Mutual Masturbation

It's Masturbation Month...and the Masturbation Monday prompt this week is all about mutual masturbation.

This particular art form has always sort of eluded me. Having a bit of the ADD, I have a hard time focusing on either what I'm trying to do or what I'm trying to feel. I don't think I've ever gotten off with this method of sexual stimulation...not to say that it's a bad addition to the foreplay toolbox. But, I'd prefer to either take care of my partner completely, focusing on his (or her) pleasure...or...be the center of someone else's sexual attentions.

Actual intercourse is different. For some reason, I guess because I don't have several balls in the air at once (yes...I said that), I can focus on pleasing myself and the other person at the same time.

Mutual masturbation, for me, is more about the beginning. It's the place you start when you can't keep your hands off each other, fumbling with clothes, digging to find a way to simply touch each other. It's an initial release, sort of like an appetizer. But it's not enough. For me. It's not satisfying enough on it's own.

I'm not saying I can't get off that way. I can. I did just the other night...several times. J slipped his fingers in my wet and very expectant pussy. He pushed them deep inside and worked my clit with his thumb. I told him not to be gentle, and he held me down with his body, reaching his fingers in as deep as he could. And I could feel myself tighten around him, pulsing.

It was satisfying. But there's something to be said for feeling...or knowing...that a man is cumming inside of me. Those orgasms are what I live for. And I'm damn good at timing my own orgasms to match my partner's. Something about feeling that buildup in the him...the tensing of muscles...the holding of breath...the way his body starts to sort of twitch and lurch. That's when my own body let's go.

This doesn't happen with mutual masturbation.

That doesn't mean it can't happen in a story though...so - here ya go...a super short tale of cumming in the car (and yes...I've done this - not easy, but possible).

*********

Jamie reached over and placed her hand on Chris's thigh. He took his eyes off the road momentarily to look at her and then placed his own hand on top of hers.

In the dark, street lights lit up the inside of the car in intermittent flashes of light, and with each flash, Chris could see the sparkles in Jamie's eye make-up -- the soft pink blush darkening her cheekbones, creating a shadow that made her look dramatic.

Jamie squeezed his thigh absently, looking ahead at the traffic. She wet her lips and closed her eyes, tired after the concert and ready for bed.

Chris reached over and rubbed her bare knee, sliding his hand up her thigh, under her short sequined dress. She didn't turn her head toward him, but he could see the corners of her mouth turn up in a dreamy smile. She squeezed his thigh a bit harder as he moved his hand up further, and she spread her legs to allow him easier and fuller access.

"I love it when you go sans panties," Chris smirked, "I could smell you all night."

Jamie smiled a little wider, and he could hear the softest laugh briefly escape her lips, the deep red lipstick long worn away.

He reached further up her thigh and let his fingers gently graze the outsides of her labia. Her sharp intake of breathe and almost imperceptible shudder encouraged him to continue. He ran his finger up her slit, parting her lips to access her clit and began to slowly circle and tease.

Jamie reacted by squeezing the inside of his thigh. She traced the inner seam of his jeans with her fingers, upward, across each button, and back down, where she could feel the bulge beneath pressing against the denim. She loved 501's for just this reason...easy access. One-handed, she opened his jeans, and squirmed her hand into place, as he shifted in his seat to help her.

"Oh, good god, Jamie..."

"Don't wreck the car, Chris..."

"Oh, I won't, just don't take your hand of the stick, Jamie...drive me all the way home, girl..."

He leaned further toward her, pushing two fingers as deep inside her as he could. And Jamie tried her best to rub him off. Both of them were constricted by position.

Chris turned left on their street, moaning softly under his breath, and accelerated. Jamie reached up and hit the garage door button. The car pulled into its spot, and the door slid closed behind them.

Jamie undid her seatbelt, "Pull your pants down to your knees Chris..." She was breathless and wild-eyed, climbing over the console, straddling him, and then sliding herself down his expectant cock. There were no formalities, just fucking...her ass pounding against the steering wheels, his hands on her hips.

It was only minutes, and both of them, in their hunger, came.

Jamie slumped against him, breathing hard.

"I love you, Jamie..."

"I love you, too, Chris..."

