My First Time

It didn’t take long for Carlos to deflower me.

On our first date, we went out to dinner and then he took me to the beach. He had brought a beach blanket with him and we sat there under the stars listening to the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Carlos was quiet and told me had been painfully shy as a boy. He had this calm control of himself that I found alluring.

Carlos was Cuban, I was half Colombian. Our shared Latino culture bonded us. Though I have inherited most of my father’s German and Irish features, I did feel Latina down to my bones and was raised way more Latin than American. And, yes, I know that Latin Americans are technically Americans too, but that’s just how we say it.

Carlos was tall with dark skin, black hair, brown eyes. I was a petite, fair-skinned blonde with green eyes. He was the physical opposite of me and that aroused me tremendously. I’m still turned on by opposites to this day.

As we sat on the blanket, shoulder to shoulder, I mused at how light my skin was next to his; like a bowl of cream next to a bowl of chocolate.

Pensive, he looked at the stars and then at me. His kiss was the best kiss I had ever had; a complex sensual dance that made me throb in all the right places. I think maybe it was at that moment that I fell in love with him. There’s just something about uniting to a man with a kiss; something deeper than the physical.

Soon after we began kissing, he wriggled his hand under the front of my jeans and fingered me while he pinched my nipples. I swear I was so shocked that I couldn’t move. I let out a weak protest, followed by a guttural sound as the orgasm escaped my body. I had never had a boy touch me in any of those parts before. It was so forbidden, but my mouth forgot how to say no. Truth is, he never asked for permission.

My body was buzzing, electric. I could feel that this man was waking something up; something powerful and dangerous that I never dared disturb before.

He licked my juices off his fingers, which stunned me. “Do you touch yourself like I just touched you?” he asked, his face was a mix of curiosity and concern.

I blushed. “Sometimes.”

“Do you cum?”

I stared at the patterns of the blanket for a while. “Yes, but it feels better when you do it,” I whispered.

He smiled and nodded. “Good. We’ll make sure that happens a lot.”

He took my hand and pressed it against the front of his jeans. “You’ve made me very hard,” he said as he made me trace the outline of his cock behind his jeans.

“I’m sorry,” I said, innocently.

He tried not to laugh, he really did.

On the second date, we went to his house and watched Like Water for Chocolate–a movie he had selected for this occasion. I was wearing a short pink sun dress with spaghetti straps. We watched the movie, lying down next to each other on his couch, my back to his front, as he played with my nipples and kissed my neck. It was an appropriate movie since I was all water by the time the credits rolled.

He excused himself and was gone for what seemed like a long time. When he returned, he wrapped his large hand around mine and pulled me into his bedroom. The room was filled with the soft, warm glow of candles. It was incredibly romantic. My first time was going to be epic!

Slowly, he peeled off my clothes as I trembled. When he slid my panties off, he inhaled deeply and his features changed; his calm demeanor now replaced with primal hunger.

He lay me on his bed, face up. He undressed in front of me. God, he was beautiful. He was a firefighter and a part-time model. He had the most amazing chiseled abs, which he informed me helped him thrust even harder. I was enthralled by the “V” of his pelvic girdle.

male nude abs

When he took off his pants, I saw his erection. I had never seen one and it kind of scared me. He smiled that wicked smile of his and crawled on the bed, his face between my legs.

Oh my God!!

Let’s just say that when Carlos dies, his tongue should be bronzed. Not only did he truly enjoy skating his tongue along the flower of my sex, but he brought me to orgasm after orgasm until I thought I would faint from erotic exhaustion.

I knew what was going to happen next and I was ready. More than ready.

“Have you ever seen a man ejaculate?” he asked me.

I blinked. “No.” I can’t imagine where an innocent virgin like me would have seen such a thing.

That’s when he did something that surprised and confused me. He started masturbating in front of me. He came quietly, his essence shooting up into the air several feet.

