease between her butt, where a hole round and tight pinpoints the intersection.

But then the gash in front, running up the mound. That wet and floppy set of lips that tuck in and surround my shaft when I slide it in. That warm feeling of wet firm gravity that encircles my cock and rubs and throbs against it, making it harder, making it jerk faster, making it spit out the life-giving hot orgasm sperm flow of cum paradise.

That gash surrounded by a whisper of hair, and lubricated itself. Sometimes dripping thick mucus, and sometimes emiting an earthy perfume of blood and roses.

The damn rub is that this delightful and mysterious moment of pleasure objects are between the legs of every woman I see. They have the secret to access within their command, and my behavior is merely to charm or convince them that I may be allowed to partake, if only for moments, in private or here in the hall, to enjoy the fruitful orgasmic administrations of their pussy mound.

They show it to me, or hint that they have it, even though I already know, and I am reminded and driven off my logic with desire, want, shame and confusion. Lust and intellect. Respect and animal hunger.

Inspired and maddened by that little perfect detail of a moment and of a promised opening of that sweet sweet spot.

40

It happens around the time she's 40. The sexual peak that men have gone through throughout their teens.

After she's been married, maybe divorced, finally, after her child-bearing years are over, she feels it. A dark and insatiable need. A need to be fucked. To fuck everything that moves.

The men understand. Finally the hormonal need to procreate becomes insatiable and unstoppable. A decade of making babies, being touched, not wanting to have sex, turns into a hot and horny burn for cock.

If you're lucky the husband goes along. It's a matter of circumstances being right and she is willing to experiment and he is there to coax her along. To swing along with her. Would you kiss him? Would you lick her? The husbands think it's a dream come true. She finally loves sex. Even if it's not with you.

This different new mode is sexy and flirtatious and hot. It's novel and and it's also dangerous - she wants to fuck. Me or anyone. Can you keep up? If at the party you let her go ahead with the guy next door, open his pants, purely NSA, it's okay... but also transgressive. You're giving permission. But there's heat and there's damage.

To what cost do we allow it?

The driving need is primal and non-intellectual. Don't take it personally. But then how do you deal with it? Let it go as the urge that it is or wonder what it signifies? Give in and do it yourself or change up the routine to make things better, less open?

Reclaim what is barely yours? Pretend you can win back her loyalty? Or let what you no longer own - her pussy and her heart, his cock and all his sperm that ends up inside someone else - go?

Do you understand that the years were good but limited, that the commitment wasn't ... couldn't be forever? That now you are merely one of the people who she's allowing to let fuck her rather rather than the only one allowed to?

That you can go ahead too, letting that door in your head open, as if such a thing can ever satisfy your heart like it satisfies your hungry and mindless cock? Decide to fuck, be intimate, be naked, rather than loyal, alone, hurt, and patient?

It begins to happen around the time she's approaching 40. She suddenly realizes she is a sexual creature, not just built for procreation but wants pleasure, wants cock, and you are boring. Same. No matter what you do, it may not be enough.

Do you give her permission to explore and manifest her hidden potential? Do you take the opportunity to exploit her new-found sexuality and fuck the wife of the husband she's blowing to get a new slant on your open relationship?

Sliding

There are cultural norms that we see and are influenced by every day. The internet allows us to explore areas that may not be as comfortable for us to explore in the real world.

We play roles in the world, with people around us. By finding an arena to look at things that trouble us but intrigue us, things we are curious about but unsure of, we can explore other feelings and urges within us.

Hopefully to our satisfaction. Maybe learn something.

There is great value in being able to slide back and forth between hetrosexual imagery and homesexual imagery. Between voyeristic bahaviors and exhibitionistic ones. We are so programmed to be in a binary situation, to define ourselves either as left or right, as straight or gay - as conservative or liberal. Top or bottom. Giver or receiver. One partner or many. A-type or B-type. Cum, piss or shit.

Why define and delimit? There are all the borders around us that prevent us from actually looking outside ourselves and inside ourselves. So you don't have to worry about if you're going to land onto someone else's platform.

If you drift on your own, not so worried about the position you end up with, you begin to enjoy the transcendental journey back and forth and around, exploring and experiencing the wind as you're blown by the fates, by circumstance, and by urge.

Secret as you like. Or share as you want to.

A slippery journey in which no one should direct you on. As long as you are willing to land when it's time. Where you want.

With whomever.

See My Orgasm

Self-generated content, on SeeMyOrgasm.com. Most of the content there, as with most porn sites, isn't worth the bits its streamed on. Here, though, she had the premeditation to set up and display in a straight-forward and compelling shot. And it convinces.

It's lack of production value and the t-shirt, suggesting some semblance of modesty as she jams a piece of plastic up her snatch for us to enjoy watching, make this very sexy and real to me.

Authenticity is real power.