Almost

I realized that I neglected to mention that M and I have been talking about fisting for quite some time. I have never been fisted and have read a bit about what it feels like, as well as some of the issues that attend the practice. The sensation is supposed to be unbelievable. I already have multiple orgasms for minutes at a time with regular fucking, so I am very intrigued.

I like the thought about opening up to M this way, and to trusting my body to her to fist. M would love to fist me, and she has quite large hands with strong long fingers. Both a thing of beauty, as well as a potential problem since I have a tight pussy. (We have remarked, at times, that I would be a straight man's dream fuck.) And done improperly, fisting can be physically dangerous to the fistee.

When she came to visit last, we spent quite a bit of time teasing each other, until I finally begged her to fuck me. I wanted her inside of me in the worst way, in way that is hard to explain. Sometimes I feel empty without her, I feel as if a part of my own body is missing when we fuck and she is pulling out of me (in an out stroke) or when she has not chosen to enter me. I sometimes find myself in a little panic of "Oh No!", when she's not deep inside of me. Curiously, this is not a sensation that I have felt with anyone else, even with the other butch tops who have fucked me. There is clearly something about this physical connection with M, this union, that fills a deep visceral hunger, it feels primordial. And it's when I do my most impassioned begging.

So we were teasing, and I begged her to fuck me, and I noticed that the outer part of my pussy was a bit sore from the previous days of fucking, so I asked her to go slow. She put one finger in me, and started to fuck me, while continuing to tease me. Then two fingers. I was very wet, and wanted more. But as she put three in, I noticed a bit of pain and we stopped for a moment. I asked her to let me move on her fingers, rather than her thrusting in me. I began moving my hips to take her in, slowly, easing myself on her. I was on my back on the couch, with my hips elevated, one leg over her shoulder, the other spread wide so she had easy access to my pussy. But since my head was lower than my pussy, I couldn't really see what was happening. I began to move on her, my body beginning to relax more, and feeling that familiar welling ache for her to be joined to me. I began to stroke my clit with the pool of wetness that was sliding down from my pussy. My clit was very hard and large and incredibly slick, and all I wanted was more of her. I began to beg her, for more of her, to fuck me, to fuck me deep. She looked down at me, her face full of want and love and lust, and she took control and fucked me, her three fingers fucking me hard, stroking me fast and deep until I came in an intense, consuming, endless orgasm.

With a grin on her face, as she slowly pulled her fingers from me, M said "You easily took four fingers past the knuckle, baby." I think we are getting closer to fisting, and if this is what I come like with four fingers past the knuckle, then I'll let you know when she's finally in, the world may just explode.

Pete Packy is a Dick

and I am in love with Pete Packy. And if you have never had the intense emotional and physical pleasure of sucking and fondling a packing cock, you are missing out on one of life's great pleasures. And this isn't hyperbole. I am in love with M's packing cock. She ordered it and wore when she came to visit me, and to say I was obsessed would be an understatement. M is, of course, thrilled to no end. She loves to watch my cheeks pull as I take the head of her cock in my mouth, she loves to watch me suck on her balls, and then groan as I take her fully into my mouth.

The packing cock is not really suitable for deep penetration or thrusting, but we found that we could just get him inside my pussy for an incredible sensation of soft fullness. Coupled with clit fucking, it is unbelievable. It is a perfect conductor of her body heat, and she loves to stick it in my mouth and get it all wet and slick and then pull it out and wipe it across my face back and forth, as I hungrily wait for her to allow me to fill my mouth, again. The suck that you can get on it is, of course, much better than with a standard vixskin cock, which is harder and less pliable. I can really work it in my mouth, with my tongue, with my lips, and I can graze it gently with my teeth, before M gets done with me and shoves it down my throat. We each play in our own way, I guess, luckily for us they seem happily compatible ways.

The other thing I love about M's packing cock is how beautiful the outline of it is in her boxers. You can see the outline of the head and how beautifully it curls against her balls. M has taken, however, to wearing it up, since she is a cocky butch, but however she wears it, I love it and love that she has no fear or embarrassment, only joy, pleasure, and desire. We are lucky to have found each other.