I was speechless and throbbing.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, as if that explained anything to me.

Carlos cleaned himself up, crawled on top of me, his muscled arms pinning me to the bed. Then he kissed me over and over again, his cock sliding along the slit between my mounds, but he didn’t push himself inside me. I moaned in agony while I asked myself, why weren’t we having sex? Was something wrong with me?

He looked at me suddenly and said, “I’m not going to go all the way in. You’re not ready yet.”

I was sure there was no way I could be more ready, but he was the experienced one so I nodded in agreement.

He used his hand to guide his cock into that cavern of lust that no man had explored before. One tiny centimeter after another until I gasped. At some point an imaginary door appeared; a door that wouldn’t open. I clenched.

“Relax,” he whispered into my ear.

I tried to, I really did, but I couldn’t.

Carlos didn’t seem upset with me at all.

On our next date, I wore a white linen dress and white lace panties. No bra. I remember that night so well. We watched an action movie at the local movie theater. During the flick, he thumbed my nipples through the arm opening of my dress until they were as hard as little pebbles. I was so wet that I was afraid my excitement would bloom through the light linen fabric.

We left, got in his car and he looked at me with a grimace. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Before I could ask him what he was sorry about, he gave me an order. “Take off your panties.”

I was going to protest, we were in a packed parking lot, but his eyes turned intense. “Now.”

I quickly slipped them off and once I had, he grabbed me roughly and dragged me on top of him. He was in the driver’s seat and I was straddling him, my bare, wet pussy on top of the coarse fabric of his jeans. While I was still on top of him, he unzipped his fly and freed his cock.

Carlos looked like a feral animal. I was scared. How could this romantic, gentle man want to do this here, now? But there was no question that’s exactly what he wanted.

“This is going to hurt.” With that he shoved his cock inside me and I let out a small scream as my back arched. With one thrust, he had broken through the door.

His car windows were tinted, but I was sure all the moviegoers around us could see what was happening.

After the first few thrust, it didn’t hurt anymore. I felt filled with him. Though I didn’t understand why, I loved how he had taken me like that. It’s an amazing feeling to see a self-controlled man lose control because he wants you so much.

I also learned an interesting lesson: action movies turn men on. Note taken.

I looked down at his cock as it pistoned inside me. I stared at it, fascinated by this dark column of muscle disappearing into my body. In and out, in and out. Over and over again until I had an orgasm unlike any other I had before. The only way I can describe the difference between a vaginal orgasm and a clitoral one is that a vaginal orgasm is deeper and makes you feel whole while a clitoral one is more of a beautiful, electric release. They’re both wonderful, but when you have both at the same time, it is complete and absolute bliss.

The following day, Carlos took me every which way in his house. We had sex for hours. We did it on the bed, the couch, the floor, the bathtub. Even the kitchen sink. He was insatiable and I was surprised to find out that I was too.

couple-in-bed-008

As I watched him sleep in the nude next to me, the sheet barely covering his manhood, I thought to myself: I’m glad I waited because if I had let this beast out when I was in my teens, what would have become of me?

I had a religious friend ask me why I had let him take my virginity. I simply said,

“Because he deserved it.”

I had always been very religious and therefore, repressed, but this connection, this union between a man and a woman beat that hands down. Sex was the melding of the physical, spiritual, psychological and emotional worlds of two human beings. Powerful stuff indeed and created by God to be this amazing for a reason. No sermon had ever moved me like this. From then on, I knew that intimate sex with someone I loved was more meaningful to me that anything else. I wanted to concentrate on my lover and on him alone. Nothing made me happier than pleasing him. Let the rest of the world be damned. This was my calling.

For the next few weeks, Carlos showed me how to please him. He took me whenever and wherever he wanted. A crowded beach, at lunch at a restaurant, an alley behind a bookstore. He used me for his pleasure, grabbing my hair, pinning me down, slapping my ass and shoving himself inside me without preamble while also showing incredible tenderness at times. It was amazing, but it didn’t last.

