sinful sunday: freckles

I was playing with filters this afternoon and liked this one because of the way it made my freckles pop.

Normally I wouldn’t notice my freckles, or care, but earlier today I’d sent a similar shot to my boyfriend and he’d texted back

‘I love your freckles.’ 

I never really think about my freckles, or even think of myself as particularly freckled; compared to most of one side of my extended family on, I’m really not! I don’t have many on my face; they’re mostly on my arms, especially the elbows. There’s some scattered over my knuckles and the backs of my hands, a lonely one on the side of my left tit.

Hearing him say that, though, made me notice them, like them, struck a flickering glow under my skin. Now when I look in the mirror or down at the backs of my hands and see the funny particular way my melatonin clumps it makes me not just think of him; it makes me feel his gaze on me — seeing me, noticing me in ways I don’t, can’t, myself.

I think that’s maybe what we bring into other people’s lives, friends or lovers alike: we notice things, we see each other through different filters; we hold back up to the object of our affection the things we love about them, the funny things, the lovely things, the strange and random particular things, the wonder of all their pieces.

The way their cheek quivers when they’re trying not to laugh.

The quick empathy of her listening.

His little finger, the lines across the knuckle, the way it taps restless against the table.

His love for early biplanes and the way it makes you visit new bookstore sections with stars in your eyes.

The way she glances across a room and finds your eye and glimmers.

The particular blocking of his shoulders and what it does to your pulse.

The way he could read a phone book aloud and make it a thing of laughter and human connection.

The weight of her tits in a tshirt.

How punchdrunk happy you get just tracing the line of the bridge of his nose with your eyes for ten minutes, twenty, for a fucking hour.

The ludicrous joy it gives you when their voice cracks on the low E, every time.

The way their sense of humour fits effortlessly with yours.

The soft dangerous promise of how he kisses you in public.

The noises she makes when she comes.

The fact they know the same obscure Agatha Christie plotlines you do.

The grounding warmth of her breath on your skin.

The way he makes you feel seen. 

15BABE7D-95EC-43E0-89D6-187C1780BA85

Sinful Sunday

 

Advertisements
sinful sunday: freckles

boneless

You’re sitting across his lap in just your cotton panties, legs straddling the soft hairiness of his thighs, bent forward close enough that your tits are brushing his chest. His face is tipped up a little and he’s kissing you, soft and unhurried, like he’s nowhere else to be for a decade or so, languid-slow, like he’s forgotten the shape of your mouth and is learning it over again.

‘Oh,’ you say, and press closer against him, take his cock in your hand, but he puts one of his own over yours and gently pulls your fingers away, one by aching one, brings your hand to his chest and tucks it up over his heart.

‘Slow,’ he says, ‘slow as you can, my girl. You feel my heartbeat?’

Of course you do, thunking strong and regular under his ribs. He runs one hand up your left side, slow and dragging over your skin, and presses his palm flat over your breast, nipple caught at the root of his two fingers. Your heart’s beating against his palm and you’re so bone-deep aware of it, the pulse of your blood under his hand and the beat of his under yours, looped in synchronous rhythm a little outside of time.

It’s been like this for almost an hour, both of you on the plateau, breath dragging unsteady, skin flushed with arousal, trying to keep your bodies loose and unclenched. You keep wanting to close your eyes, tighten your muscles, clutch at the pleasure pulsing hot and unfocused at the base of your spine, but he’s played this game longer than you have, played it for years. His dick’s hard and thick between you, pressed up against your belly where you’re leaning into him, smearing across the shaking muscles of your tummy, but his breath is still mostly even and his eyes are mostly clear, watching you. Once in awhile he catches his lower lip for a bloodless few seconds between his teeth. Three times now you’ve started to escalate, tighten, tip your hips into him (Christ your panties aren’t even off), and every time he says “open your eyes honey” and ‘unwind for me baby, not yet, stay here with me,’ and he puts his hands on the small of your back and pets the round of your hip, gentling, grounding, and your cunt is one long fluttering ache  and you think, you think that if you start coming you might just never stop, you might just shake and shudder and scream on his lap forever with one of his hands pressing you down gentle-close over his cock.

You must’ve made a noise, cause he shifts the hand on your breast just enough to brush your nipple, make you open your eyes again.

‘Stay soft, baby,’ he says, almost against your mouth, and hitches you closer over his thighs. ‘Slow and easy, pretty girl, look at, look at my face,’ and he’s dragging your panties to the side and hooking his dick with his thumb, pulling you onto him, and you’re boneless and your face is wet and oh but your hand’s pressed over his heart, thunk thunk thunk –

boneless

river

He meets her down by the river, after work, after sunset, on the steps that run like the wide slope of  a theatre shell down to the water’s edge. It’s cold enough, now, with the dusk and the wind off the water, that most passersby have been driven indoors, into the bars and the trains and the coffeeshops, and there’s only a couple of other people visible, smoking at the other end of the steps. When he sits down beside her she glances across at him, a look like hot quicksilver, and she gets up, unzips her coat so it falls open, enough she can straddle his lap, and she’s warm, warm breath and mouth and the heat of her thighs on him through her tights.

‘You’re like a little furnace,’ he says, and it sounds like romance and want, the way he says it, and she kisses him like she’s been waiting to do it for weeks, because she has. She puts her hands up around his face, lets her thumb drag over one earlobe, kisses him slow and soft and wet, and his pulse quickens a little.

