Two Truths and a Lie

I was going to end 2018 with a recap post, looking back at some of the things I wrote last year and linking to a few of my favourite photos.

Best laid plans, huh?

Not for the first time recently, writing got crowded out over Christmas by other parts of my life. Good parts, absolutely – new baby, wife, two families, general festive cheer – and I wouldn’t have changed anything at all about the last couple of weeks, but I can’t deny feeling a smidge of frustration about the way various creative pursuits have been put on the back burner over the last few months.

Some of that is self-inflicted. We don’t have a desk in our current flat, let alone a proper office/study, and it’s starting to have a bit impact on my blogging. I can tolerate background music when I’m trying to write, but I prefer silence, and certainly I’m next to useless with the TV on or people chatting. With our open living room/kitchen, and no flat surfaces elsewhere in the apartment, I’ve found it hard to carve out enough time and space to really get my head down.

Smut Marathon has also cut into whatever bandwidth I have had available for sex/erotic writing. That’s a good thing, of course, and I’m so glad I took the plunge last January, but none of that really makes it here onto my blog, except in the form of these review posts.

Finally, while a lot of this is undoubtedly in my head, I feel like I’ve had less to write about! This is a sex blog and I’m a sex blogger, and despite getting plenty of action in 2018, most of it has been (lovely, hot, happy) relationship sex with long-term partners. Again, nothing to complain about whatsoever, but it’s made me question my identity a bit; for years, the labels I chose for myself largely reflected the more…flighty aspects of my sexual personality. Magpie. Adventurer. Slut. As that’s changed, I’ve struggled at times to hold onto my instinctive connection to this blog – I think because I’ve wanted it to change with me, and haven’t quite been sure how to achieve that.

Anyway. I’ll figure it out. But in the absence of a recap post, I thought I’d write something that maybe does tap into some of those old labels a bit. I’ve called this ‘Two Truths and a Lie’, because that’s exactly what you’re getting here: three mini stories about my life in 2018, two of which are true. I’ll let you decide which is the lie – I hope you enjoy them all regardless.

~

“I told you, it’s the only sex toy I own! My ex gave it to me…”

I balance the cheap jelly dildo delicately – dubiously – between thumb and forefinger. It’s covered in a fine layer of dust and hair, picked up at the back of the bedside drawer in which it’s been buried for years, justifiably unloved.

With a shrug, I open my hand and let it fall to the ground.

“Not any more,” I say, reaching for my bag and rooting around for the package I’ve brought with me. “Here, take this.”

She fumbles with the velvet drawstring bag, and I take the opportunity to perv over her again. Her jet-black hair is swept over one shoulder, almost – but not quite – covering a distractingly large nipple. Intentional? Probably not, in fairness, but little would surprise me at this point. It’s true that she’s less carefully ‘put together’ in real life than on Twitter; all those filters and designer outfits feel like they belong to the brand rather than the person, and I smirk at the idea of those thousands of followers seeing her like this, topless and totally at ease, spunk-stained sheets gathered around her chipped toenails.

With a flourish, she whips out the long glass dildo I picked out at Sh! earlier, and raises it over her head. I hold out my hand and she passes it to me, an expectant grin on her face. Glass isn’t for everyone, but after some brief experimentation with ice cubes from her freezer, and given her fondness for firm pressure on the front wall of her cunt, I figure there’s a decent chance she’s going to enjoy it.

At my direction, she swivels round and reclines on the bed, one arm draped behind her pillow. I grab lube from the same drawer that housed her grotty old jelly dong, and settle between her legs.

“Tongue first – please?” Her voice is soft but firm, and I glance up to see her watching me. She normally keeps her eyes screwed shut during oral, focusing on the marriage of physical sensation and filthy mental image that appears to offer the most reliable route to her occasionally elusive orgasm. This time though, those bright blue eyes don’t leave mine as I slowly kiss her clit and press down on her thighs, easing them further apart.

When she’s panting and clawing at the sheets, I lube up the dildo and roll it over her cunt. She gasps at the contrast between my tongue and the cold glass, and I choose that moment to slide the tip between her labia, watching in fascination as they fold around it. More of the head disappears inside her, pulled down by its own weight and her greedy, slightly too effective cunt muscles.

Before I can fill her completely, she starts to come. I sit up and rest my other hand on her stomach, feeling it contract and relax. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” she mutters into the pillow, her hips lifting off the bed as I work the dildo up and down. Once the orgasm subsides, I let go of the base and it slides out of her, coated in lube and ejaculate. I lean forward and she tousles my hair affectionately.

“Ok, you win. This is definitely better.”

