The question I've been musing on over the past couple of months has two distinct elements. Am I addicted to sex toys – and is this having a detrimental effect on my sex life?
By Cara Sutra: She was delicate, feminine, romantic and scarily intelligent. And mine. Jay would describe herself as pretty average looking - but to me, she was gorgeous. Fucking her had been a revelation; I'd never lost myself during sex quite that much. I was addicted. One afternoon in particular stands out from all the rest.
By Cara Sutra: Perhaps it was the discovery of a bottle of poppers in the bedside table, or it might have been that his friend was just so fucking horny that night. Either way, the stars were aligned for passionate boy-on-boy action.
By Cara Sutra: When I let my mind wander back to that night, it leaps straight to the heart of the action. My man's mouth pleasuring another man. Watching him suck another man's cock made for a fucking arousing sex memory; one I'd like to share with you today.
By Cara Sutra: How I view myself has a big effect on my libido and, consequentially, on my sex life. Self-perception and sexuality is often discussed in sex advice articles, but I find that the majority of these simply focus on increasing your self-confidence in the bedroom so that you can enjoy sex more frequently, in more adventurous ways or just an improved sex life in general. I wanted to explore something beyond a crisis of confidence. How can the ebb and flow of self-perception alter desires towards and actions within masturbation and any shared sexual experiences?
By Cara Sutra: How would you feel if you saw your partner fuck someone else? I guess for many the answer would be colourful variants of pissed off. Catch 5 minutes of a daytime TV chat show to watch lie detector frenzies and accusations of cheating descend into all-out battle. The reality, when we add in consent and pre-discussion, is more complex and nuanced. A partner having sex with someone else doesn't always mean they're cheating on you or that you'll feel betrayed.
By Cara Sutra: There have been so many suddenly shocked faces during my conversations over the past few years that I’m thinking perhaps I’m getting a bit immune to the typically taboo realm of kink and fetish. That moment when you realise everyone at the surrounding tables in a restaurant have fallen quiet as you’re openly discussing anal reaming...
By Cara Sutra: The sex blog genre is full of people writing about top shelf sexy stuff, whether it's their real life sex diaries or articulating mind-blowingly hot fantasies conjured by their beautifully perverse imaginations. But even when sex bloggers aren't writing, they're busy bonking super sexy strangers all day and posting pictures of their gorgeous bodies on social media for the world to admire. Right?
During Christmas 2015 I had the chance to reflect and reassess what I’m exactly doing here, with my blog, in life. What my actual goals are and what I want to get out of the work I put into projects. With that in mind, and moving on from the harsh realities of the past year noted above (and taking a pinch of inspiration from this excellent New Year's Resolutions article by Hella Rude), I’ve written ten somewhat surprising promises to myself for the next year (and beyond) which will serve as my New Year’s Resolutions 2016.
I spread her puffy labia with my fingers, noting the wetness of her arousal leaking out on to my fingertips. I’d waited for so long and I was finally able to taste her. Lowering my head I silently offered a quick prayer to nobody in particular that I’d be good enough, then my tongue tip flashed over her clitoris while my lips sealed a circular kiss around the edges. Not content with giving just clitoral stimulation, worried it wouldn’t be enough, I slipped first the tip of my index finger inside her cunt, then my middle finger alongside it. Slowly and gently at first, I finger fucked her while my tongue danced over and around her clit.
He moved on his side to face me, both of us on top of the bed. His nose almost touching mine. There’s no argument which could ever be brooked with those dark eyes, brooding doesn’t even come close. Determined? Of course. Expectant. Dominant. In control. To be obeyed without question or hesitation. To stare into them means to know this is what you really want, to know your own mind and be strong enough to go where it and he leads. I'm proud enough to face those eyes openly and without hiding or running. They were out of focus range, suddenly… and his mouth was on mine, tasting and invading. The first penetration.
Recursive ripples of pleasure emanating from our tangled form. My mouth taking in the pre-cum slicked tip of his cock, my lips wet by my tongue between taking more and more of his shaft until he’s fucking my throat. His freshly blown cock, still wet from a heady mixture of salty tears, cum and saliva, perfectly lubricated to slide balls-deep into my aching cunt. His generous cock which is always ready for more and never seems spent, completing the carnal hat-trick by flipping me over, smearing cold gel with finger tips and fucking my arse. Hard. While I sob from that addictive blend of exhaustion, need, pain and arousal, deep wracking cathartic sobs into the well-worn teddy of an ageplayer.
Raising my hips in the usual way I can easily slip just the end of his still hard cock inside my incredibly wet cunt. Sucking him and making him cum hard down my throat always turns me on so much that my inner thighs are a sticky mess of arousal. I lean down to kiss him, my mouth still awash with the taste of his cum - but he loves the taste. It makes him kiss me all the more passionately, his tongue sweeping around my mouth, exploring, relishing every last remnant of his cum and combining that pleasure with kissing me because he loves me but lusts for me, and these moments are the culmination of that desire and emotion. I kiss him back harder, matching his passion, and at the same time sit down hard on his cock, my tight but slippery pussy offering absolutely no resistance whatsoever. He gasps and moans all at once, into my mouth as we're still kissing. So satisfying. I start to move, slowly at first, up and down on his cock and my tits hang down heavily, nipples brushing his chest hair. He moves his hands out easily from underneath my playfully Dominant hands on his wrists, there's nothing I could do to stop him. His fingers find my nipples and pinch them gently at first, then increasing in pressure until I'm the one moaning against his mouth in now intermittent kisses, gasping and moaning and squealing. Rising and sitting on his cock, my thighs clamped hard to his body, riding him on top and wanting more, always more, insatiable for his sex.
Upon properly waking up I don’t feel the muscle tension that usually comes post-orgasm. The orgasm I had in my dreams isn’t that lightning bolt zing from clit to throat. It’s more of a rippling wave from top to toe, a gentle lapping of pleasure which unfurls from… where, I’m once again not sure. The pit of my stomach, my clit, my mind. All I know is that when I’m awake the feeling is ebbing away but it might just be the fading of a dream, not a real orgasm. One of my exes could orgasm without touching herself. Whether on the bus or just before going to sleep at night. Wherever she was she could just think about it and make herself have an orgasm. What an enviable skill. But her orgasms were always when she was fully awake, never when asleep.
I know what I want to happen after sex. I want to lay together, body to hot sweaty body, post-sex heat our only blanket, clinging together in glorious love - well, mainly stuck together with the velcro of rapidly drying bodily fluids. I want it to be just like ‘in the movies’ (films, for us Brits). To immediately drift into the deep peaceful sleep of the newly-shagged, in candlelight (without any thought of the fire hazard) and wake up in the morning still clinging together. As if we were Jack and Rose. Only Jack didn't have to die and Rose let him climb on the damn door. My makeup would be absolute perfection through the night, until the sun’s rays gently woke us from nauseatingly romantic slumber. My pillowslip would most definitely not look like a clown’s washcloth. Nor would my face.