"Let's go inside and do this right..."

"Oh, this was right...it was just right..."

12 Practical Tips for Having Sex in the Car
Car Sex Positions

A Living Canvas

It's Masturbation Monday...but rather than self-manipulation this fine evening, I've opted for a little help in this story. Even though THEY aren't masturbating...perhaps the characters will inspire YOU to?

A Living Canvas

Jenna became highly aware of her own skin, as the warm breeze hit places usually covered in public. She and Michael had the backyard to themselves. The kids were gone for the weekend, and, generously, Mother Nature had graced them with a sunny afternoon. Michael took the opportunity to pull Jenna, by the hand, away from her chores and responsibilities. Sometimes he had no choice but to make it a directive. She had a tendency to wind herself up and lose focus on what mattered. And Michael had to cook up something out of the ordinary to really reset her. This afternoon, he had just such a plan in store.

Standing on the soft green grass, Michael spread a blanket. He walked behind her, surprising her by picking her clean up off her feet. She giggled and squealed a bit with the shift of balance from her own feet to his arms. The shift in power was more than symbolic. It was obvious the role she was being asked to assume. And gladly, she began to leave her To Do list behind.

"Close your eyes, Jen. No talking. No moving. I'll move you as necessary."

Jenna nodded and sank down into the blanket and the softness of the earth below it, eyes closed, a smile relaxing her features. She could hear Michael moving around her, setting things down, and preparing, for whatever it was he was planning to do.

And then he was above her, unbuttoning her well-loved plaid, cotton shirt, which was rolled up at the sleeves as to keep them out of the dish-water...and then her jeans: unbuttoned and unzipped, slowly being pulled off of her body. He turned her just enough to each side to remove her arms from the sleeves of her shirt and then undid her front-clasped bra, peeling it back like wrapping paper, revealing her breasts, nipples already signaling her growing dedication to the moment. Slipping the bra out from under her back, he left her in the sun with the directive to keep her eyes closed.

Within minutes, he returned, setting more things down around her. Jenna could feel him kneel beside her, could feel his warm breath above her left nipple...her right...and then her neck. In her ear, he whispered, "You're a perfect canvas...that porcelain skin, crying out for the images in my head. These ideas...they'll find a home here...and here....and here..."

With each "here", he kissed her, on the side of her breast, on her stomach, and just below the edge of her white cotton panties, which he'd left on her.

And then she felt the cold touch of the paint-dipped brush on her collar bone, as it made a trail between her breasts, to her naval. She sucked in her breath when the brush moved softly back up to circle each of her breasts.

She sighed, and released every other last thought, letting her brain be submerged in the smell (one of her favorites) of freshly cut grass and the sound of the erotic musical strains of Enigma's MCMXC a.D. The swirls and dips of the brush, into and out of the valleys of her torso, took the rest of her bodily concentration, and everything else was pushed outward, into the space around her, and set free. 

Jenna had no idea how much time had passed, as she drifted in and out of a light sleep. The warmth of the sun on her skin lulled her back and forth along the edge of a dream that vaguely resembled the scent of a distant memory. But when the brush stopped moving, Jenna was softly roused from herself by Michael's voice.

"Imagine what he could have done with a canvas such as this..."

She began to open her eyes, but Michael told her to stop.

"I'm not done, Jen. It has to dry. And while it does..."

Michael began to slide Jenna's panties over her sun-kissed hips and down her thighs. He spread her legs, just a bit, his hands, on either side of her, steadying him as he lowered his face to kiss her softest, sweetest parts. He licked the creases where her inner thighs met her outer labia...and then grazed his tongue from the base of her inner labia, all the way to her clitoris, where he stayed for a moment, collecting himself, as she slowly began to lose herself.

"Jenna, you have to hold still...to let the paint dry. You can't touch it. You can't move...unless I move you."

"Okay, Michael. I promise not to move." But she wasn't so sure she could keep her promise.

He licked her, and tasted her, and slipped first one and then two fingers inside of her, knowing just where to touch, with just the right pressure, to bring her complete release. He worked his fingers and tongue in tandem, bringing her just to the edge, every muscle in her lower body taut and her breath held. That is when he stopped. He pulled away, and he watched the swirls of paint move across her flesh, the yellow and blue patterns turning from static to rhythm, like animation...the wind - alive and dancing, just as the artist had intended.

