SOFT SEX – HARD SEX

I suppose that, if I were less of a prude, I might have called this post “Making Love And Fucking” but “Fucking” is not a word I wanted to see in the title of a post. Still prudish after all this time.

Over the last couple of years it has been a truly wonderful thing to return to the joys of sex, in all its diverse and wonderful flavours.

For a long time before that, I’d been seeing the same girl for the same session, once every month or so. She had acquired the knack of making me come with her hands, something I had struggled with in condom-wearing penetrative sex for at least twenty years. The absense of any pressure for me to “perform” had made our sessions comfortable and undemanding.

Then I saw a submissive escort of quite stunning beauty and, three or four meetings in, I had a wonderful orgasm deep inside her. It was such a beautiful and cathartic thing to have happened, I immediately fell in love with her and became a bit of a pest to the point where she, quite understandably, stopped seeing me. Since then I have been exploring sex as part of D/s sessions with American submissive Katie and the delightful Lilly Watson. With Lilly the sex is now often vanilla, all intimacy and warmth. It’s been a revelation, it really has.

SOFT SEX

We’re in a rental dungeon for our first overnight session. I’ve planned a complicated, semi-religious, punishment role-play involving a novice nun. The plainsong chanting is already lined up on the Bluetooth speaker.

But I haven’t seen Lilly for a while, and as soon as I let her through the door, she drapes her arms round my neck and kisses me. It’s nice. It’s more than nice; it’s like coming home, the softness of her lips on mine, the slight pressure as she leans into me, the warmth in her smile as she briefly pulls back. Her unhurried kisses slow my heartrate and I feel my domly resolve crumble under her tenderness. I don’t want to be her Dom, not yet; I want to be her lover. 

We must have removed each other’s clothes, but I remember this as the true zipless fuck of literary legend.* We walk the three paces to the bed, lips still touching, and she falls backwards onto it. I delight in her wetness, her readiness, the transparency of her desire. Her eyes widen as I enter her, so I resist the urge to drive myself  deep into her centre, and move backwards and forwards over that first inch a few times before venturing the second, doing the same there and then slowly tasting the third, continuing until I am lost in her warmth, my pelvic bone easing against hers as I move.

The look on her face is so beautiful, I find myself adjusting my position and my movement, not to heighten my pleasure but to heighten hers.  Her responses are so immediate I feel directly connected  to the very core of her. I pull back to look at her, and the slow closing and opening of her softly smiling eyes is so tender, so content, so full of secrets yet uncovered that my heart sighs. 

Sure, my movements become stronger near the end, but this is always making love, our movements synchronised in a slow, intimate dance to music only we can hear, and somehow, miraculously, beautifully, I come inside her, pushed over that final edge by the intense beauty of Lilly’s own orgasm.

Afterwards, she melts into me, all softness and gentle touches and we lie there, breathing together, for an age.

As much as anything, what the last few years have brought me is confidence. I’ve realised that failure to come during intercourse is not failure; in fact if the condom stops me coming and I am instead able to cause me partner to experience two or even three orgasms, one after another, while I am inside her, that is actually a good thing, something we will both look back on in wonder and joy. So knowing that, I will now let things evolve at their own pace, taking the pressure off myself and relishing the here and now for the sheer beauty of it.

In truth I have become less interested in what is happening to me and more interested in what is happening to her.

HARD SEX 

The  rubber gloved finger of my right hand is deep in Katie’s arse, fucking her taboo till I can feel the hardness of my cock through the wall of her vagina. My left hand has her hair in a tight grip and is using it to pull her back onto me. I can hear enough sex in her pain to know that this, extreme though it feels, is still hot for her so I pull harder, push harder, squeeze harder; fucking and fucking and fucking until she yells out an orgasm. I pause for maybe ten seconds, just letting the shaking subside a little, then I’m at her again. My finger comes out of her arse; I grab the short heavy flogger and I’m all over her with it, her back, her shoulders; I let it wrap round onto her nipples. I flog her arse hard, not caring if it hits me too, wanting it to.

Right now, I’m one hundred percent the fucking Dominant; Katie is my kinky little fuck-toy and I’m going to take her until I don’t want her any fucking more. She comes again and I make like I don’t even notice, driving and driving till she yells out her third and final  orgasm.

She’s panting, I’m panting; there’s sweat and body fluids everywhere.

And then? And then?

And then I laugh. I laugh at the release, at the wonder of it all, at the way she’s brought this out of me, encouraged me to become this person. And Katie laughs too. “Fuck, but that was hot,” she gasps, and I wear a huge, contented smile for a week afterwards.

So many words have been used throughout history to describe the Lilly’s and the Katie’s; all designed to denigrate, to demean, to cast out from society these people who choose to share their joy of the physical, the intimate and the pleasurable; who choose to share their joy of sex. They choose to take the emotional and physical risks of letting themselves be free with strangers; diving deep down the rabbit hole of intimacy and affection, of soft sex and hard sex, of making love and fucking.

They are wonderful, they really are.

*A reference to Erica Jong’s 1973 novel Fear of Flying where that phrase was coined

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