Some say that the “ache for home lives in all of us.“ As I am falling deeper and deeper into onanism, a lot of spaces around me are gradually becoming home: public toilets, McDonald’s under tables, hotel rooms. The itch is then guiding me to one of these homes. It also keeps building new homes for me. Homes in which I feel safe, I feel welcomed, and in a lot of pleasure. Sounds good, but this is also the worst part of the addiction.

How can someone say no to this?! How can someone who has been refused all these things all her life can destroy them when she finally got them?! HOW?! I can easily say “No!“ to onanism, as I said to sex. But I can never say “No!“ to having a home. I think that’s the issue with most addictions: in order to get “cured“, we need to destroy that “ache for home“. We need to become homeless…

I call my toys after writers, both males and females. Today I fuck myself with Celan, with Akhmatova, or Bukowski…With one of them, or with 2, with 3. Later in the day, or tomorrow I’ll change the names, I’ll have others over. I have a few toys, but I want to get so much more. I want to organize huge literary orgies in which my body and my flesh will be at their disposal. I’m already their slave…Have been so long before I became an onanist. Falling in love with their words and their worlds saved me.

When my onanist lust starts to gradually grow inside me, I feel how every cell in my body slowly transform itself into a clit, into a nipple, another cunt, another raging leaking hole… I touch my neck, my ear, my lips, and I feel burning. My arms, my neck again… I finger my fingers, I kiss my own mouth, I whisper in my own ears. I start shacking, my vision blurs, I can’t hear well anymore, I start to droll from everywhere. No matter where I am, I start to retreat from reality, to run away, to disappear. If I cannot masturbate right where I am, I’m becoming increasingly desperate and looking for home. It’s force of attraction is unbearable. My breathing gets heavier, I’m starting to sweat, to melt, to grunt. As I walk I put the belt of my purse over one of my breasts, and start to rub my nipple with it. That doesn’t help at all, but I cannot fucking stop, it’s pleasure, pleasure, pleasure…My mouth is full of saliva, my cunt is under water, I feel my clothes rubbing against my skin and my ears are ringing. I wish I’d have a horse-sized dildo right there so I can impale myself. Maybe the itch will go away. I put my purse in front of my belly so I can finger my navel. It doesn’t bring relief, but the opposite. Bad idea, though the only idea.

I know a bookstore in the city where they have real toilets, not booths. It’s my home away from home (or one of them). I’m heading there, almost crawling, as all my energy and force gets sucked by desire. It’s hot outside, and I hate it! Between me and that toilet there is a gigantic swamp, and I have to cross it. I have to survive, somehow. I’ve done it before, I have to be able to do it this time too. But with every time it gets more difficult. When the urge hits, it hits hard. At the beginning, when I was just getting into all this. I was able to go on for days and weeks with that lusty feeling inside me, without doing anything. Now, I’m completely enslaved. It controls me, my soul belongs to it.

I want to sit on the ground, right there, rip my clothes off, spread and start fisting myself. I don’t care about anything anymore, I just want to make the itch stop, I want to get delirious with pleasure, I want I want I want I want!!!! I can’t breathe…

Keep walking!, I keep telling myself Your home is not that far anymore… Your home is not that far anymore…

I finally manage to cross the proverbial swamp, the imaginary yet equally equally real rest of the city that separated me from the home I need so desperately to get inside. My cunt leaks so much I look like a peed on junky, I am a junky, an onanist junky about to enter in a coma from prolonged lack of masturbation! I need to fuck myself more that I need to breath, more than I need to…FUCK! I’m fucking dying, but I’m finally here! The bookstore with its toilet rises in front of me…Get in, NOW!

Door opening, door closing – our lives, everybody’s lives in two minimal moves. Then we die. The door closes for the last time. In between, hell with pockets of paradise. I want to die impaled in toys, still spasming with orgasms hours after I’m declared clinically gone-for-good, on the morgue’s table, under the mortician’s knife. He cannot cut me, I’m moving too much, I’m cumming to violently, I squirt everywhere yet I’m dead dead dead where the fuck am I?! Oh yes the bookstore. I’m in so much lust, I need to masturbate so badly I forgot I’m here to masturbate. The toilet is near, I can smell it with my cunt. This is how I feel a home is close, my cunt sense it, my flesh, my whole body, my skin, all my holes start dancing and I cannot say “no“, I cannot say “stop!“, I cannot say “ENOUGH!“. These are things people with brains say, but I have none. The little that’s left swims in alcohol, and is used to type the pin code at the sex store while buying yet another toy. You need some brain for that too, not much, just enough.