~

It starts on the sofa, as conversation bubbles happily around us. The room feels cosy and warm, and I can feel myself getting lulled towards sleep by alcohol and the company of unexpectedly dear friends. But like a pea under my mattress, your foot nudges and worries at me. It’s just there on the cushion between us, asking to be stroked. Not because of its delicate arch or neatly-pointed toes, but because it’s connected to your ankle, which is connected to your leg, which is…

Yeah. And this has been building – oh god, it really has. Over the last 36 hours, sure, but if I’m honest I sensed something between us months ago. A spark. A possibility – no more than that – weaponised by the realisation that you were, in one very important sense, a kindred spirit. That like me, you were preternaturally attuned (and receptive) to exactly that type of unspoken sexual connection. Wherever it might take you.

For now, it’s pulling my fingers inexorably towards your foot. I rub my thumb casually along the sole, then massage the skin more firmly, allowing my hand to wrap over the top. You burrow down a little further into the couch, your legs curled so tightly that when I reach your heel my fingers nudge up against your arse.

You don’t acknowledge my touch, but there’s something very still and alert about the way you’re holding your head – like a wild animal sniffing the breeze. Every now and then I let my hand wander up to squeeze your calf. I’m also conscious that in this position there’s no distance at all between your foot and your crotch, which is fully exposed to me, but hidden from everyone else in the room.

When we talk about this moment afterwards, the word we both use is ‘aware’. At the time, I find it almost unbearably erotic; the deliberate slowness of each touch, and the way it makes me focus on my own body too. I have that fluttery softness in the pit of my stomach, and only a cushion hugged into my stomach is concealing my erection from view.

One-by-one, our friends head off to bed. I grow bolder and curl a hand around your neck, as if I’m pulling you in for a kiss. We haven’t planned for anything beyond this – there are no empty bedrooms, and someone is meant to be sleeping on this sofa – but like water trickling down from the mountains, I know we’ll find a way.

You make a show of going to brush your teeth, and return minutes later to find me alone in the kitchen. There are no words spoken, just your teeth on my bottom lip and my fingers in your hair. We tug at each other’s clothes and shuffle silently into the hallway, till you’re squatting with your back against the wall and my cock in your mouth.

After all the build-up, I’m hyper-sensitive, and it’s a relief when you let the head slide over your tongue and into your throat, where it’s easier for me to control the sensations. Relatively speaking.

I take my revenge on the stairs later, keen to match your prowess. When you pull me into you – head tilted back, body stretched out across three steps, eager and lithe – I no longer care whether the whole house falls down around us.

~

My erection has barely subsided when I lever myself off your bed. I join you in front of the mirror, slipping my arm around your torso and pressing my cock against your arse.

“I should go and see about dinner,” you murmur, as I drink in the sight of your naked, freshly-fucked body, reflected back at me in the glass. I fan my right hand out over your stomach, and pull you in even tighter.

“Uh huh.”

Your body still feels new and different, but that’s not what’s exciting me right now. Nor is it the sticky warmth of your arse, slowly brushing over my cock as you squirm involuntarily from side-to-side. No – it’s the feeling I get as I watch you studying yourself in the mirror. A feeling of possibility. A feeling that whatever I do next will be right; that you’ll be as hungry for it as I am.

I moved my hand a little lower, and you cover it with yours. Our fingers lock together, just for a moment, then I push my fingers between your legs and along your cunt.

“Fuck, you’re still so wet!”

And you really are. You adjust your stance enough that I can slip one finger inside, and I realise that you’re every bit as wet as you were 10 minutes ago, when you wrapped your legs around me and squeezed my cock for the final time.

Your head drops forward, a mass of curls covering your eyes and spiralling out over the glass. I wrap my left arm across your shoulders and throat, forcing your chin back up.

“No, I want you to watch this. I want to see your face.”

Cunt-slick now, my finger swipes over your clit. You push your chest out and open your legs a little more, till it feels like you must be dripping all over the carpet. It’s been long enough now that I know exactly how you want your clit stroked – a gentle, teasing rhythm, with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch a little more each time you open your mouth to plead and coax and mew your desire.

In the mirror, I watch your face change as the sensations drag you away from the surface – away from conscious thought – and down into yourself. Red patches bloom on your tits, and your belly button ring glitters in the lamplight whenever you push your hips up to grind on my fingers. I whisper everything and nothing into your ear, damp ringlets grazing my lips with each murmured obscenity.

Feeling you get closer and closer is so fucking hot that my cock starts to get hard again. In no time at all, it’s jammed between your cheeks, twitching in anticipation. When you writhe and buck against me, your orgasm freezing the connection between brain and limbs, I hold you upright for as long as I can, then ease you forward till your hands are pressed against the wall, either side of the mirror.

After fishing another condom off the dresser, I dig my fingers into your pale skin and pull your cheeks apart. You’re more than ready for it, and you arch your back as I force my cock all the way inside you. Dinner will just have to wait.