D: Tell me about one of your most satisfying sexual encounters.

It is not a question. 

s: My most satisfying sexual encounters occur when I am in want, when I look him in the eye and have no need to look away. Time has stopped and I am in the moment, fierce and defiant and strong.  These timeless connections involve a lot of touch, some rough riding, trails of kisses from my mouth, down his body and back to his mouth, over and over.

All good times involve some flexibility, some complimentary whispers about hotness interlaced with gasps from him of “oh fuck” and “oh, like that, yesss” and always laughter, mostly mine,  and a trail of lacy clothing strewn from the doorway to the bed, draped over the back of the couch, a stocking on the stairs, my handbag on the table next to my rings.

Lasting a couple of hours at most, none involve physical restraints or blindfolds, though admittedly, the same effect is created by my hands pressing against his chest and my eyes, blind from my hair in such a mess it covers my face, all from moving over him while I am taking him in, by feel, just following the contours of his body and trusting that passion alone is more powerful than skill, at least early in the evening.

My hips show him my need. My body, shaking and trembling with the pure happiness in the act itself, truly takes over and I fucking love to be joined with someone, to take him inside me and deeply connect in this intimate way.

His response to me is largely reactionary because I so clearly find beauty in the way his hands interlace with mine and anyone can see this written on my face during, and after, if only he will take the time to brush my hair from my forehead, watch me getting lost in him.

Yes, I talk some, checking to see how close he is, weighing whether I want to let him take it to the point of no return or if I want to move to another position and interrupt him, always with plans to start again, in a different position and work my way to the same stride.

D: Perhaps you are not a sub at all, Mistress.


Once, after, while looking up at her, he reached his hand to touch her cheek, to trace the line of her jaw from ear to the point of her chin.  His thumb crossed her lips from corner to corner and in response she opened them to taste herself on his skin. He breathed deeply, sighed with laughing eyes and such contentment, exhaled, “You should patent your moves.” His was not a question.  




# For Reticent Mental Property, image credit to artist Peter O’Neil, website.

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