Pink Deux

Thirteen

I flashed him an awkward metal smile

before leaning in to touch his lips 

and salt his tongue with mine.

I hadn't expected his lips to be cold.

Snowflakes caught in his black curls,

turning him old before his time.

We were losing minutes, hours, days,

standing there in the winter chill.

But that kiss was important enough 

to brave the possibility of frostbite and

my father's anger when I came home late,

pink-cheeked and trembling.

Such a tender age, thirteen, when we open,

like the hungry mouths of baby starlings

in spring, unable to feed ourselves or fly,

but just desperate enough to try.

 

Shifting Limits, Seeking Balance

So when I showed my husband this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt:

...he laughed and said something like, "You put up that sign all the time...and then... you get drunk...."

Somehow, at that point, the "off" becomes a bit blurry and starts to look more like "no". Funny how that happens - a little liquid courage...or better yet, a little liquid freedom.

So, that led me to consider: freedom from what, exactly? Where does my inner censor come from? Because quite honestly, even sober, sometimes a particular thing sounds good - and then at another time, it totally turns my stomach and freaks me out, making me question my own desires.

And then, of course, there are limits that stop being limits through experience. A good example would be anal sex, for me. I can remember, all the way back to college when I had anal sex for the first time. It was awful. Just sad, really. He sort of just shoved (or tried to shove) his dick in there, sans lube (ouch!), and I spent the remainder of the night curled up in the fetal position feeling embarrassed disappointment. I was so traumatized, I didn't even attempt it again until I met my husband, in my late 20s. It still makes me blush to talk about it, but I must admit, I enjoy it, and while it is no longer off limits, talking about it in any sort of depth is still uncomfortable. Why? I have no idea. My inner prude seems to think I'm a total slut sometimes and that having anal sex - and liking it - is proof. Why I'm worried about what my inner prude thinks is beyond me, because my inner slut thinks she's a fucking bore.

What else has been off limits? Non-monogamy comes to mind. But that one goes up and down for me. Sometimes it sounds like a ton of fun. Other times, it just sounds like work and eventual, unavoidable disappointment. In connection, non-monogamous exploits in our town of residence is another "off limits" turned "aw, what the fuck...might as well." Non-monogamous interactions with co-workers? Bosses? Friends? Yah...been there, done all of it...and lived to tell about it...reputations and relationships all happily in-tact.

Pretty much nothing that I would once have deemed "off limits" has come back to bite me in the ass once I've tried it. My emotions about and reactions to some of those events have done me some damage, but the actual events have caused no lasting harm to my life.

In fact, I have to say, with my track record, it's a wonder I say no to anything. Because, aside from so many disappointing male swingers, trying new things has never led me to ruin. And yet...I still dig in my heels and freak out any time my husband wants to try something new.

Nobody puts baby in a corner...but baby sure as hell puts herself there on a regular basis...

Tie me up? Okay. Awesome. No. I changed my mind. Okay. Yes, please.

Wartenberg wheel? Ow. I don't know. Maybe. Tonight it works. No...no! I can't take it! Let's try it again.

Discipline? Spanking? Makes me feel subjugated. Makes me feel impish. Makes me feel like disobeying more. Makes me feel indignant. Makes me feel horny. Spank me please! Fuck, that hurts. No more of that, please. I can't handle it any more.

Violet wand? Fuck no. Fuck no. Fuck no. ??? I don't know...maybe I could consider...maybe...if...

(Am I the only one with these weird bi-polar, shifting limits?)

Pretty much everything that I've tried, at one point in my life...it was off limits. Can't have sex...turned into...Can't have sex until I'm 16 (I self-imposed that rule...like most of my limitations). Can't have sex with someone I don't love...turned into...Can't have sex with someone I don't know. Can't have oral sex...but it's okay with ____________. Can't have unprotected sex...unless you really trust him. Can't have anal sex...became...Won't have anal sex...became...Okay, I'll try again...became...Awesome. Can't have sex with married people...morphed into...Can't have sex with married people who are cheating. Can't have sex with more than one person at a time. Can't have sex with a woman. Can't have sex in public. Can't have group sex. Can't have sex with an audience. Can't be filmed having sex. Can't talk about sex publicly. Can't publish naked photos of myself.

