Archive for sex


Posted in cusak, real life with tags , , on Mon, 26 Jan, 2009 :: 25/05 :: 23:02:13 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

His pillow, faintly permeated with the smell of his cologne. I pressed my nose to it, clinging to the last vestiges of the weekend we might have spent together, if his work hadn’t taken him away. A manly job, an earthy job, the wielding of knives. The faint salt sea clinging to him beneath the overwhelming aura of fish.

And I, curled up in this bed we shared, a bed that felt more his than mine, as our entire life did, wondered what would have been different. If I had loved someone else, someone more refined, less rugged. Someone whose drink of choice was the martini and not a beer.

But here, right here, in this nameless place, as I writhed with a hand between my legs, inhaling the scent of his cologne, I knew it couldn’t be traded.



Posted in thoughts with tags on Fri, 02 Jan, 2009 :: 1/01 :: 01:58:33 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I have been remiss. But it is a new year, and so my resolution is to write more regularly. I often make this promise, and then fail in it, but hopefully 2009 will be kinder.

As a gift to those of you out there who’ve managed to stick with me…


I lie in the dark. It’s late night, early morning. Stray light spills through the window. I see only shadows, but you have enough illumination to actually see. And so, as you turn in your sleep, you reach for my form, your hand settling at my hip, warm and soft.

Your fingertips idly trace designs against my skin as your breath comes warm against my neck. No words, only soft kisses. Eventually you reach up to free my hair, twining your fingers through it to pull me back, roll me over, in my sleepy haze. “I was dreaming, love,” you whisper. Then you kiss me, before I have time to respond.

You draw your body the length of mine, your warmth settling into my hollows and curves, as your lips move from mine to my jaw. Behind my ear. My collarbones. Your breath sending shivers through me, one hand pinning my hips to the bed as you shift. My breathless whimper makes you smile, and you tease my legs open with your knee.

“Mine,” you growl softly against my cheek as you enter me…


Happy New Year. May it bring you everything you want.


Posted in cusak with tags on Mon, 17 Nov, 2008 :: 321/47 :: 13:45:10 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I take a deep breath. It’s easier to face how much I want to let go and drift into the feeling when I’m breathing. It’s not as scary.

I hate hearing it described as “sub space” or “flying” or any of those other kitschy terms for it. It’s simply the great black ocean of release. Of safety. Of not having to drive, or be in control.


I want him to tie me up. To leave me there, bound, helpless. To occasionally inspect me, touch me, brush fingertips over skin. To murmur that I’m beautiful when I’m this package, this item, this objectified thing. Of his.

Last night he looked at me, the light still on, and called me his. There are no words for how it felt. Like gravity and love, wanting to fall desperately into it. Wanting to hear it again. Feeling his arms around me and being able to just belong to him. Without responsibility, without fear of messing it up.


Sometimes I would give anything to live in the darkness.


Posted in cusak, real life with tags , on Thu, 30 Oct, 2008 :: 303/44 :: 13:19:14 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

Sometimes I’m dreadfully uninteresting. I occasionally write in here from the fishbowl (my affectionate name for the reception area at my job, behind which I sit eight hours a day, like the proverbial fish on display) during my lunch break, or a late afternoon lull. Today I’m doing so while eating an instant rice noodle bowl, and drinking a vitamin water. I told you, uninteresting.

I wish, sometimes, that my life had the sensual cachet of she who I have cast myself after, Ms. Nin. I wish I could make this noodle bowl interesting, this vitamin water leap out of the page and into your own mouth. I wish I could write about how it’s all related for me, the sensuality and the sexuality. But you have to take my word for it. I’m a creature of feelings, not of rationality.

Sitting at work today, as I type away at the keyboard, engage in the pointless paper game of filing, I fantasize instead about being at home. I paint a picture for myself of the delicious treat of my birthday, someone to eat cake in bed with me, someone to touch me just so. These fantasies all resolve themselves into images of drawn out play, lingering seductions that start at waking, and gently tease me through the day. Like the slowest unwrapping of a gift, each word and glance and touch laden with promise, sending the tiniest sparks of pleasure through my skin and mind.

I find refuge from my own boredom at least.


Posted in real life, thoughts with tags , on Mon, 27 Oct, 2008 :: 300/44 :: 20:56:07 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I’ve been trying to frame into words this desire. This fantasy. The lingering needs and wants tangling themselves into a knot and burying themselves in my core.

