Sinful Sunday: Friday Afternoon

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Sinful Sunday

 

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“Libraries Gave Us Power”

Quiet room. But not entirely still. Swoosh of turning pages, heavy sighs, chair leg pushing across smooth carpet. Run my fingers down the spines of the books. Feeling the fabric. The cardboard. The little reference number stickers with the corners starting to peel off. Breathe in deep. Old paper and new.

A creak in the floor announced my presence. I froze. My cheeks flushed. I prayed no one would look up and see me.

Even as a small child I knew there was something illicit about going into the grown-up room of the library. Even though I was so small I didn’t know the word illicit. I had to walk past the stern librarian to get there. Heart pounding. I always kept my eyes forward to avoid her stare and any questions.

I’d smile. I knew I was doing something wrong. But by whose standards, I wasn’t sure. My parents didn’t care. So why did anyone else? Except that it was a small town and everyone cared.

I’d walk down the aisles. I never looked for anything specific. I just enjoyed the thrill of being there. Of not knowing why exactly if felt so thrilling.

The grown-up room was mostly nonfiction, however. The juicy romance paperbacks were kept on a spinner rack next to the librarian’s desk, directly under that stern glare. It was my next challenge, once I outgrew the thrill of the grown-up room.

I’d spin the racks slowly. They always let out a groan of protest. Even with my back to the desk, my cheeks would heat up and go scarlet, knowing the librarian looked up at the noise. Slipping out an old paperback worn smooth, peeking at the cover.

I was certain everyone in the library was watching me, a gawky, nerdy young teen, with no boobs and no chance of having a boyfriend, pick up books from the romance shelf. Taking those books to the desk was like an out-of-body experience. This was back when you had to hand your books over to the librarian and the town was so small, there were no library cards. The librarian knew who your parents were. I pretended to ignore the books I was checking out. I’d absentmindedly finger the corner of a bookmark or flyer left on the desk, avoiding eye contact with everyone in hopes they wouldn’t remark on my books.

Now I want it to be someone’s business. I have the power, not the stern librarian. I can request anything from The Purity Myth to Lady Chatterly’s Lover to Little Birds from the library and someone has to find that book and put it on the shelf for me. Someone will think about me reading that book. Someone will see me reading that book. And maybe that someone will think about reading that book themselves. Give in to the thrill.

This if for Exhibit A’s Song Lyric Contest. Check out the entries HERE.

Receiving Head

If anyone, even Mr. Scott, asks “How can I pleasure you?” I’m likely to answer, “Get me a glass of wine and some chocolate chip cookies and leave me alone to watch an episode of West Wing.” A couple years ago I read a blog post by a woman who said she also dreaded those words even though she loved oral sex. (I wish I could remember where I read that!) It made me so happy to know I wasn’t the only woman like this.

This is one area of my sex life where I want someone to take charge (in a trusting, consensual way of course). Grab me and pull me to you. Put your hand in my pants and feel my wetness. Pull my underwear off. I want to lie back and let you do what you have learned through careful research are the things I love. (Mr. Scott seems to really enjoy doing all that research.)

I like a lot of things and it’s tricky to find the right combination sometimes. I know how to get myself off in about five minutes when I need a maintenance orgasm but working this out with someone else, even a long-term partner who knows me well, isn’t always easy.

I love having my clit worked over. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes firm pressure. Sometimes rubbing hard. Wide tongue lapping (although not like a slobbery dog), deliberate tongue tip flickering.

I love having something inside me. Fingers hitting my g-spot. The surprise of a cold, large, stainless steel dildo. A small vibrator delicately inserted. I often close my eyes and don’t know what Mr. Scott is up to until I feel it.

When I need something specific I’ll say so. If something is uncomfortable or for any reason not working I’ll say so.

I know this isn’t exactly a precise road map to my oral pleasure. I don’t have a lot of patience if things aren’t going right but I’ll put a stop to it and suggest trying something else if it’s not working. It takes a lot of patience on my partner’s part and the ability to read me and a willingness to learn about me. But once you figure it out, take charge. Be enthusiastic. Let me relax and enjoy myself. Because once I hit the zone I’m not going to be able to say much, or do anything other than lose myself in the moment, and you’ll be on your own for a bit. Carry on with whatever you’re doing until either orgasm or further instructions.

