Craving for more, Hyper-Sexual, Passing Woman, What Women Really Want

A Changing Sexuality – Eye for Men

I had a dream. I was standing alone with a police man. I don’t think he was dressed in an uniform, but I can’t be certain anymore. He was a man build like a bull, big, fit, very muscular and had a hair the color of straw. I wanted him. Somehow because he was so big, I wanted him even more. I never used to like men like him. I picked my men from a narrow pool of wuthering hights and showing rib cages. Men who worked out with me, those with arms as wide as my thighs, bulging muscles and clenched jaws, never had my attention.

Until now.

I notice every bouncer who isn’t butt ugly. I look after the working men coming to have lunch in the near by restaurant. I shamelessly eye the very young men in the parks throwing frisbee without their shirts on.

I was left speechless when there was a new cashier in the grocery store near us. He was beautiful, arabic features and coloring, but spoke our language as a native. He looked into my eyes a while too long when giving me the receipt and I was struck by a lighting. What a beautiful man.

But when I see a really big guy, who has been working out. When I did my workout near a guy who lifted 170 kg just like that. I smiled at him, I smiled so wide. I want to touch men like him. I want to be under them. I want them to take me. And him, as any other decent man, smiled at me and was polite, wonderful. Cheerful even.

In the dream there had been a crime: a rape I think. We were talking about a woman going to a car with a stranger with the police man, not a nice one, not a one you could trust. A brick wall of justice and menace at the same time. Like a superhero gone bad.

You know how that’ll end up, he said.

Yeah, I said.

She’ll get raped, he added or then we both just knew what he meant.

But he meant more than that. He was propositioning me. His car was just around the corner, and I could just walk there with him. He was promising me he would rape me if I did.

I took a hold of his hand. I wanted him to ravage me. I remembered I was married. I knew I shouldn’t, and I had to stop for a second, to try to convince myself not to do it. But I took him up on his offer and called his bluff. Well, what are you gonna do now?

His hand was bigger than mine and wide and warm. He guided me, not to his car, but to a huge warehouse with sheet metal covered walls and hallowed halls filled with car parts and wooden crates.

When we got in I saw a woman dangling from the ceiling by a harness farther inside. She had wings and a huge black dildo in a harness at her crotch. I mean huge, the thing was down to her knees, shiny and bouncing as she swung on the harness back and forth. Her face was hidden in a glittery and feathery mask.

The man was now more a bull than a police. He grabbed me and started to hump me from behind before I could touch him. I suddenly knew that he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of his own cock, that he had a mechanic cock pushed between my thighs. He pushed me down on a bed and came on top of me. I could see his square jaw, his broad neck and his blond hair. He was so not like my Wonderboy. And I craved it.

Suddenly his humping and desire came to a halt. He clutched me into his arms rough and panted in my ear.

The lady in the harness came down, took the mask of and was at the door before I could realize what was happening. She had a giant tube like gym back and was dressed in gym clothes, not so scary anymore.

Men, they are all like that. What a pity, she said like we were accomplishes in a mutual scene.

It took me a while to realize that she was referring to the guy. He had come too soon, all over my clothes.

I woke up not horny but craving the physical overpowering of a strong, big bodybuilder like my police. The dream made me smile through the day. I daydreamed about it. But it is so like me. Even in my dreams I don’t get the pay-off of cheating. I get realism.

As I’m growing older I seem to notice my horizon on sexy changing, widening. I like that. I can appreciate bodies I would’ve felt were unattractive before. And it seems to me to be somehow very symbolic that I’d mostly desire after the big, masculine men. They have after all, the age old marks of high testosterone levels – bulls for my ever needy womb.

I doubt it’s as straightforward as that, but I believe that’s one of the reasons. And I don’t mind. As long as I can admire from a safe distance. As long as I can dream.

BDSM, Fantasies, Sex stories, Wonderboy

The Need To Be A Good Girl

Wonderboy fucked me yesterday from behind, fast and furious. He hit me on my buttocks more fiercely than he ever has before. He was using his palm instead of his fingers, and it’s like a bone flogger. It fucking hurts.

My ass turned red and his cock twitched in the confines of my contracting pussy. There was something scary there for me. He was so upright behind me, so big, it was so fast, the hits contracted my cunt and made me feel real, pinching unwelcome pain in my cunt where the cock stood rigid in the outer folds. I yelled ouch and he denied me the right to say I’m hurting. This was too difficult to me to handle emotionally. There was good pain and bad pain and then the anticipation having to face even more bad pain, if the cock would hit my cunt in the wrong direction, too hard, and he wouldn’t even know. He didn’t know my cunt was hurting too.

How to communicate all this in the small intense time frame that was set aside for the spanking and for the fucking? How to reconcile this with the need to be his good girl and do as I was told?

