If it’s too loud, you’re too old

River is out of town.  I get an email from her.  “I passed my test!  I might have screamed!”  And I write back: “At least something makes you scream :-).”

Because just a few nights ago, she had her first orgasm ever from pure penetrative sex.  Actually, two in a row.  She’s always needed some kind of manual or mechanical clitoral stimulation.  And there she is having her first pure penetrative orgasm, and her second, and she doesn’t make a sound.  Nothing out of the ordinary, at least.  Not in happy shock, not in crazy surprise, not even because it’s so amazing she wants the neighbors to know.  So I have no idea until we pause while I barely hold off and she says “I just came twice while we were doing it.”  Total stealth orgasms.  That’s her style.

It took some getting used to.  One partner I’d had set the bar pretty high for screaming, and gave me a taste for it.  And she inspired me to make a lot of noise myself.  But I ended up toning it down with River because I felt out of place with her being so quiet most of the time.

But I still  like it loud.

Although lately it seems like if we so much as breathe hard, Brook will be banging on our shared wall.  “We’re just breathing.”  “Well stop it!”  She didn’t do that when she was little.  She’s too old.

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Out of town

River will be out of town for a while. That’s not so good, not the least reason being that I’m already horny. Last night I noticed she had her new G-spot vibrator charging and I thought maybe she was taking it with her, which would be a good thing. She said no, but it wasn’t charged last time she wanted it so she wanted to make sure it was charged. And I take that as a good thing.  Also good that she wants me to use it on her.  There’s no way I could ever use the magic wand on her.  No way.  That thing is just too vigorous.  And I’m more about finesse.

How she can leave without giving me  little something to tide me over I’ll never understand.  Too much business before pleasure.  I’m always thinking, give yourself time for both.  But she’s also going to school, and with business, school, and family all vying for her attention she seems to forget to leave time for pleasure.  She says I’m in charge of sex but really she is, because she’s the one who can always say maybe later.

My butt itches

“My butt itches.” “Probably those new panties you’re wearing.” “I’m not wearing any.” I slide my hand casually down her summer dress. Nothing but nice sooth ass under that thin blue fabric. My cock gets heavier as I run my hand over her. “Are you feeling it yet?” By “it”, I mean her post-period hornies. She wasn’t feeling it last night, much to my dismay. “Not yet. Maybe later.” “Well you can feel this then.” I put her hand on my shorts. She gives my arousal a good investigation. “Nice.” All I can think about is pulling her dress up and banging right there in the living room. I pull it up over her ass and she squeals “Noooooo!”

And she’s got to go do some errand or something. We’ve got company coming over at noon, in a few hours. I wonder how much “later” it will be. At least I can think about River out there in public in just the lightweight dress with no bra or panties. I hope her butt doesn’t itch.

Dot dot dot

I’ve got a feeling that’s going to be the entire post. But River’s back quickly, almost before I’m done writing. “I like gardener Reed.” I’d gotten up early to make sure my little planties don’t starve from thirst. “I look like a wild man who lives in the weeds.” “I don’t care what you look like. Just what you smell like.”

And somehow River is locking the front door and we’re in the bedroom and she’s pulling her dress up for me and bending over with her hands down on the bed. “I thought you might like the view.” “I never realized our house has such a nice view.” She spreads her legs a bit as I drop my shorts — I, too, am going commando — and slip one hand under her ass for her pussy and put the other on my stiffening cock to help it along. When we’re ready I try to get her lips spread and push into her. No go. And even River is having problems spreading her wings and lining us up for the initial stick-in. It just won’t go. Is her pussy that tight? “It’s like there’s a piece of Saran wrap between us.” Finally we get it together and my cock inches into her pussy and I feel her ass pushing back against me. And we fuck.

We get a nice vigorous start. River always likes that. I’m grabbing her hips and we’ve got that serious banging action going. But even though it’s great, I don’t want to keep it up. I want to last. “I could come really fast.” “Can you tell I’ve been kegeling?” “Give me a squeeze.” “I have been.”

I slow down and grind into River, left, right, center, up, down. Savoring the deliciousness spreading into me from her cunt. I run my fingers over the skin on her back, down her sides, along the flair of her hips. “You’re probably wondering when I’m going to get back to the vigorous bang.” But she’s never thinking what I think she’s thinking. “I’m enjoying having my curves appreciated.” “You are a good view. And you’ve got my favorite pussy.” Slow and sensual, all the way out, all the way in, feeling everything from her frilly entrance to her cervix.

I’m speeding up. Feeling her toned legs against mine. Putting a hand on her shoulder for leverage, pulling her back against me. Her pussy feels crazy good, torturously tight and texturous squeezing my desperately thrusting cock. This is going to be some orgasm. Can I stay standing? I don’t care. I’ll just grab River to keep myself from falling when my knees buckle. Good thing she’s bent over, hands braced on the bed, taking it for all she’s worth.

I try to hold off because it’s too good to end. I look through the window wondering if anybody’s watching, nobody, too bad, I look down at River, she knows what’s about to happen, she knows she has my favorite pussy, then I’m leaning on her for balance and groaning and pushing and unloading six days worth into her as she grinds back against me and wiggles her ass.

Did anybody hear us? I always hope so. That’s the kind of thing I’d like to hear when I’m out for a walk.

We relax, then disconnect and wipe up. River will probably be wearing panties the rest of the day. She’s not the kind of girl who enjoys having things drip down her leg. Especially not with company coming over.

“You know the most obvious sign of doing kegels was?” “What?” “I never felt any air in there at any time.”