Compassion

It's warm and summery, and I am getting over a virus (not swine flu, thankfully) and severe back spasms. A hot rock massage and heavy duty Rx muscle relaxants have helped. But I haven't been good for much, dragging myself to appointments and meetings, and fights with G, a short fun visit with M who popped up for a short few days, and work on trying to create a new consulting business for myself, without enough energy or mental focus left to blog, so my apologies, I am sorry.

G is still not fully moved out, I had to pack her socks and underwear and clear out her closet to keep her from coming over every other day for 3 socks at a time. She was also finding a way of still doing her laundry here. Actually she would start a wash and leave for hours ("I'll be right back") expecting me to wash and fold her clothes and pack them neatly for her pick up. Old habits die hard (I admit I was washing, folding, and neatly bagging), and finally she did come back after 9 hours to find her clothes still wet in the washer. We agreed that she would wash and dry her clothes at her own house share. Her new place is quite nice and larger than this tiny house, so I feel less accommodating when she complains about how little space she has (which is why she hasn't moved all her things).

G did have an outburst in the last mediation/therapy session we had, and it became clear to me (with the help of the gay boy therapist) that her anger is ancient and deep and she can't always tell the difference between the present (where she is reasonable and friendly) and the past (where she is traumatized, vicious, angry, miserable, and cruel). In a perhaps inappropriate professional moment, after G stormed out accusing both gay boy and me of calling her crazy, I looked at him in a familiar and utter bewilderment, and he said levelly "It's okay, it's not you." I know I bear a lot of responsibility for what failed in the relationship but it was reassuring to know that some things really are not rooted in what seemed to be the reality I shared with G. I realized that she has, and has had, her out of control moments when we were alone, never when there was a third party (except for this first time with gay boy present), and I have felt bizarrely disoriented, alone, and stressed during many of our most intense interactions. I understand that G's mother treated her with a drunken cruelty, torture, viciousness, abuse, and sneering neglect, but it's a truth I am still unable to imagine in its full scope. And it breaks my heart.

I am learning to dial back, now, not to try to fix something I cannot, and find my own pleasure and joy in the experience of human consistency with M. I hope life sends G the peace and joy she deserves. I won't expect her to be fair to me, or even be in the present with me when we must interact, she'll just do the best she can, and perhaps in the end this all we can ever expect of each other - from each according to our ability, to each according to our need...perhaps everything ends up balancing out, not with each other, but with the universe of human beings we find in the totality of our lives. Perhaps this falls into life's lessons about love, compassion, and acceptance.

Yeats

A bit on butchgirlcat's engaging meme blog reminded me of how much I love Yeats, and unlike Leo, I read a lot of poetry. Here's a poem that's a favorite:

He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half-light,
I would spread these cloths under your feet;
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats, 1899

Poetry is my solace, my joy, my life blood. I started reading Yeats in high school, after a girl I had a mad crush on started reciting him to me (sigh, what a crush!). The girl disappeared from my life but poetry and Yeats remained.

One thing I especially love in this Yeats poem, besides the wonderful music of it, is that beautiful triplet pair: "blue, dim, dark" that is followed by "night, light, half-light". It's a marvelous poem to recite because of the consonant sounds and the pacing. It's also a good way to impress a girl, apparently (worked on me!), you should try it with a poem you love, and a girl you (want to) love.

There are few things as surprising and delightful, in my view, than to hear someone, unbidden, reciting a poem simply for the love of the poem and maybe for the love of you. My dear mother used to recite poems while she hung up the laundry, clothes pins in hands, warm sun, and a gentle wind flapping at the sheets. Perhaps this is where I learned to love the music of words.

To Mend and Heal and Begin Again

And now it is done. And I can breathe. Twas both a sad day to grieve the end of a long relationship and a day of relief; and now starts the healing, the mending, and the beginning of a new life.

