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.