I want him to dress me, to pose me. To put my hair just so, and part my lips gently with his thumb, to tell me to stare glassy eyed at the television, or the wall, or whatever happens to be in front of me until he wants to play with me again. I want to be taken into public, and given only the basics of movement and speech. Enough to laugh at his jokes, or agree with his comments. To stand and sit and walk.

To be set on the bed, and feel the pressure of his hands, perhaps even the faint warmth. To be so perfect at the game we’re playing that I can hold still as he brushes a nipple lightly, or circles my clit with a fingertip. To be able to hold my head still while he presses his lips to mine, not kissing back but just receiving the kiss.

To find perfect stillness of letting go, and being his treasured doll.


Posted in cusak with tags , on Sat, 20 Sep, 2008 :: 263/38 :: 12:21:18 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I want him to make me beg…but I’m no good at it. Generally by the time I get to that point, the only words I have left in my vocabulary are “Yes,” “Please,” “More,” and “No.” Sometimes I have such advanced linguistic skills as “Harder,” and “Hurt me,” but even those generally die under the haze of coming and needing to come and being on the edge of that great wide-open void of bliss.

The other day I dreamed (and have been polishing in my mind since then) a fantasy of begging him. Not our usual power exchange games, the ones where I give up my identity to him, and let him shape it into something new, a beautiful object for his gratification. No. This dream was about something deeper, darker, more intense. A new way of shattering my self on the hardness of him.

I knelt. I wore what he wanted me to wear, some confection of plaid or frills or lace. It isn’t terribly important, the set dressing. My hair fell down my back, until it wrapped easily through his fist. One hand caressed my cheek softly, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m going to hurt you,” he whispered softly. Tenderly. A promise, not a threat or an angry expletive. “I’m going to hurt you, and I’m going to watch you cry, and I’m going to make you tell me how much you like it.”

His hands went to work, finding the soft places in me. Waking them to attention with teasing little touches, with the warm strokes of his tongue, with the heat of his breath and the barest edge of his nails. And then, when I shivered, when I gasped softly, the only begging I know, he gave me the promised pain. He found each of those soft places and pushed me harder than I thought he could into them, pushed me over the edges of sensation until I was whimpering, sobbing, needing more from him. Wanting it to stop and to never stop, and to be taken into his arms and told I was a good girl…and wanting him to push my face into the bed and tell me that if I had been a good girl none of this would be necessary.

Instead of these things, he lifted my chin, tilted my head up to look at him, stroked his thumb through the trail my tears had washed down my cheeks. Purred in that inimitable growl of his, “And now…now you’re going to beg.” I’m certain that even in this chimerical dream, he could see the fear of my ineloquence in my expression.

The hand that touched my tears slid lower, tracing the salty wetness down the skin of one breast, stroking it as he whispered the words he wanted to hear in my ear. Growled a little as I hesitated and stuttered, his hand stinging my cheek easily with the slap. “I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t stutter. You won’t either.” The game continued, words being fit to my mouth, his hand finding home on my cheek, my body, as I failed to repeat them…or finding new homes, soft and pleasing homes, as I succeeded. Rewards and punishments, dragging me further from my shell, turning me into this new thing for him. An extension of every object he’d ever derived pleasure from, directed to his exacting standards, and willing…more than willing, wanting to be this for him. To give everything to him, to empty the shell of identity and let him fill it for these few hours with his needs and desires.

I’m not sure that it matters that it ended in fucking, in climax, in lying sweaty on the bed claimed thoroughly as his, able only to summon up the presence of mind to breathe “yours” in response to his claiming.


Posted in cusak with tags , on Thu, 18 Sep, 2008 :: 261/38 :: 12:49:17 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I’m carrying his lighter today. His first lighter. It’s brass plated, wearing away a little at the edges. It’s been loved. I wish I knew its stories, when he first got it, when he used it, whether he lit the cigarettes he smoked after breaking up with his ex with it.

It feels intimate, this object in my hand. It’s a piece of him, and if I had pockets, I’d nestle it in one. Next to my skin like a kiss or a bite, trace my fingers over it surreptitiously when no one was looking. It would be like having him here with me, the warm little play of breath on my skin as he leans in over my shoulder.

I hate this week. This week of girl-body, necessitating intellectual intimacy instead of physical intimacy. It seems that in this week I am most easily distracted by his lips against mine, by the feel of his thumb stroking circles on the small of my back, of the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps next to me. I want to take him, in these moments, to crawl into his lap and push his pants aside, and have him within me.

Instead I’m carrying his lighter.