I noticed that I have a little bit of fear of the unknown, the risk of the new, the change that I have chosen. I told M that I felt afraid for the first time in a long time, that sense of being alone, apart, on my own. She said, quite gently, "You're not alone, I am here for you." And this is true, and I am grateful that we are there for each other, despite the geographic distance. She is my anchor.

And it is also true that I just changed my first overhead light bulb in decades by myself. I am both embarrassed and proud of myself - I had to carry the six foot ladder up from the basement and unscrew the glass globe. I had a small audience of the dogs and the cat who all seemed quite intrigued by my behavior. I am ready to be a self-sufficient femme, a strong woman who can take care of a house by myself, change furnace filters (yes, it's still cold here, it flurried last night), drain hot water heaters, mow the lawn, use the gas-powered weed whacker, and run the snow blower when I need to.

A femme friend (and previously straight woman) told me to "find a man"; I laughed as she explained that she meant "find a man to hire" to do all the things your butch can't do, or haven't a butch to do. Since this divorce has hit my finances pretty hard, I plan to learn to do all the things I can't afford to hire a man to do, and do my best. I look forward to M coming to visit me in early May and forever, and teaching me a butch thing or two about how to be handy in the home (she is very handy in her own home). This might be a really great thing for me, to learn to be more confident about fixing things and navigating through the running of the physical aspects of homeownership. I want to be more of an equal contributor in the future to the owning and running of a house. I can be a macho girl!

Any advice on good websites or how-to books or things I should be aware of are all gratefully accepted and appreciated.

Wish me luck!

Only Here

It starts to rain
as the heat from the water and my body
meets the biting cold spring air

A small disturbance in the natural order
it is raining, but only here
just in these four inches above this five foot square
as the water swirls and bubbles
at 102 degrees

Just one discrete micro-disturbance
A single micro-storm
in this quiet New England atmosphere
as I sit alone and watch these hills
turn from blue to purple to grey
and then vanish,
swallowed whole
into the stark moonless dark

RunningawaywiththeSpoon (c)2009

All rights reserved. This poem may not be reproduced or copied in whole or in part without the expressed written permission of the author.

Duet

I face her, and slide my hand up the inside of her thigh. She is hard, her cock pushing against the skin of her jeans, as I trace her desire with my fingers. She is pleased knowing that I cannot resist her relentless need or my own overwhelming desire for her.

We both know where this will end, the two of us, exhausted and thrilled in this continuous discovery and surprise at our compatibility, this shared happy expression of the growing depths of our emotional commitment and love for each other.

I have oft heard that sex is a form of communication, and for us it is both the bell and the echo, not just the bell or just the echo. When I stroke her cock with my lips, feeling her palm pressing softly on my head, knowing how much she loves to see her cock slip glistening from my mouth before she groans and pushes back in, again and again, it is just the start of this wordless hymn, this poem that I sing for her.

She answers my song as she pulls out and lifts my mouth to hers, and we kiss, mouths wide open trying to take as much of each other in as is physically possible. Her hands squeezing my tits, my erect nipples, my ass, grazing every inch of my skin, as she presses me back onto the bed. She dips her fingers into my pussy, as I moan, and she feels me slick and wet for her.

She watches my face and my body as I lift my hips to urge her in, groaning, begging. I like to feel the weight of her body on mine, to look up and see her smile at me. Her smile is an intense mix of cocky and hungry and loving, and tells me that in a few moments, she will enter me, getting closer to me than I allow anyone else, joined to me physically, as we are joined emotionally.

When she fucks me, it's her song, her music, her rhythm and pacing that we dance to. She leads, and I follow. And it is effortless. Sometimes she fucks me hard and fast, her rigid thick cock pounding and pounding my dripping cunt, and sometimes she fucks me slowly and gently, my pussy aching for her, trying desperately to keep her in deep, I never know which it will be, but I am always transported, freed from the bounds of gravity, to go willingly wherever her body takes me. Sometimes she just teases me with her fingers and her cock and her mouth, until I am on the excruciating brink of orgasm, wet and slick, suffering in the agony of pleasure, until she releases me and allows me come for her, again and again and again.

This is our duet, our paean of love and adoration, a poem of joyous exultation.