Every sex-related "can't" or "won't" has, over time, turned into a possibility or a reality...even a preference. At this point in my life, I don't think I could honestly say" never" to anything sexual that was consensual. My only worry is the idea of having no limits. For some people, that might sound like a whole lot of fun and completely freeing. But it terrifies me. Where does it end? Where does the experimentation end? When does it go too far? Because it can. It can always go too far. I think I have a whole lot in common with my dog...who needs to have a small, enclosed space to feel safe while she sleeps. That's how I am with my sexploration.

I suppose it's all about finding balance, which can be tricky when you only have to deal with yourself. It can be near impossible when you have to consider the needs and wants of two.

That's where Mr. LL and I are now - figuring out our limits, knowing those limits will shift with time, learning to be open to the changes. Well, I'll be honest...I'm learning to be open to the changes...or at least close my eyes, take his hands, wince, hold my breath, and trust him to lead me.

Now-a-days...the only things off limits in our sex life are sexual stagnation and avoidance of tough conversations about limits.

Under Surveillance

Misty gave her directive, "Call. Dave. Home," and the car's bluetooth obliged..."Calling Dave. Home."

"Yell-o...'sup, hon?"

"Drivin'."

"And?"

"Just stuck in traffic, bored outta my mind."

"Ahhh...lookin' for some action, eh?"

"Yep."

"I could probably swing somethin'."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Like what?"

"Like...where are you?"

"Near exit 277. But, we're at a crawl...and I'm wearing a skirt."

"Good girl...makes things easy. Panties?"

"Could lose them quick and easy."

"Do it."

He waited a moment as he heard her rustling around a bit.

"Done."

"Lick your fingers. Really suck on them...leave 'em wet..."

She did.

"Now rub them around your clit until it swells...but don't touch it directly. I want that sucker throbbing before you give in."

She was quiet, but obeying his every word.

"What's it look like?"

She slid her skirt to her waist, spread her legs, lifting one knee against the gear-shift and the other against the driver's side door.

"Wet...and very, very pink."

"Good. Are you still at a stand still?"

"Yep. Must be a wreck ahead."

"Too bad...their misfortune has led to our benefit..lick the first two fingers on your other hand and slip them in your cunt."

She followed his direction.

"Now, with your other hand, begin massaging your clit."

"This isn't easy in this space, Dave."

"Didn't promise easy, did I?"

"No."

"Didn't really ask, either..."

"Correct, as always, my love."

She stroked herself into a flurry of wetness.

"Is that your wet pussy I hear, serenading me?"

"Yes...I'm very, very wet. I'm likely to make a damn mess of the car seat."

"That's why we splurged on the leather, babe. Never question."

She gasped a bit as her breathing sped up. She could feel the tell-tale signs of her oncoming orgasm...the heat rising up her belly, across her chest, encircling her throat, like the ghost of his hand pressing her head against the headrest. Even from miles away, he could restrain her every move - play her like a theremin.

"You aren't allowed, Misty."

"Ah, Jesus, Dave...you've gotta be kidding me...I'm so close..."

"Nope. Only me. So stop. Now."

"Okay..." she whined.

"I mean it." His voice was stern.

She begrudgingly removed her hands, pulling her skirt back down around her thighs, wiping her wet fingers on the soft fabric.

"How do you always know?"

"Because I know you...and I'm always watching."

She furrowed her brow into a questioning expression of playful annoyance.

"Well...are you at least home now...can we fuck the minute I walk in the door? Seriously...I'm fucking horny, Dave..."

"Not yet. Almost."

"Where are you?"

"Near exit 277."

"Wha--"

Misty looked to her right...a blue Honda. She looked to the left...

"Ah...fuck you, Dave...did you record that whole fucking thing?"

"You betcha, sweet heart..."

He winked at her from the cab of his shiny, white Dodge Ram pick-up. And he left her with the same lecherous smile that had drawn her in all those years ago.

