caught (1/2)

I was too far away to hear anything, so I can only imagine - she swore under her breath, as I’ve seen her to do, clicking the mouse rapidly, her index finger furiously tapping away under the clicking that quickly blended into one continuous note. Her arm and wrist move in circles, the cursor on the screen unresponsive to the wild motions of the mouse scurrying across the desk. She sighed, I think, and placed her hands in front of her, the palms of her hands on the edge of the desk, pushing her chair and herself away, wheels moving softly over industrial carpet.

She slid off the chair, more or less, her knees held together, bare skin touching, her skirt (short and tight) only curling up a slight bit; it was a moment later that she was now kneeling, the heels of her feet separated from the soles of her pointy-toed-high-heeled shoes. Her back had arched, her grip now on the arms of the chair, the buttons of her blouse strained against the threads. From the right angle, you could have seen the white bra beneath the blouse. From the right angle you could have seen the pale skin peeking out from fabric pulled apart and barely held together.

A puff of breath out of the corner of her mouth hit the wisps of hair infringing on the corners of her face. The hair rode upwards and danced, lithe and curling atop the air until it floated its way back down. A futile exercise. She bent over now, hands and knees on the carpet, crawling towards the back, trying to reach the computer lying in the dust-bunnies and crumbs in the underworld forgotten by the light of the fluorescent bulbs above. She held her breath, the dust thickly caked in the furthest corners threatening her idly.

She straightened out her arm, now balancing only on her left hand and her knees. Then, stretching further, she reached out as far as she could, mindful of the dust and grime, her opposite knee lifting off the carpet. It was a precarious balancing act. Her back straightened and then hyper-extended, arching away underneath the fabric of her blouse. Her leg lifted higher and higher, skirt pulled apart, open, wide.

The power button was in reach, and her fingertip barely reached it as she was stretching as far as she could. She bit her lip. And stretched some more.

The screens went black, stunned almost by the sudden loss of power. They flickered only once more in the dying throes of pixels gone quiet. The computer itself stopped humming, if only for a moment, then lurching back to life. The fans whirring again. The harddrive noisily clicking and humming, droning away under the startup routines. “Windows XP,” the screen announced in a black background.

And her foot hit my leg. The shoe jostled off her hanging leg, the sigh of relief she had just expelled suddenly held in mid-air.

Slowly she crawled backwards, her butt wiggling its way out first, her head coming out from under the desk, her weight now on her knees as her feet nestled themselves under her butt; one foot naked, one foot heeled.

“Save me,” she said, looking up behind her wire-framed glasses, her lips parted just enough, my eyes continuing to roll off her face and bury themselves in the darkness of her cleavage. From here, I could see all the way down her shirt, to the white lace that hugged the curves of her breasts. “Save me from these spreadsheets.”

I kind of cocked my head to the side, and I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not an Excel expert,” I said, as I reached down to help her up and onto her feet. The shoe lay off to the side, and I knelt down, picking it up, and offering it to her foot.

“My prince,” I could barely hear her whisper.

“This isn’t a fairy tale,” I said, her foot now fully in the shoe, placed gently back on the carpet. I stood up, and nodded my head to the screen. “There you go,” the login prompt cheerfully reminding us that all communications and actions were being monitored and access was granted only to the appropriate individuals. I turned around and left her to her spreadsheets, the familiar grid of lines horizontal and vertical, the cells small and rectangular, capturing as much data as they could possibly hold.

uncomfortable

She’s not easy to please. No, I have to work at it, and work hard.

My muscles ache, and I’m forced to hold myself in strange positions - my legs pushing off the headboard, my arms holding just the left side of my body up - and hold my breath at times, my lungs burning as I starve myself of air.

Gasping, deep breaths, finally. Clinging on, finding hair matted and wet, soaked strands sticking to her face and neck. She bats away at it, in quick, jabbing futile movements. I watch it, amused, but really more focused on other things. Really, my mind is elsewhere.

And perhaps it was when she swung her body around, twirling beneath me, that I considered this moment replayed in the future, that I began to falter, the actions of my body derailed from the thoughts in my head. She didn’t matter anymore.

Hips pushed up higher, she grabbed a pillow and folded it in half, shoving it beneath her. Leverage, balance, whatever. I continued to move, pressing myself deep, pushing until I hit bottom. Wild eyes stared back at me, her neck craning over her left shoulder.

“Push it in my ass!” she spat, the gasps filling in the slender spaces between her words.

My hand was holding her right at her tailbone. My thumb positioned between the converging roundness of her ass cheeks, I let it slide further down, pressing harder at the same time.

She moaned her approval. She wiggled her butt. She spread her legs apart, her hips resting on the pillow.