I enter the toilet, drooling, grunting, dying. I let the purse fell on the floor, I pull down my skirt and my soaked pants and finally touch the cunt. I almost scream, that first touch is the most insane thing that can happen, my life has no purpose other that, I have nothing to live for anymore, nothing, 0. I rub few times with drool falling in my blouse, I don’t care, I’m crying with pleasure, frustration, lust, hate, all at once. I’m home!! There’s no world left outside that toilet.

Bukowski was right (how could he not?! He was a home-seeker too): “Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.”

Some years ago I found what I love. Now, it’s already ruining my life, my body and my mind. It drains me, it clings into me, and it’s gradually annihilating me. Stages of disappearance.

One day, it will kill me…

Goonette
Ghost with Bones

I think I’m bi

September 8, 2019

Women are so beautiful

take a woman down to her skin
and you can trace the lines of her back
like tracing the curves of silken cloth
every dimple
every curve

the crease of the neck
the elegance of the shoulder blades
the rolling divot of the spinal cord
the curve of her sides
the dimples at the bottom of her spine
her hips
that dint that curves around to her inner thighs
her thighs
her knees
her ankles

the feeling of pressing your naked body up to her naked body
your hands on her hips
your palms in her dimples
your chest on her back
chin in her collar
fingers in her pelvic crease
your lips on her neck
her arse fits into your pelvis
your tongue at her jaw line
hands in between her thighs
teeth pulling at her earlobe
fingers on her cunt
her cum on your fingers
your leg wrapped around hers
your hand tracing her outline
like rolling hills
soft
and smooth

she’s so beautiful
and it’s all so perfect

Bella

Recently my mother in law and I made plans to go shopping. She came to my house and was in my bedroom as I tried on old clothes – I wanted see what I should keep or toss. I was changing in and out of clothes, so was semi-nude at times, but didn’t think much of it as we chatted away. I had a bathing suit I wasn’t sure if I should keep, so I stripped down naked to try it on.

When my MIL saw me, she remarked on my shaved pussy. “I haven’t seen a grown woman smooth like that,” she said. I was standing near my closet and she came right over and asked if she could touch me. I kind of blushed and said “okay,’ not sure what else to do. She ran her hand and fingers over my bald pussy. She asked a few more questions about how it felt, how often I shaved, and kept remarking how nice I looked. The entire time, her fingers were touching me. I kept blushing and giggling a bit as I answered her questions, too polite to tell her to stop.

Much to my embarrassment, I started to get wet, and she noticed. “Do you like how that feels?” she asked. Now, I really began to blush. I started to stammer and said, “I think so.” She kept touching me, running her finger up and down my smooth lips until I was quite wet and then I felt her finger nudge inside of me. I froze, feeling half scared, half excited and having no idea what was going on, or what to do.

We were standing just inches from each other and she kept stroking her finger in and out of my now very wet pussy. I felt my body surrender to what was happening. I leaned against my closet door and parted my legs slightly, letting her finger me more easily. Very quickly, I felt myself rushing towards an orgasm. I don’t remember how long it took. It seemed like forever, yet I know I was gasping and having spasms in just a minute or two. Finally, when I calmed down, my MIL pulled her fingers out of me and sucked on them and then she kissed me. She smiled and said, “next time, it’s your turn,” and then said we better get going.

SOURCE

Sunday Breakfast

July 7, 2019

His nostrils flared and he couldn’t wait any longer. He lifted her bodily, moving her farther up on the bed, placing her head and shoulders against the pillows, and then pushed up her chemise, crawling between her spread thighs and settling to enjoy what he’d found.

There. There she was, her pretty, pretty pink cunny, all coral lips and wispy dark-blond curls. He hiked her trembling legs over his arms, ignoring her gasp of shocked surprise. He glanced up at once and saw wide, wondering eyes gazing back at him. Her gentlemanly first husband had evidently never done this to her.

More fool he.

Then he bent and feasted.