(I had to write this one...as I gave masturbating in the car another go recently. It's not easy. In fact...it can only really happen when stuck in traffic...like our girl, Misty, here...or when on a nice, straight highway with the cruise control on. No...it's not the safest thing to be doing. But, there are times when a girl just has to try to get her rocks off. I was on a short expanse of highway, so there really wasn't much time. I knew I'd never get off, but there are moments when simply touching myself can release a bit of pent up tension. I even tried parking at Wal-mart...way out away from everyone else's cars...to finish the job. But, it didn't happen. Frustrated...I did my errands and managed to get my mind off of it. Nothing like shopping in Wal-mart to cool your desire right off.)

Breaching the Surface

There are those moments when nothing can satiate my desire besides penetration. The blessed insertion of something, preferably fleshy, and warm, and connected to something I want and love, into my hungriest places, all of which seem to be so conveniently created to invite him in. The tantalizing build up of his hand on my thigh, especially in a a public place, or somewhere nothing can be done about it, just serve to make the release that much more sweet.

I can feel him, across the room, naked. His heat. His eyes following my curves. And my body tenses. I keep breathing in and forgetting to breathe out, my chest expanding, my lungs filling, releasing just enough to keep me from passing out. Those shallow, expectant gulps of air...my whole body reaching out for his offering.

It's a metaphorical and almost silent dance. A quiet desperation seen in the trembling of lips and fingers and shoulders. An unspoken desire that screams from the depth of the eye and the uneven sighs that barely escape, in and out.

It's hard to define or explain desire. I'm sure it's onset is different for many of us. But for me, it's a deliciously painful greed. The kind that makes the world slip away, because all I want is that which is before me. Not just some of it. All of it. Now.

But, the waiting. The waiting and the denial are almost as sweet...are they not? As long as it doesn't last too long, that is.

When I feel him slip in beside me, wrap me in his arms and pull me to him, our bodies forming one fluid machine, my breath heightens and deepens, becoming audible as my hunger begins to speak in a language only the body knows.

He kisses me, softly, holding back, because he knows how crazy it makes me. He drives me like a luxury car, smoothly and sensually...totally in control. His hands search my skin as if it explained the meaning of life in brail, gently in places, grabbing hold of me in handfuls in others, reminding me that all of this is his...not because he takes it...not even really because I give it. It is his because, like any kind of faith, it just is. His touch makes my body believe.

On our sides, his tongue searches mine for secrets and treasures, while his right hand follows the curve of my back and my plump behind. I wrap my left leg over his, exposing the core of my heat and hunger. He teases it, runs his fingers across it, but eventually, he covers it completely with his hand, probing gently at first...one finger...

And I melt, I sigh, I come completely undone. All the breathing in and holding the want as if it were a word on the tip of my tongue...the kind I can't let go...the kind that keeps me up all night looking for it. To let all of that out is like being slowly submerged in warm water...maybe something like going home. The perfection of it...that seemingly simple moment...the sort of thing that happens all the time. It still holds that power for me...when he slips his fingers inside me...when he first penetrates me.

Because when he does that...when he breaches the surface of my bodily being - he enters my soul.

It is always more than what it seems.

With him.

Masturbation Monday

The Centerpiece

"Tabitha, this house is just unbelievable! Who is your decorator? I simply must know." Angelica looked around the living room. The marble floors, the large, plush rugs, the exquisite furniture. Every piece was decadent. The detail was unequivocally riveting, and Angelica felt as if she could just sink into the over-sized leather couch, cover herself with the cream-colored, cashmere throw, and lose herself in the 1st edition Lady Chatterly's Lover on the coffee table.

"Michael Evansfield planned and oversaw the whole process. It was a stunning thing to watch him work...the drawings, the fabric swatches, the dreamy young men he brought to assist him. I'm telling you, Angelica, you could give up television and reading altogether with a crew like that around. Pure, sensual entertainment."

"Well, this is going to be a fabulous open-house, Tabby. Everyone will be so jealous. What are you serving?"

"That's a whole separate and wonderful affair. Michael hooked me up with the chef at Tempranillo. His cuisine is like an orgasm melting on your tongue, I'm telling you. He's made all these wonderful, little appetizers, and Micheal promised an enticing display."

"Ooh, it sound scrumptious. I can hardly wait."