Carlos was a fabulous and skilled lover, but he didn’t quite know how to navigate the hours between sex. After satiating himself, he would tune me out completely. I felt so alone, so discarded. I tried to break up with him because that upset me so much, but he would just seduce me again. It was obvious I was powerless under his spell. The night before I ended it, he said, “Next time, I’m going to tie you up and shave you. I’ll show you things…”

Those words, and the promise they held, have haunted me for years. How different would things be if I had not broken up with him, at least not before he tied me up and “showed me things”?

I didn’t know it then, but I’m pretty sure Carlos was a Dom. At the very least he was a very dominant man.

Though he couldn’t manage the  emotional side of a relationship, he set my sexual beast free.

And I’ve been wrestling with it ever since.

It’s the Little Things

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps …”

Pablo Neruda

I love men. Seriously, I’m a huge fan. I love their boyish charm, their wicked fantasies and how they can’t stop staring at my chest. I’m pretty sure they also know I adore them and they appreciate it.

But my favorite men are Doms. Doms are delicious. They elevate seduction to a whole new level. I, for one, am incredibly grateful for the effort.

The energy they exude is intoxicating. It can make a sub like me dizzy. Dominant energy is a living thing. I can’t speak for how a Dom feels submissive energy, but I’d like to think we can both sense that we were created for each other. It’s beautiful, really.

BDSM novels would lead you to believe that a Dominant man is all about his skills; how he controls a woman or how well he ties knots. For me, it’s the little things that send me vibrating.

The warmth of my lover’s breath on my neck; his fingertips lightly touching the small of my back as we walk into a restaurant.

I miss the feel of a man’s razor stubble as he brushes his cheek against my sensitive inner thigh. That look just before he takes me.

However, what I miss more than anything is kissing. Is there anything more erotic than two tongues slow dancing with each other as your noses, cheeks, chins and foreheads touch? Kissing is a prayer, it is sacred.

domkiss2

Kissing is an art and I like to believe that I am a connoisseur of this particular craft. That’s how it should be for lovers. Love, sensuality, seduction, erotic energy is something that must be practiced, exercised and shared.

What can I say, I’m a hopeless romantic or maybe I’m just hopeless!

Lately, I’ve been listening to the old Mexican love songs that my mother grew up with. She’d listen to them when I was a child and I learned to be quite fond of them. I may post some of the translated lyrics on the blog someday, but here’s a small snippet that really got to me from the song, Amor:

To feel that your kisses were nested on me
Like messenger pigeons carriers of light,
To know that my kisses were left in you
Making the sign of the cross on your lips.

Mmm. I can’t wait until I can feel that again…

Counting my Flaws

When writing the stories for his most famous hero, James Bond, Ian Fleming always made sure the women were not perfect. They had buck teeth, wore glass or were very short; anything that made them less than ideal. Why? Because Fleming understood that complete perfection is not sexy and it’s not interesting.

I certainly hope so, because I am anything but perfect.

I am one of those incredibly self-critical women who always thinks she looks a mess. Even when I was modeling in my early twenties I was constantly aware of how imperfect I was. It makes me sad to think that I couldn’t even enjoy the body I had then. Oh, what I could do with it now!

I’m better about self-esteem now that I’m in my forties, but I haven’t mastered that demon yet. I admit it, I still count my flaws.

My body has ten of them. Three really bother me, two piss me off and the rest are quite silly.

I’m most uncomfortable with the two scars that crisscross my lower abdomen. They hurt sometimes and they make my belly to look lopsided. On top of that, the incisions severed the muscle so no matter how much I workout, that area remains soft.

I’ve thought about talking to a plastic surgeon and getting that area nipped and tucked, but that would mean surgery #3 in that already incredibly scarred part of my body.