His nose pressed into her mound, inhaling her woman’s scent, his cock grinding hard into the bed, his tongue licking into tart and salt and her.

Oh God, her.

She squealed at his first touch and tried to squirm away, but he held her fast with his hands on her hips. He almost smiled against her tender flesh, his teeth scraping oh so gently. She might be startled, might be outraged and shocked, but she liked it.

Perhaps even loved it- what he was doing to her.

She was moaning now, low in her throat, making little mewling sounds, so erotic and sweet, her hips twitching against his lips, trying to get more. He opened his mouth, covering her, breathing over her. He stiffened his tongue and speared into her as far as he could reach, his jaw aching. She cried out at that and he felt fingers tangling in his hair.

He withdrew his tongue and moved to her clitoris, taking the small bit of flesh gently between his teeth and pulling. She froze, trembling all over, and he could hear her gasping breaths. He opened his mouth and licked her. Softly. Tenderly.

Thoroughly.

And at the same time he shoved two fingers into her, feeling her wet walls contract against his knuckles, smelling the rise of her arousal.

She arched under him, her soft thighs thrashing restlessly, making no sound, but he knew.

He knew.

He curled the fingers inside her and stroked her wet, silky inner walls as he pulled them back.Then he shoved them again into her, hard and firm, repeating the motion as he suckled her clitoris.
She moaned – loud in the quiet room – and pushed against him, and he felt her tremble and suddenly grow wetter. She shuddered helplessly and he was drunk on her release, his cock a heavy, near-painful throb.

He turned his head and kissed the inside of her soft thigh, listening to her pant.

Elizabeth Hoyt
Duke of Desire

lips and tongue

You like her hands, don’t you darling? When her fingers are combing through your hair so soft and gentle, when you’re lying on her and she’s holding you close. Her hands are the only things moving then, her hands and you as you rise and fall with her even, slow breathing.

You like when she cups your cheek, palm soft and warm against your skin. You like when she cups your cheek and holds you still while she takes her time to lick into your mouth and kiss you so deep. Her hand is the only thing holding you in place while she bites your lips and licks every rasping moan off your tongue.

You love when she drags her nails down your chest, along your ribs and hooks around your hips. When she teases you with those slow little circles, smiling at you while she tells you every dirty thing she wants to do to you and won’t you let her puppy, please?

You love when those hands hold your legs open, push them just a little wider. When her nails dig into your skin and leave sweet little marks, when she makes it hurt so sugar sweet and you gasp as she bites and nips and sucks.

You love her hands when they’re touching you, there’s no doubt about that, but there’s one thing you love best, right darling? Mhmm, your favourite is when her fingers curl around your throat, palm warm where it holds warm and steady. Your favourite is when she squeezes, when she pins you down with a hand around your throat and the other between your thighs and whispers how pretty you are when your cheeks are flushed so red and you’re so wet it must hurt.

You love her best when her lips are at your ear, asking you what you want. Do you want to cum? Do you want her to squeeze tighter? You’ve been such a good little pet, you deserve a reward, so what would you like darling? Do speak up.

And when you can’t answer because she’s choking you so good and nice, the way you like, she rocks against you. When you can’t answer because it’s so much, too much and not enough. She tells you that if you can’t answer, then she’ll have to choose for you and she wants you to cum. She’d like you to cum for her right now darling, cum from just her hands, when you’re gasping for a breath and everything’s the sweetest kind of fuzzy.

You love that, don’t you?

Mommymaxie
So Sayeth, Your Lord

hearing your little moans

October 7, 2018

do you want to know what i’ve been thinking about, kitten?

i’ve been thinking about spreading you open on my fingers, petting your wet, swollen pussy and hearing your little moans.

you let me lean down to taste you, angel? do you want my tongue on your clit, just the way you like, licking you so sweetly?

you look so pretty on your back, legs spread wide like a good girl.

SOURCE

the base of my heart

September 30, 2018

hips

My body began to wait for Piki to push her fingers inside, how they would reach all the way to the base of my heart and pull out my heart on Piki’s palm…It felt like it was raining red inside me and I was amazed yet again when the sheets hadn’t turned red, but instead were wet like a tissue filled with tears, even though Piki had pushed her fingers all the way up into my heart. My skin was filled with hematomas that were visible even in the dark, my heart glowing through my skin, as if it were beating towards Piki’s burrowing fingers even after she had pulled them out. As if it were spreading through my whole body trying to find its way back to those merciless fingertips.