As he spanked me I came. Even with the emotional ambivalence, yes I did. I respond like the women in Kitty Thomas’ novels even though I can’t quite understand them. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to reconcile with everything.

But somehow I couldn’t really come, because his cock was filling me to the brim and my cunt couldn’t contract freely and it was all so hard and scary. I don’t know how to explain it. I got to the point of orgasm, my cunt contracted, but couldn’t deliver the contraction because it was stuck in a certain position with his cock and the anticipation of pain and some mystic failure. My arousal dropped and I relaxed, everything looked like the real deal. But I hadn’t had the tingling allover feeling of being taken there. I lost my orgasm.

Later we cuddled and when he was already shifting off to do his own stuff, I finally said that I thought this wasn’t over yet. He answered quite angrily, Well, you should’ve said so earlier, and threw me on my back. He wasn’t really angry, it was all part of the play, but with the incredibly fast sex, with the openly violent spanks and with my not getting off and having no way to reconcile needing more with being a good fuck toy and a good girl, my mood went from fragile to pure sad.

He licked me and finger-fucked me. He fucked me with a dildo, which hurt, and with his fingers in my ass, which really really hurt in bad pinching way. I just felt like my cunt and ass were on fire and not in a good way. I was burning. Why? I have no idea.

I was yelling ouch, ouch and when he thought it was about him slapping me I had to say that It’s your fingers in my ass that hurt! 

He withdrew his fingers and finally I had to ask him to stop altogether.

This won’t work. I’m feeling sad, I said. He sighed and I think actually shaked me a bit coming to cuddle me. What’s wrong?

I didn’t quite know. Why was there wrong pain? Why did I feel bad? We talked and cuddled and then. Then I said it.

Don’t be angry with me. I want to be good to you. I want to be your good girl.

I wasn’t angry. And you were really good. You’re my good girl. He caressed my hair saying this and drew an aroused sigh out of my mouth.

You can say you’ll have to punish me for not telling you earlier, [about not orgasming] but I need you to say “It’s good you bring this to my attention. I’ll decide what happens now. You’re a good girl for telling me this”, I said and hid my face against Wonderboy’s hairy chest and neck.

Hmmm. Okay, Wonderboy said mulling this over. But I wasn’t really angry, he then said again to make sure I understood. It made me breath easier.

It was still too much. With the hitting and the hurting, I said with a little voice.

We will commence this later. You’ll have to wait the whole day to get cock again, he said.

And then he started describing the things he’d do to me. After a while he went down on me and kept describing all the nasty things he’d do. Hurting my nipples with clothespins. Hitting my tits and my inner thighs. Hitting my face. Taking me. Bounding me to the bed. While he was talking he leisurely hit my thigh or twisted my nipple licking me and all the while taking small breaths to tell a new thing he was going to do to me. Later.

Finally I came with a bang. He’s so good at talking nowadays. He knows exactly what to say.

You’ll probably have to wait until tomorrow, though, he said wiping his mouth and holding me in his arms.

I did and it was worth every second of every hour. Dear Lord have mercy oh dear God… (The hoarse blabbering fades into darkness and the camera focuses on a rope curled on the bed.)

I am your good girl, aren’t I, daddy?

To be continued.

Ps. There will be clothespins involved.

Craving for more, Fantasies, Gender stereotypes, Hurting, Hyper-Sexual, Love, Wonderboy


Yesterday Wonderboy came home early from work. We were quite innocently lying in bed, when he started to play with my ponytail, smiling to me in an insinuating way. He has this smile, in which his lips start to twitch a little because it’s so strained. I know what it means. I couldn’t help but smile myself.

I wasn’t really expecting anything since last night was such a wondrous fuck, and it’s been so difficult lately with me possibly not getting off, and him taking a huge deal of responsibility for it. But he seemed rather playful, and I started to get wet, just like that. I was on top of him and he was toying with my ponytail. There was a long, long silence in which we just smiled. I finally asked him, what is he smiling about, but it took a couple of minutes for him to answer. And then he came clean and said, that he’d been thinking that if I was to resist, he’d just have to rape me.

Now you have to understand, that we’ve managed to take control of the word rape in our home. It’s a play we play with each other, and has nothing to do with real abuse, even in our minds. I have to say, that as a survivor, using the word with him gives me a certain feeling of empowerment. Rape is turned from a stomach turning, soul-gutting, selfish and evil act to an act of fulfillment and love between me and my lover. There needs to be an adamant trust between us to play a game like that.

And because of that, when I didn’t jump into action straight away, he started to back off. But my heart had jumped when he described what he wanted to do to me in more detail, and I had already gotten really wet and anxious for him to make a move on me. So, I smiled and told him, he could check how exited I was about the idea. And he did. After a few squishing moments of passion with his fingers, he was ready to admit that I might seem to like the idea too.