That’s the way (uh huh uh huh) I “like” it

I put that last post up in the morning. And when I came back in the afternoon it had gotten a few more likes than usual. Largely from new likers.

Now why would that be? Did I do something different? Like bathe or something? River likes it when I come to bed clean. Maybe people like it when I write clean. I don’t like to talk on the phone before I brush my teeth, but writing before I shower is ok.  I think.

Well.  One notable difference is that I tagged it “writing”. And everybody here likes writing, whatever they may mean by “like”.

Whereas usually my stuff is tagged, among other things, “fucking”. And I’d hope that everybody here likes fucking, too. Though apparently not quite as much as writing.

Or you like reading about writing more than reading about fucking. You know what they say: reading about fucking is like dancing about architecture.

But to me, “like”ing something is pretty vacuous. So when I truly like something, I can’t just click the “like” button and move on. I have to leave a comment. Something that shows I actually read what the writer has shared and I’m inspired to give something back in some way, however small.

Of course I realize I’m not like everybody else, which people who know me tend to think is a good thing, and not everybody else is like me and that’s definitely a good thing.

But.  If you want somebody like me to read you, and like you, and maybe even follow you, it helps to leave a comment.

Thanks for listening.

Fiction

I can’t write fiction to save my life. Everything I write here is true.

River has encouraged me to try fiction. We’re the only guests at a small remote motel. She suggests maybe I could get something going with the innkeeper’s shy Asian wife. There’s no eye contact. Maybe a fleeting glance from her while I take in her small tits, diminutive figure, and ageless face. Or maybe it’s just my wishful thinking. Does she know I’m staring? Probably. Is it creepy? Or complimentary? Later, she reveals that she’s not so shy about some things as I thought. And we don’t need to speak the same language.

But I can’t get it to hang together in a smoothly cohesive whole. Truth always hangs together. Even when things fall apart.

Then there’s the time I was working out at the YWCA. Years later I imagine what it would be like, walking into the locker room and finding a woman alone in the men’s shower, casually oblivious to being in the wrong room. When she turns around, scoops the wet hair off her face, and sees me, it becomes apparent that she’s not as oblivious as she seemed. And there’s a lot more than eye contact.

But for erotica to work for me, it has to make sense. That plot already has holes so big they could drain the entire Atlantic Ocean in one gulp.

There’s a trend here. I’m sure you see it. A woman who turns out not to be what she appears at first, and who is the aggressor, while your humble narrator is the willing participant and first-person chronicler. Could that be what my first sexual encounter was like? It’s clearly my blogging style.

So if I can’t write fiction to save my life then why do I do NaNoWriMo every November? Blame my co-author, a woman who was the aggressor and roped me into it. Why an award-winning romance author would be slumming it with me I’ll never know. I can only hope it’s good for her, too. She says it is. And even though she writes fiction, I believe her.

We’re deep into our first internet collab. I’m traveling with my family, staying up to all hours of the morning writing my share. We’re at a hotel before we fly out the next day. I take my laptop down to the lobby and slump on a couch to pump out the words. Exchange a few pleasantries with the curious desk clerk. And a few glances. “What are you doing?” “I’m an insomniac writer. Working on a novel.” She comes out and sits down in shoeless comfort. We talk about this and that. I’m an introvert who likes meeting people. And I’ve got a thing for women who like meeting me. Especially without shoes. And if River and I had had an open relationship back then I might have some good non-fiction to write about.

Which would be nice. Because I can’t write fiction to save my life. But no matter. It’s not clear my life is worth saving anyway.

No recipe required

I’m on a site that sends me recipes every so often. Usually it’s for something I’m not interested in, or maybe I would be if my family didn’t have so many food allergies.

But look what landed in my inbox recently: “Amazing Morning Breakfast Smoochies”. That piques my interest. I hope it would pique anybody’s interest. River and I definitely have all the right ingredients. Morning breakfast smoochies, afternoon breakfast smoochies, middle-of-the-night breakfast smoochies.  It’s not like we really need a recipe.  But let’s see what they’ve got.

Then I look again. “Amazing Morning Breakfast Smoothies”.

Ooops.

River has a somewhat flexible job. Which is not to say she’s a yoga instructor like a certain friend of mine. I can only wish. But flexible enough to come home sometimes during work hours.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? You are? I wish River thought like you.

This morning she leaves for work. “Hopefully I’ll be home for lunch.” “Is that a hint?” “We’ll see.” I try to maintain my optimism. Or maybe it’s my optimism that maintains me.

Shortly before 2 she comes in the back door. “I don’t have to be back at work until 4.” This is sounding good. “So I’m going for a run.” Uh oh. Not so good. “You are sorely lacking in …” “Libido?” “Yep.” Don’t get the wrong impression. It’s all in good fun. Although I can think of better fun.

Watching her strip off and snake into her sport bra and shorts just makes things worse.  Then I realize she’ll be sweaty when she gets back, and that doesn’t help either. There’s just something about a sweaty girl that I like. At least when the girl is River.

“I’m just going for a short run.” That means there’s hope for me yet

Dot dot dot.

She’s back already. I’m not even done writing this post. She skillfully deflects my advances and innuendos with her magic bracelets.

“I’m sweating like a pig.” “Is that a hint?” “No. I have to get dressed and make some phone calls and get back to work.” “So why are you doing so many other things that aren’t on your list?” Maybe she could do me, too. “Luckily for you I don’t just live by my lists.” “I’m not feeling so lucky right now, if you get my meaning.”

She gets it. But it seems the only screwing I’ll be doing this afternoon will to be put the new LED bulbs in the bathroom.