not reading

We're both sick. His cold is on its way out, while mine is just beginning. Last night we were lying in bed, and he was reading to me. I caressed his body as he read. (We're reading Dorothy Sayers' first mystery, by the way.) I touched his chest, his belly. His arms, his belly. My hand slipped into his pants and his underwear. I caressed his thighs and ran my fingers through his pubic hair. I cupped his balls and touched his dick. He stopped reading and looked at me, the book still in his hands. Are we not reading anymore? he asked.

He pulled down his pants so I could have better access. I held his cock and felt it grow. It seemed vulnerable and sleepy. Slowly it grew to full size, and I was rubbing it and jacking him off with spit on my hand.

Give me some lubricant, I said. It's rare that I use lubricant on his cock because it means we're not soon going to fuck, and I'm not soon going down on him. It means hands only, and he likes this.

I put plenty of lubricant on his cock and did my best with it. I jacked him off fast and slow. I tried holding him in my hand loosely, holding his tight. I used both hands, and I used just a finger and thumb. I stroked just the underside. I did different combinations of fast and slow, such as two fast and one slow, then four fast and two slow.

He lay there with his eyes closed, holding onto my left breast, sometimes opening his eyes half way to look at my breast and my face, sometimes muttering, That feels so good, to keep my spirits up.

I was aroused by his arousal. I was also having a simple kind of fun. His cock is sometimes like a toy, to me. What can I do to him, what can I make him feel, what can I make him say and do? I like it in this purely physical way, like a child playing.

As time passed, and his arousal grew more intense, mine did too, and the experience became more emotional. I started to get off on imagining what he was imagining. I imagined him imagining me fucking him, my wet cunt giving him just the love he needed at the moment he needed it. I imagined him imagining me fucking him without a condom, caring nothing for consequences, wanting nothing but that pure and wholly intimate fuck without barrier.

My cunt ached with lust as he said, I might come, and then, I'm going to come, and he did, the hot semen spurting on his lower abdomen, so white it was almost blue, copious and very real.

We cleaned him up, I washed my hands, and then it was my turn. I masturbated as he touched my tits and told me what I had done to him. I was at the point of coming within seconds but made myself hold off. Then I asked him if he wanted to make me come. He said yes and touched me fast, taking over.

I felt the rising feelings, the first part of coming, then the catastrophic sensationing of falling, pleasure pumping through me with the fast contractions of my sweet little cunt.

theory

This past weekend I was visiting with family, and my dad and niece were playing in a backyard pool. They were splashing, teasing, swimming around, holding their breath underwater, and having a good time. My niece, who is four, liked me near. She seemed to be paying no attention to me, but when I made a move to leave, she objected. "Stay here, Auntie!" she said, laughing. No matter who she's playing with, she likes me around, and I've heard her say this to others too. So I obeyed, and it made me think of this sex blog and why I've written it.

Some people, maybe all people, like a witness to our play. It's why I write letters, partly. It's why people like to talk about their days. To be recognized and seen, witnessed. So that's probably a reason to sex blog, to be silently observed. When my husband and I are fucking, it's just the two of us, but in a very removed way, if I blog about it later, then someone is watching, and exhibitionism is hot.

Another reason to sex blog has been for myself. My husband and I were trying new things, and I wanted to document it. For him too. He reads it and learns more about what was happening in my head. It's been intimate and beautiful.

To represent reality as art. All art is representational, isn't it? I could paint a picture, but I don't paint. Compose a dance, sketch, sculpt. I'm not good at any of these, but I am sort of a writer.

Fan mail has let me know that a small handful of people enjoy the blog and some even find it to be a meaningful part of their lives. People who object to picture porn can read this erotica instead and keep to their agreements.

And sex blogging, it's transgressive to talk about these naughty things. In transgression I find healing. I have to break the rules to heal from the oppression of the rules. Anonymity makes my transgression safe.

I would welcome any other ideas on why I've done this, why anyone does this.