"Well, Micheal won't let me see it until all the ladies arrive. He says he's cooked up a lovely surprise for us all."

______________ XXX


"Ladies, ladies, ladies..." Micheal burst into the room in a flurry of satin and velvet and spicy cologne. He stood with his legs perfectly straight and connected at the knees, his hands clasped under his chin, and an impish grin to pull them all in.

"I have such a treat for you tonight, ladies." He walked toward Tabitha and took her hand in his. "Over the past several months, I have grown to adore this woman. Her sense of style and her willingness to allow my creative instincts to make this house into an unrivaled beauty have just made my heart swell with gratitude. I'm so happy to have had the chance to work for such a gracious and charming woman." Michael then leaned forward a bit, putting his hand to the side of his face as if telling a secret, and in a low voice, he said, "Not to mention that she's virtually filled my bank account to overflowing in the process." The small crowd of women laughed and clapped in their upper-class way, controlled and just a touch condescending.

"And so...ladies...I implore you to follow me into the dining room. If you thought this room was to die for, you will be heady from the perfection of the next, pardon my immodesty."

The ladies collected like a group of noisy hens and followed Michael through the french doors into the dining room. Sudden gasps and squeaks and other noises of surprise and shock came from various corners of the room as the women took in their surroundings. From the pastoral paintings in ornate gold frames to the glossy mahogany table and the deep burgundy brocade drapes, the extravagant, yet oddly understated feel of the room was almost enough to draw the eyes away from the centerpiece.

Or not.

In the middle of the table, what seemed to be the statue of a young man, naked, his muscular body transfixed in the process of an upward undulation, began to move, ever so slowly.

"Oh....my....god." Tabitha went pale as a pearl and looked around at her guests to gauge their reaction.

Judging by the grins, averted eyes, and blushing cheeks, she made the assumption that the ladies were quite uncomfortable. But, in minutes, not one pair of those averted eyes could stray from the scene unfolding on the table.

The man, seemed to be in the throes of ecstasy. His hips pulsed slowly toward the ceiling and then back to the gleaming, mirror-like surface of the table. His reflection rippled beneath him.

From within the group of women, huddled in a circle like wintering penguins, Angelica emerged.

"I have to see this more closely." She walked toward the table. Looking at Michael, who stood off to the side, beaming with delight, she asked, "Can I touch him?"

Michael grinned, a deep, throaty laugh boiled up from his diaphragm. "My dear, he's a work of art...how else are you going to fully appreciate him if you don't touch him?"

Angelica reached out and touched his abdomen, the muscles there contracting with his smooth, wave-like movements. Like an electrical current, the energy he exuded traveled through her fingers, up her arm, and down her shoulder, resting in the small of her back at the base of her spine.

"Oh, good lord, that is a fine specimen."

If it were even possible, Michael's grin widened. "Well, my love, to truly experience art, you must take it in through all of your senses. He walked to the side of the marble-topped buffet and picked up a tapestry-covered footstool. Moving toward Angelica, he placed the stool at her feet.

"May I?" He offered her his hand.

With a look of confusion, she took his hand and stepped up, boosting herself on to the table.

"Ah, ah, ah...let me take those lovely Jimmy Choos of yours. Wouldn't want to scratch the beautiful finish, now would we? Watch your nails, too, hon..."

Angelica, having no clue what to do next, now that she was on the table, beside the naked man, a wide-eyed bevy of gossipy, wealthy women staring at them, mouths agape.

Which sense to test first? Smell...taste?

Michael reached out and placed a tiny cracker, covered with a dollop of caviar, on the man's stomach.

"See if you can enjoy that tasty treat without the use of your hands, love."

Angelica's eyes twitched back briefly to her little crowd of anxious spectators. What the hell? She thought. And she leaned forward, on her hands and knees, slipping her tongue beneath the cracker, placing her lips on his skin. The smell of him was primal. And she noticed his skin glistened as if rubbed down with gold shimmer. She heard him part his lips and exhale as she lifted the cracker into her mouth. And from the corner of her eye, she saw his member twitch to life. It made her forget herself. It made her forget the people in the room. It made her forget everything but the taste of his salty, sweet flesh.

And, good god was she starving.