My thumb met resistance, but it was brief. She cried out as it slid in, the pressure around it tight and unyielding. Coming more in waves, oscillating between snug and vice-like. Burying her face in the other pillow, she came. I felt wetness beneath me, soon, my finger released and feeling myself falling to her side.

Her legs unfurled and our bodies found themselves next to each other. She had brought the pillow back up, and we lay there, heads at the foot of the bed. It was late, we both had to get up in the morning, our bodies surrendering, my sweaty head laying on top of the drenched pillow. It was a discomforting way to drift off into sleep.

sugasm #127

I’m humbled again with a pick in the top three. Yet, a friend had written to me, “I think you have a winner this week.”

Does she know something I don’t? She probably does.

Thanks to everyone making Sugasm what it is.

This Week’s Picks

My life as a Female
“His reply was instant: ‘You are a man’.”

A view from a man, posing as a woman, posing as maybe someone else altogether, on Adult Friend Finder. What, really, then is there to find? A lot.

Crisp
“I found my eyes unable to leave the curves of her ass, everything else out of focus.”

I have plans of making this into a TWOH entry.

Ripping yourself a new one
“What’s the most ludicrous porn scene you ever saw?”

An objective look at pornography. Really, it’s objectively subjective.

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
How to Choose an Affiliate Program

Editor’s Choice
Cream and Sugar

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Friday.

crisp

Squirming on top of me, she signaled her anticipatory pleasure. “Mmm,” she let loose, the inflection rising at the tail end, rising as much as she wiggled her rear upwards.

My left hand lay against her shoulder blades, meant to keep her bent over, but really, I didn’t press at all. My hand against bare skin, her bare skin against my lap, her squirming only now nudging against me, urging me onward. I held my breath (and I know why) in the empty air and my right hand rose.

Slap!

The sound reached our ears before the impact registered on nerve endings. Her skin buckled slightly, my hand falling flat on the curves of her ass. I didn’t let my hand rest, as I would have liked to; as I may have wanted to sooth it after the blow landed. No, my hand rose again, and I can’t remember if I took a breath, but I’m sure I did, as she flinched below, silently.

I waited until I could feel her inhale, sipping the air through her clenched teeth and curled lips.

Slap!

Cracking like a whip, my palm searing against her skin, almost a flash of light before the sound, heat following, radiating from the point of impact. I could imagine a crater the shape of my hand, the skin white to a reddening pink as the blood rushes upwards and into the skin. Still silent. An errant squirm as she regains focus on the rest of her body, the sensation fading from her ass to other parts pressing into my lap.

My arm raises again, bent at the elbow, fingers straightening, straining backwards. I can almost feel the tendons and muscles in my shoulder flex backwards, pulled and drawn back like the tensed cords of an archer’s bow.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Three blows, rapid-fire, landing cleaning on her ass, and even I held my jaw firmly, eyes locked on my target and concentrating intently on just how it feels. Her breathing audible now, ragged gasps of air not between clenched teeth but a slack jaw, winced eyes, and an open mouth. Each inhale held and let loose in bursts, as if the air simply would not leave her lungs without the heaving effort from her chest.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Redness in equality, both cheeks of her ass now in varying shades of flushed red. I found myself breathing heavily. I found my eyes unable to leave the curves of her ass, everything else out of focus. Nothing but the pale white skin and the gradient of red in the shape of my hand. I bit my lip as my mind traced her words until they stood out in clear, large, boldfaced fonts, “it has to hurt you as much as it hurts me.”

My hand stung. My palm had grown several shades pinker, almost luminescent in a blur - I caught just a glimpse of it as I brought it back upwards. Into position.

Slap!

Slap! Slap!

Slap! Slap! Slap!

I thought I could hear her moan (or was it a gasp) somewhere between the assault I lay upon her curves. I couldn’t be sure, my mind lost in the intensity; unable to determine whether it was my hand that was spanking her ass or her ass that was spanking my hand. The blood beating and pulsing through flesh reddened and plumped, the skin stinging and stung. I couldn’t tell who was breathing harder and faster.

I’d like to believe she whimpered. I’d like to believe she wiggled her ass upwards and her thighs spread just the tiniest bit apart. I’d like to believe that she gave me a reason to let my hand lay against her skin, riding the pulse just below the surface, as I rolled off the curves and my fingers meeting wetness.

My fingertips pressing against puffy skin, wet, warm, waiting. Pressing and prodding its softness, gently now. My movements slowly coaxing out the sounds of her arousal - those sounds reaching my ears, mumbles comprised of “m”s and “n”s, all prefixes to her gasping breath.

I was surprised I could hear them over my own heavy breathing.

We moved quickly, I think, my hand not breaking contact - her body pivoting and positioning below mine as she lay on her back - a gasp and a moan as weight was put on her ass. My hand would not leave her; drenching in her heat, burning in her wetness. Looking up at her, she had her fingers lightly on my face, her head pressing back and down.