I was listening to Louder than Bombs this morning while I took a break from writing this post to have breakfast. When this song came on it made me smile, bringing my mind back to this topic. I really do like to stretch out and wait.

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Sinful Sunday: Giving Head

I wish I could wax eloquently about giving head. I read descriptions from women who love it and I think, “That’s nice for them.” I don’t love doing it except for one thing. I love Mr. Scott’s reaction. It doesn’t give me a sense of power or control. Sometimes it turns me on but mostly I’m concentrating so much on Mr. Scott that I forget about my own satisfaction for those few minutes. (I get plenty of my own satisfaction when I need it and want it.)

I love him. I love that he loves when I give him a blow job. That’s all there is to it.

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Sinful Sunday

 

See You at the Park

“I’ll be at the southwest corner of the park at a quarter past two this afternoon,” I told him and then hung up before he replied.

By ten past, I’m in my usual spot, sitting on the ground. I admired my legs, stretched out before me, long and tan after the summer of running. The grass smelled sweet and the sun was warm. It was a perfect afternoon to be in the park.

I look up at 2:15. I spot him running along the path in my direction. He’s wearing my favorite t-shirt. I smile. He looks straight ahead.

He’s running fast today, breathing hard. He must have started late. I love that he worked hard to be here on time for me. I watch his leg muscles slide under his skin, pushing him along.

He stops at a bench about five feet away from me, leaning over the back and panting. He looks around, avoiding eye contact with me. He stands up straight and tall and slowly pulls the t-shirt over his head. I watch his arms, his torso, stretched out in front of me.

He drops the t-shirt over the back of the bench. He rests there for another minute then continues running down the path, not as quickly now.

I sit absolutely still until he’s out of sight around the corner then I scramble to my feet and rush to the bench. I pick up the shirt in both hands and lift it to my face, breathing in deeply. I love the smell of him. Sweat and shampoo and whatever it is that makes him smell like him.

I throw the shirt over one shoulder and decide to stroll home slowly, making him wait for me to join him there, taking my time enjoying his scent.

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Sinful Sunday: Roll in the Rolleiflexes

This idea came from a Twitter acquaintance but it’s also the kind of boudoir shot I’d send to Mr. Scott. These are two of his many antique cameras. I took them out for a little fun while he was away.

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Mr. Scott’s text reply was, “Damn!!! Nice work.” (I double-checked to make sure I noted the correct number of exclamation marks.) With two of his favorite things in one shot — boobs and Rolleis — I’m not 100% sure which he was complimenting first. 🙂

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Running with Friends

Several weeks ago I had an exchange with Exhibit A on Twitter. I’d noticed from his tweets that he’d just come back from running and I had just come back from running, too. He sent me a pic of his running shorts because I have a thing for running shorts. I sent him the following pic back just before I got into the shower.

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I love having friends all over the world who sometimes end up going running at the same time as me, an ocean apart.

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Sinful Sunday

Welcome Home

I was sitting on the porch in my pajamas still, drinking coffee and reading the paper (well, one of the newspapers I subscribe to on my Kindle) and my hand absentmindedly brushed my leg. I was surprised to feel a rough patch along the soft flannel. I looked and didn’t see a stain. I racked my brain for a moment. I’d just taken these pajama bottoms out of the dryer last night before bedtime. I hadn’t had a chance to spill anything on them.

Then I remembered.

An early morning blow job.

Mr. Scott came home yesterday after being gone for several weeks. He woke up early this morning from jet lag. I woke up just enough to realize he was awake.

After, as I snuggled up against him, I felt the cool moisture, the patch of flannel sticking to my leg. But I didn’t move away or clean up. We stayed snuggled in, alternating between dozing and kissing, until we heard our daughter wake up.

They’ve gone out now and I’m still sitting on the porch, drinking my coffee and fingering that little rough patch on the flannel and thinking about what’s to come later tonight.