He asked me then to put on a skirt, or just hinted at it, so I did. After brushing on some mascara and a hint of rose red on my cheeks I stumbled in to the kitchen with my black and shiny 5 inch heels, where he was waiting for me. I know, I know. Seems really simplistic, and more to the point, really stereotypical. But it isn’t, when we are the ones playing the game. I’m still me, pretty snarky and strong, questioning him with my eyes. He’s still pretty feminine, beutiful and caring, even though he towers over my head. He then started to grope me with haste and a sort of entitlement I’d never felt before, because we are over those stupid gender stereotypes that come between us and lust. His hands were aggressive, pulling me against him, almost causing me to fall over.

Why don’t you fight? he asked me after some groping.

You haven’t done anything wrong yet, I answered.

He started to. I started to pull away, slap him in the chest, say small little things like c’moon, please, hey, whatca think your doing? I don’t want to act a scene, I want to feel it, so I don’t go into a role that’s entirely unlike me. It’s still us, but in a very different situation. He cleared the table with one hand and was pushing me on it with the other, when I remarked that people could see us from the street. So, he pushed me in the bedroom and on the bed and under his hard body.

His engagement ring clanged against my teeth, when he put his hand on my face to stop me from yelling. Later he told me that at some point he was actually a bit nervious, because I sounded so sincere. But of course, my body always betrays me, and so it did now. And yes, he called me a slut, and yes, my cunt contracted happily for it. He had just ripped off my panties and pushed away my skirt on my tummy, and entered me, when I felt it coming. Like a train wreck. I was screaming at the top of my lungs no, no, no, ouch, that hurts! (Oh, god, I feel so sorry for our neighbours. And that’s nothing compared to how embarrased I feel.)

I came. Just like that. It was an orgasm that just wouldn’t subside. He couldn’t fuck me at first because my muscles pushed the penis right out, and he had to fight even to stay in me, but when he started to fuck, I felt the orgasm fire up again. The funny thing is, that he had hardly had time to slap me once or twice in the face, to penetrate me and to suffocate me with his hand. Wasn’t I supposed to be the orgasmly challenged?

I don’t know what happened. Am I adapting to the effects of the selective serotonin uptake inhibitor, or are some of my fantasies so potent they get me off no matter what? Or is this because I’m ovulating just about now?

He continued to fuck me, and at some point, took a pillow from the bed, and started to suffocate me with it. My neurons screamed for joy! I’m never sure, if I could really breath through the pillow or not, because the pressure usually forces me to kind of forcefully hold my breath. For me, it is almost too often he checkes that everything’s fine and I’m really having an orgasm, and not spasming because of the loss of oxygen. I’d like to be more seriously suffocated. But I guess those are the things, that just need a lot more learning to get to.

I came again. Honestly, who doesn’t if they are simultanously fucked and suffocated?

After he had fucked the living daylight out of me, we curled up to cuddle, he gazed into my eyes, and asked, do you want me to lick you? I nodded smiling like the blushing bride I am, and soon after felt his love and devotion in action again.

I really enjoy his lustful eyes, almost submissively gazing at me through his long dark lashes, when he’s down at my crotch. He pushed me legs up, and held them like they’d been tied to the ceiling, and I came once more, fantasizing about him fucking me, but that wouldn’t work for whatever reason, so moving on to a doctor doing a gynecological examination for a clueless virgin, but insted of the specula, using his other equipment. As the doctor came, I came, and all was well in the house on the hill.

It’s cold and sunny outside, and I’m in need of a big cup of coffee to take the edge of the day. Feel free to comment on experiences with serotonin related drugs, or playing, or the effect of ovulating, or anything else, you just might want to discuss. I’m on a coffee break.

Coming out, Fantasies, Gender stereotypes, Undecided

Fantasy Life Inside Out

I really want to write about what happened yesterday after I popped the pill and stopped being a complete ass. The effect was visible only after fifteen minutes or so, because after the fifteen minutes we were hugging, caressing each other and kissing softly under the kitchen lamp. But I feel I can’t because it’s about Wonderboy consenting to something we hadn’t done before. So, I’m going to talk about my fantasies that lead us there.

My fantasies often involve men sticking their meaty lucious things up each other’s asses. There’s always an air of a certain power dynamic, mainly the other one is to some degree not consenting or unable to consent (very, very often sleeping) and the other one is taking advantage of that.