My face dipped lower, purposefully, my tongue reaching out and finding her clit swollen and sensitive. I licked slowly and laboriously, moving in a circle around it but pressing in as hard as I could. Her hand moving now around my wrist in desperation, my fingers pressing against the length of her slit but now, now under her motions, diving into her, the entry quick and forceful. The heat and pressure around my fingers wrapped tight. I tried to do the same with my mouth, closing in tight on her, my tongue curling and attempting to squeeze, my mouth sucking on her clit, the wetness flooding in on my lower lip.

The breath barely escaped from my nose and splattered on her skin, so really I was drowning. She arched her back and I knew how painful that must be on the tender skin of her ass, but she knew how painful it was to hold me tight between her thighs, my fingers working their way in and out (rubbing as much as they were thrusting) as my mouth lay locked on her clit, tongue rubbing against her furiously.

She was coming and I couldn’t feel it. I was lost already and there were the signs of course - her hips pushing hard against my face, the sudden flooding of wetness against me, the clenching grip around my fingers, the cries she let loose, and the expression on her face - but I think it was more that I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t escape, held captive and prisoner at the same time.  My lungs burned.  My arm grew heavy and leaden, hand cramping and twisted awkwardly at the wrist.  My back hurt, holding me low and pressed face-first into her pussy.  But I held myself still, patient, waiting, under the repeated blows, one after another.

Maybe she didn’t care.  Maybe I didn’t either.

a map of what is effort____

I’ve been asked my opinion, and I’m not sure I’m the right person to have been asked. That’s because I can’t be objective about it, and yes, that does mean trouble.

She hinted at first, to critique her writing. A challenge, really, since I admire and respect it so much already. A clarification, later - a view on the direction her writing is taking. My interpretation is to gauge what is happening from an external viewpoint. Again, not easy. She’ll probably read this post and conclude that I’m a little crazy.

“Today I’m ready to start fresh, with a new identity,” and I’m paraphrasing her words; tearing up the pages, taking bits and pieces and gluing them together. “More directly, I enjoy reading D/s - but wouldn’t want to be writing it.”

Fair enough, really. D/s is a strange and alien world to me, and I will admit this readily and honestly right now: I have zero experience with it (so please forgive me). In many ways, I consider myself to be an interesting flavor of vanilla. But her, the way she has exposed herself, I can see the concern creeping in from the corners of the room, like shadows moving at the speed of light in reverse.

There are images evoked when my eyes pore over her words. There are words evoked when my eyes pore over her images.

So, to start, her recent writing is intriguing. I can hear it almost in my mind, like a camera lens whirring into focus. We’re looking (as I pretend you’re seeing the words I’m seeing) at a specific facet that’s now getting a lot of attention. A specific relationship, and yes, when you zoom in like that, the picture going from fuzzy to clear, certain things start to stand out. There are parts where the words which make up D/s begin to appear, but really, you can’t stop there and be satisfied. It would be an injustice to make assumptions at this point.

There’s more, and to not try and peel away at what’s immediately apparent is a misstep, and maybe, just maybe, she’s sitting a little too close to the painting. Impressionistic art, up close, is just a bunch of colors (and would make for a ridiculously difficult jigsaw puzzle at that perspective). I’m trying to stand back, and I’m trying to see things as a whole and I’m not convinced her writing is quite moving in that direction.

There are orders given, sternly. Commanding, overpowering words she yields under, bending over frontwards and backwards, body lithe and in various states of dress. A sharpness intrudes in the spaces between words and you can almost rub your own skin at the landing of blows on her body. It stings. It smarts. And it’s described as well, the wetness ensuing, the movement of hands to body parts to confirm the effects of such treatment. The collateral damage inflicted is two-fold, I’m no longer just an outside observer, I am drawn in as a participant. Emotions are presented bare and raw. I can feel myself cringe and cower.

And yet, there’s an effort.

While there is pleading and begging, words gasped and yelped under assault, there’s no mention of “Master.” And that’s just nomenclature, I know, but it’s more than that - there’s no submission when she addresses him, directly and indirectly. A thought slips in and out of my mind, and I race backward. Flipping pages, yes, I find it. And then I question the direction she’s said she’s moving in. What I believe now, and what was a hunch before, is that there is indeed a level of submission happening - and I’m told there are really many degrees of D/s - just not what she thinks. I really believe he’s submitting to her.

She asks for more, she asks for everything, and like a hiccup, he has to ask her what that actually is.

* * * * * *

I’ve told her so already (I think) and it’s that I don’t believe her writing has gone in any specific direction as of yet. I hope she believes me, as unobjective, opinionated, and inaccurate as my words may be.