Wednesday, June 3, 2009


Well, I am back from my adventure with my tattooed man, where I sounded my barbaric yawp.

I arrived in his neck of the woods around 1130PM. He has a house in this winding, narrow neighborhood a bit up in the hills. I parked on one of the tiny, dead-end streets and meandered over to his front door.

After general banalities were discussed, we went up to his room, where he finished up some business and hopped into the shower, telling me to keep him company with witty stories. So I sat on the edge of the over-sized spa in his bathroom and chatted with him about the various hijinks of the past week while watching him bathe through the glass shower doors. It's amazing, how old some of his tattoos are, and yet they all are so bright and crisp.

He finishes his shower shortly, then pads over to his bed and sprawls out like some large jungle cat. He's totally at ease with his body, and it's easy to tell. And it's truly magnificent. Wide shoulders and chest, fully muscled arms, a narrow waist, ski-slope ass (just like mine!), and his thighs... god. I find thighs to be a good measure of a man who works out. So many guys, as I've said, totally neglect them, but it's the ass and thighs that power the thrust. They're vitally important to that pounding sex I love. And he's got the thighs of steel, totally defined, each muscle its own entity.

He starts to fiddle with my top, a button-up shell, and, after a moment, tells me that I should probably take them off, otherwise he'll get impatient and rip them off me, for which I would send him the bill. Which is true. We're not friends- the relationship is completely physical. We don't kiss, don't cuddle, don't even call each other by name. If he did damage my clothing, I would make him pay for it because that is the nature of our set-up.

So I shed my top, my bra, lean back to undo my pants and his hand is on my chest, kneading. A quick hip lift and I slide the down to my ankles and kick them off. Underwear follows suit.

I wore my hair up tonight, for the sole purpose of having him be able to wrap it around his hand and steer. He does this, guiding my mouth straight down to his cock. Instead of the somewhat usual face-fucking me, he lets me (somewhat) take my time, before flipping me onto my back and forcing me to deepthroat him repeatedly, our bodies facing in the same direction. Better angle, that way, really. Past the gag-reflex straight into "lack of oxygen" territory, I'd tap his thighs to get him to let me breathe before he forced himself back in.

I ended up alternatingly rimming him and playing with his balls in my mouth while he stroked himself for several minutes, which was a great thing as it allowed me to catch up on my breathing, which his penis had interrupted.

However, in all of this, he decides that he's going to push my legs apart and start spanking my crotch. Yes, I've heard that many girls do not like this, but I think it is fabulous and was absolutely thrilled when he started. But he quickly got distracted and buried two searching, curling fingers into me, high speed, insane stimulation that made me squirm to no end. I was wet, but then suddenly I was soaked. He made me squirt. On purpose. Without any towels laid down. I'm a flooder- his poor, poor mattress.

But then he stops, gets up from the bed, grabs a towel... and continues to make me squirt, using the towel like a catcher's mitt. I don't know if I ran out of fluid or he got bored, but he straightened from his bent position and began wiping all of my excess fluids over my face, shoving his fingers into my mouth, having me clean them for him. After that task was complete, he started rolling on a condom, which I took as a good time to continue to suck and lick his sack. He definitely approved.

But once the condom was on, he instructed me to lie down on my side, facing away from him. I, of course, complied. He lined himself up behind me, and whispered, "You know what's coming?" I grinned at him over my shoulder, "Some pleasure, some pain..."

You see, my tattooed man likes the anal. Me? Well, I'll have whatever he's having. If I'm making someone happy, as long as the activity isn't a total turn-off, I'm aroused just to be pleasing.

He scoots me down further on the bed and starts sliding into me. The first half inch or so is fine, but as he starts to widen, there just isn't enough lube and I'm much too tense. He withdraws, adds some lube, lines himself up, and tells me to slide down on him.

And I do. Inch by inch, stopping every so often to let my body adjust to his size, his mouth near my neck, I can hear him inhaling my scent. He's certainly above average in the size department (no, I don't know why my luck has been so good lately). Each time I take more of him in me, my fingers digging into his arm, he whispers in my ear, "That's a good girl. Keep going... ahhh, yes. Mm, good girl."

It's takes about two minutes for me to comfortably get most of him, but I can't quite get that last inch. So he starts moving. Slowly at first, then building speed. I clench, he slows, and starts to rotate me. Instead of lying on our sides, front to back, he's on top of me, slowly rolling his hips, working that last inch in. And then he slides into me, all the way to the hilt.

Stop. Breathe. Relax muscles.

And it starts to feel good. Not nearly as pleasurable as standard intercourse, but it's hardly painful and the sensations are building... certainly doesn't hurt that we're in my favorite position. But there is still discomfort, enough so that I am making noise. Not as much as the time before, but still noise. His hand goes over my mouth, I tease his fingers with my tongue, which causes him to let me take one into my mouth to suck and lick on it to my heart's content.

But then I notice that, across the rather large bedroom, there is a mirrored closet... one that we're perfectly reflected in. I was completely drawn in by the image. He's so much bigger than me, so masculine and rough, and his body is arched on top of mine in such a primal way, his chest hair rubbing against my back each time he thrusts into me. I expected him to throw his head back at any time and roar like some beast in the midst of a wild mating ritual. And me? That curve I love so much, my favorite part of my body, the dramatic sweeping line of my lower back, is even more pronounced with him riding me, my hips lifted up beneath me, rounding my ass perfectly. The lighting was amazing, and I found myself wishing I had a camera.

I watched us for a few minutes, entranced by a mirror during sex for the first time in my life. Yes, I've had plenty of mirrors around during various sexual escapades, but none ever trapped me with their images like this one.

While I was watching us, he decided that he didn't feel like finishing in my ass, so he pulled out, stripped off the condom, and laid back, his hand wrapped in my hair again. We shifted repeatedly between his penis in my mouth, head bobbing by order of his hand, or his testes in my mouth, tongue juggling them back and forth.

As he was about to orgasm, he yanked me over and drove my face down on his cock, just in time for me to catch everything in my mouth. His semen was oddly sweet tasting, and I would've spent more time enjoying it, but we both had places to be. So I licked his head clean- not that there was much of a mess, and headed home for the evening, rocking out to Garbage.

And now... now I pass out. I do need to sleep sometime.

... ... ... ...

As a reflection, and looking over other older journal entries that have yet to be posted here, this man ruined me for sex. No one has ever been as rough as he has been, no one has ever pushed me that hard (and that entry was an easy night). He always left me sore and tottering on my feet for days. I can never convince my partners to go as hard as I would like, they're always afraid of doing permanent damage or scaring me.

When a man scares me in a sexual way, I will freaking write to the NY Times.

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