Wednesday, March 11, 2009

The Poet and The Princess

The Poet has a delicious ass. I like to spank The Poet until his bottom is red and warm.
Then we fuck, locking eyes; his crazy with wildness of desire and mine lost in pleasure. Remembering that makes me wet.

The Poet writes me poetry (who would have guessed?) and it is tender and holy and romantic. I respond with sexy thoughts and he literally blushes.

I once bit him so hard that he asked me to stop. I guess blood streaming down over his nipples and chest was his boundary.

Aside: People I know talk a lot about boundaries. I’ve attended entire workshops on boundaries. (Negotiating Boundaries with Your Lover, BDSM and Boundaries, etc) To me it is really simple-if you do something that you later regret, you’ve probably crossed your boundaries. It would be really cool to know your boundaries before you let your boyfriend take photographs of you licking your boyfriend’s dog’s balls, but hey nobody’s perfect.

The Princess is very flirty but she doesn't play very often. That is her boundary. She once danced over me stark nakkid as I lay on the floor with The Poet. I could see her pussy as she moved to the music. Remembering that makes me wet, too.

The Poet and The Princess live together. (Tres romantic, n'est-ce pas?) They like to throw outrageous parties, and I like to go and be outraged.

Once at a party at The Poet and The Princess's house a guy I don't know very well (aka, He Who Needs) wanted to have a serious navel-examining conversation with me in the Temple Space, amidst sweaty, writhing bodies. That did not make me wet and I said no thank you.

That was me exercising my boundaries.