I guess I’d be considered cis-gendered, although I’m kind of volatile and used to play about with that. For those unfamiliar with the consept, cis-gendered means I’m comfortable in my own biological gender. Many people of course never even consider it worth questioning so I think even recognizing the uncertainty is a sign of something. Anyway, I am, for the most part, happy to be a girl. But my fantasies have, for a longer time than I can remember, consisted of men fucking men, or at least, a man fucking a woman who is unconscious or otherwise non-part-taking. I take the place and body of a man in my fantasies, the one that’s taking advantage of the other. I’m turned on by the thoughts of not being allowed to do what soon turns out inevitable because of the poor self-control of my “main character”. I guess losing control is even in these fantasies my main trigger.

Most of the people I know, who are kinky in one way or another, say that they always knew. They fantasized about dark things and played bondage games with their barbies. I thought, huh, well I don’t submit in my fantasies. I don’t dream about being tied with rope and being hurt. My fantasies on the other hand I felt were weird. So weird in fact, that I never thought of letting anyone know about them. I didn’t really think about them myself unless I was using them in a way you are all familiar with. Before I met Wonderboy.

For me, nothing is more sexy than a man fighting not to come, but coming none the less. Even better if he’s able to fuck himself in the ass. Oh, dear god, all you guy exhibitions out there. I’m your dream audience. So yeah, Thumper’s blog’s like my ultimate fantasy, as long as he’s sometimes unsuccesful with the denied part. An-nyway, in my fantasies I’m usually, no let’s be honest here, I am always the man. Sometimes it’s like watching a movie but I can hear people’s thoughts but sometimes I just really get under his skin to feel what it feels like to fuck, as a man. Because that’s what turns me on. The thoughts of the guy trying not to come, contemplating of how it’s wrong and how he really shouldn’t be doing it.

The main theme in my fantasies is that it is all very strictly forbidden. Taboo. You can’t even say it out loud. Incest. Rape.

So, on to more important things… The spring is coming!

No, really. I have to say it because there is a point to all this madness. This is my fantasy life. Here’s where I get off. God, it’s so embarrasing. But that’s what it is. Fantasies are our minds’ ways of telling us what’s most important. What’s sacred. For me, this is it.

This it where it gets heavy. Because playing with Wonderboy I’ve felt how good it is to let go of control, give it totally to his hands. And still, I can’t fantasize about that. I can only fantasize from his point of view. So, if his petting and licking me, I am fantasizing about fucking (someone) up the ass. No, really. A step dad secretly grinding his dick up the ass-crack of his 17 year old sleeping step son while camping. (Disclaimer. No, the incest scenarios never include small children because I don’t get turned on by actual hurt or real, painful emotions.)

I find I can relate to Dev on Devastating yet Iconsequential when she says she usually fantazises about bottoming – but is in real life mostly topping and a acting out sadist. Because, for me, submitting is too important, too fragile, too real to fantasize about. So, my mind found a way. I fantazise only from the point of view of the opressor, the top, the abuser, so I don’t have to face the very real and very bothering emotions that would surface if I thought about the abused. What gets me off, are the abuser’s inner turmoils, battles he fights trying not to do it – and always loses. I cannot relate to the one who is being fucked, especially if they are women. It’s a huge turn-off if I start to think about what she feels.

What I realized from our play with Wonderboy is that I’ve been dealt with so much pain that in my fantasies I need to turn the tables in order to enjoy what I really need. Submission. I’ve been abused in so many ways, most of them through my own consent, that I can’t yet imagine a consenting yet not hurting scenario where the woman would be submitting, bound, even hurt. That’s why I think that Ranat has a really essential point at Beyond the Hills. She says that the fact of consent is not enough to define the difference between real life abuse and BDSM. I’ve always hated the general stereotypes that women are by their biological mechanisms thought of being passive and men aggressive. If we fuck, even if Wonderboy is on top the traditional way, even if he´s choking me, I am all encompassing, writhing, breathing, throbbing, watering, devouring want. We are both part taking, violently, in the same play. It’s not about consent. It’ about finding ways to get closer to the other, finding new triggers of joy, and enjoying them together.

So, yesterday, I got the chance for the first time with Wonderboy to feel what it feels like to be inside him. He was as all encompassing, welcoming, wet, wonderfully soft and warm as I always imagined. I felt completely liberated from both of the expectations as a submissive and as a woman in the hetero sex act. It was beautiful.

So here’s my fantasy life inside out. It’s still lagging behind my realizations and new, healthy and loving experiences, but I’m not worried. As long as it gives us pleasure, I can let it live it’s own life.

On an mostly unrelated note, I can’t believe how hard it’s raining right now. I imagine that if I’d go outside right now it would be like metal pounding on my head, back and shoulders. Big, heavy drops lashing from the sky. I really like the rain and never even thought that even that could be a hint of my inclination to submit to something bigger than me. How have I fooled myself for so long?