Sofi Oksanen
Baby Jane

Pervert

June 24, 2018

The week before my mother died
I went to a feminist theory seminar
and even though I can describe myself as nothing
other than happily married, I wanted
another woman. An old-school butch —
the kind of woman who exudes lesbian
through every pore of her being, the kind of woman
who sits comfortably with her legs apart,
who stands forcefully, both feet
firmly on the ground, the kind of woman
known as ballsy and, on occasion, a ball-buster,
the kind of woman whose eyes sear
femme’s bodies, make our nipples
go hard, our clits erect, our pussies
wet, the kind of woman I desire.
And it was not just that I admired her power,
not just that I appreciated her sexual being
walking through the world, glancing at me,
giving me the benefit of lust. No, I had to
indulge in the full-frontal fantasy.
During two days of seminars, I imagined her hand
carefully inserted in my vagina, her long fingers
first stroking my muscular walls, gathering
the rhythm of sex, opening my vagina
to accommodate four fingers, a thumb,
then squeezing; I imagined how
my body would yield for her, how my lips
would quiver when my body erupted
into orgasm. I imagined looking into her eyes
as the ripples of my orgasm slid her tighter
and more deeply into my cunt. I imagined making
her the new core of my body, my second, slutty heart
in the way that only sex and lust bring
two women together. I imagined sucking her nipples,
laughing with her in the afterglow.
I imagined how much she would want me after I took her
whole hand inside me, and, though I do not
believe this, when my father called to tell me
about the bleed in my mother’s brain
and how I needed to come home to help him
with the work death entails, to mourn with him,
to bury my mother, though I do not
believe this at all, I could not help but think:
I caused my mother’s death with my lust.
Her death was G-d’s punishment for my desire
of someone outside marriage, G-d’s punishment
for my continual, unrelenting lust
for women, which my mother had condemned.
I could not help but see her in death
somehow justified in her anger, in her continued disappointment
with my perversity. I could not help
but think: I am the pervert
who caused my mother’s death.
I could not help but hear her final,
fatal words, crushing the lust,
the joy from the fantasy: all along she knew
I would kill her, and after her death,
she would hiss, I told you, I told you so.

Julie R Enszer

teasing tongues

May 20, 2018

good friends playing nicely

The first time I had sex with a woman, just her and I, I marvelled at the pace. Sex with men always felt pressing, driven by an intensity that climbed quickly. Sometimes I liked that energy, it made me feel wanted, desired. The rush was fun, like tearing open a present. Other times I felt like we skipped over the good parts, like I could have pressed against him while he kissed my neck for hours. Sometimes I felt like I was trying to catch up, I was too young and inexperienced to say “Slow down.”

The first time I had sex with a woman, and it was just her and I, we kissed for hours. Literally hours. Slow, tender, swollen-lips, hands in our hair, teasing tongues, moans and soft sounds, our hips pressing together, in no hurry but never staying still. By the time I pressed my hand between her legs her panties were soaked right through. That little wet spot made fireworks in my head, my clit throbbed. This was divine. I didn’t pull her cotton underwear aside until she was already close to orgasm, just from my fingertips tracing over the fabric, and her eager grinding against my palm.

After she came we slowed down but never stopped touching each other until she’d had her second, third and fourth. There’s a difference between “I came” and “I’m satiated”. Fucking someone who understood that made sex an entirely new thing. We fucked until we were finished, exhausted and spent. I finally felt satisfied.

The next time a man touched me all I could feel was the energy propelled by his hard-on. The rush that rush-of-blood to his cock put him in. I felt like I wasn’t there.

Heart
Reflections
Queer Enough, 2018

I’m sure you’re all familiar with the myth that women prefer cuddling to sex. I think the biggest reason for that myth is that our cultural concept of sex is so skewed. We consider intercourse the ultimate and often the only sex act. Oral sex, fingering, humping, playing with toys, and a whole variety of other things that get women off (because they involve clitorises instead of just vaginas) do not count as sex to most men.

Alicia
Paper Cuts and Plastic: Women and “Sex”