‘Want me to warm up your hands?’ she says, and takes them, pulls them in against her chest and then down, between her thighs, slides up a little closer to him so her coat swings up around his ribs, encloses them. He’s laughing a little, happy, drunk on the moment, and he slips his hands up over her tights and – oh – where the tights end in a bit of lace and then there’s just her skin, slick and warm, warm, and – fuck – her pussy, bare to the air, bare against his jeans, and he can’t, he wants, he says ‘oh‘ and he hardly knows he’s doing it but he presses two fingers up into the swollen wetness of her cunt and she makes a noise just against his face, barely, tries to bite it off, and she pushes down on him, pushes so hard he can feel her right down over his third knuckles, and his dick throbs with a blood-rush that he feels right through him, in his spine and tendons and the prickling flush of his skin and the way he forgets to exhale for a minute, breathes in – in – in.

‘Hi,’ she says, against his tongue, and they stay like that for a minute, their faces together, her cunt clenching around his fingers, and then they stand up and take each other’s hungry hands and walk back into the city, away from the river.

river

hotel (1)

Hotel room.

It’s evening, most of a bottle of wine drunk between us, all our clothes stripped off except for your socks – overlooked in our hungry fumbling – and the lace bralette that’s pushed up over my tits. I’m sitting on your lap, toes just brushing the carpet, barely enough to balance, and I’ve got one hand down between my legs.

‘Keep touching yourself,’ you say, not so much commanding as impulsive, like you can’t help it, like you really want to see it, and I do: let my fingertips slip in circles playing round my clit. I’m swollen and wet with my own slick and lube, too, from the toys we started with earlier; wet enough now that I’m slipping a little on your thighs. You tighten your forearm that’s braced across my hips and to hitch me a little closer against your chest. Your other hand is up playing with one of my nipples, rolling it between your fingers just hard enough that my body gives a little quiver with every tug.

“I’m gonna – oh fuck – I want you,” I say, not very coherent, grinding over your lap. I can feel your breath on the back of my neck and the weight of your cock jerking against the inside of my thigh and –

“please,’ I say, frantic, ‘fuck me, let me, please,’ and you tighten your forearm, graze your teeth over my shoulder. I try to wriggle down, to grind against you harder, take you inside, and you pinch my nipple in the web of two of your fingers, a duller, deeper pinch than fingertips would be.

‘After,’ you say, ‘wanna see you,’ and you move your hand down from my breast and pull one of my legs wider apart so you can see my fingers slipping and rubbing, see the tendons jumping in my inner thigh, see my pussy pink and glistening. Your cock isn’t twitching now, anymore, is pressed hard and straining between my legs, just beside my cunt. I can see it there, see the bright sheen of precum over its head, see –

that does it: I arch back against you, legs pulling up involuntary, scream choked short because fuck, hotel, thin walls. I sit awhile on your lap while the aftershocks settle, tracing my fingers over your cock. It judders up against my open palm.

‘Now?’ I say, breathless, and you answer with a noise low in your throat and take me to bed.

hotel (1)

string

I’ve been doing some cross-stitch so I’ve had some yarn lying around, and when I first was trying to think of a photo idea I looked at it and thought “hmm maybe I’ll sort of… tie it around the base of each breast, really tight, to get a super cool bondage look”.
Alas, dear reader, this Did Not Work to the most profound imaginable extent (I suspect due to the size of my tits and also due to the, uh, rules of physics). So! This is what I ended up with in the end, haha.
I don’t mind it, though; there’s something sort of nicely symbolic (if a bit obvious) about physically framing parts of yourself, stringing lines around [body part X ]; it goes beyond passive acceptance (‘yeah my [X] is ok’) to ‘this is something a bit worth marking out’.
Anyway that’s my pseudo-philosophising for this week, lol — it’s just my tits with some string round them, really!
Check out the smooch at the bottom of the post for more Sinful Sunday posts! x
IMG_6652
Sinful Sunday

 

string

When she masturbates she likes to open her legs, sometimes lying down, sometimes sitting up against one end of the couch with a knee pressed up against its back; she likes to imagine she’s being watched, that someone’s sitting at the other end of the couch and watching her, that their skin’s gone flushed from it, from watching the hitch of her hips up into her fingers, the shiny slick of her pussy, the way her cunt gapes hungry and the curve of her open thighs.

She imagines them telling her things, not urgent, not even commanding, just – things: ‘keep ’em open, easy, honey, open up,’ when her legs start to shake and stiffen, and she takes a deep shuddering breath and lets them fall back apart, lets the coiling ache inside her lengthen, diffuse through her body, go deeper.

Sometimes when she gets close, when she shoves all the fingers of her free hand into her cunt and curls up over herself, muscles locking up, she bites at the skin of her knees and arms and imagines being watched, imagines that voice saying ‘baby god you’re so hot I just wanna taste you so bad’ and she comes, sometimes, like that — mostly silent, just one low cry and the wracking aftershocks as she flutters around her own fingers.

I came here by expected roads
by way of responsible decisions
(no, wait)
I travelled on expected roads
but not to here
this wasn’t where the roads were meant to go

I mean, things are ok here, there are
things that I like and people I love but
I’m ok but I’m sad but I’m fine but I’m not
myself
whoever that is
I’m just sort of
here
by default
I don’t want to live by default

Some days, anger
at mislabelled roads and well-intentioned faces, at fences put up in good faith that broke all my bravest parts
Sometimes anger
(but put that away)

the world’s wrought more in ambiguity than I’d been told
but already I’m so much older than I thought questions would last

It’s not that I thought I’d get prince charming
maybe I did
maybe I hoped
and a happy ever after
but I thought, god, I thought that I could
make my own 
that one of these days I’d happen upon it
my own happy ever after
built of all my responsible decisions
and I’d be happy

fuck that
rip down well-intentioned fences
kick out the underplinth of should
i’ve spent enough of life in fear paid out in pennies