Yes, they’re ugly, but most of all I hate those scars because they are constant reminders of my failure to be a mother. Though I always wanted children, I couldn’t have any. The first surgery was to remove cysts to see if that would help me get pregnant. The second surgery was a partial hysterectomy when I knew that losing another baby would kill me.

I didn’t find out until my fourth miscarriage that I had a rare blood disease that carried a 98% miscarriage rate.

For years, I did everything to have a baby: hormones, pills, shots, meditation, prayer. I tried in vitro, adoption, surrogacy. Everything failed. I failed at one of the most basic things a woman was meant to do: motherhood.

That, you see, is my greatest wound and my biggest flaw. And those damn scars remind me of it every day.

I’ll never forget the day I had the courage to show James my scars. He said they were beautiful because they testified to the strong woman I am, to the survivor I am.

Now I have a new scar. The one he left in my heart. And I’m afraid there’s no way to fix that one.


Featured Painting: Odalisque by Mariano Fortuny (1862)

What is it About Vampires?

“Evil is a point of view.
God kills indiscriminately and so shall we.”

Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice

My fascination with vampires started in college. I was taking a night class when I met a strange and beautiful girl named Serena. She had short platinum blonde hair, crazy gorgeous cheekbones, blue eyes lined with black kohl and pouty red lips. And she was as pale as any person I had ever seen. Unnaturally so.

Serena stared at me all during class as she bit her pen and twirled it between her fingers. Was it my short skirt revealing my firm thighs or maybe my nipples showing through my t-shirt? No, it had to be my hair. Even as a child I had caught other girls smelling it and touching it. I was nineteen and at that age, my blonde, wavy hair reached the swell of my ass much to the enchantment of men and women who were so inclined.

I’m not into women, never have been, but this one wouldn’t let up. One night after class, I decided to break the spell by introducing myself.

She smiled and stared at my neck.

I mean, really.

Reflexively, I covered my throat with my hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m training to be a vampire and you smell delicious.”

Well, now I had heard everything. “You’re training to be a what?”

She smiled again. “A vampire.”

I was speechless. I laughed nervously. “You know those aren’t real, right?”

“Oh, we’re real,” she said, licking her lips. “But not like the vampires in movies. We don’t need to drink blood to survive and we’re not dead. We can see our reflection in the mirror and we love garlic in our pasta.”

“Isn’t that pretty much what a vampire is, though?”

“That’s not how we see it.”

Turns out that Serena was part of a clan of vampires comprised of college students. They had gotten into “vampire life” after reading Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire.

Okay, so it’s a bunch of crazy college kids having some fun with role playing.

Not according to Serena. To them, it was a lifestyle.

They only came out at night and shunned the sun. They had blocked all sunlight from their bedrooms. Some went as far as getting their teeth filed in the shape of fangs. Others slept in coffins. They enjoyed their control over others.

And, oh, yeah, they drank human blood.

Serena must have noticed my horror. “We have donors, it’s not like we kill people or anything. Plus, the donors are tested for diseases before we drink their blood.”

“Donors?”

“Yes,” she said, closing in on me. “Would you like to donate to a poor girl vampire in training?”

Vampire - the turning by Randis Albion

Though I was a fine arts student and therefore quite open-minded, I was also extremely innocent about men, sex and certainly about dark things like vampires. I had gone to a strict parochial school where dabbling in this “lifestyle” would most certainly be a big, fat sin that would send me straight to hell.

When my mouth finally remembered how to work I politely declined her offer.

However, I bought the book the next day. Oh. My. God. It was the darkest, sexiest thing I had ever read. It opened up something inside of me and I swear I was never the same after that.

Since the 1800s, vampires have been captivating readers and movie goers, but they weren’t completely eroticized until Anne Rice got a hold of them.

These days we have Twilight, True Blood, The Vampire Diaries and on and on.

But why are we so in love with these dark, blood sucking creatures? Well, let’s think about some of the key vampire traits and what they might tell us about our psyche.

  • They can manipulate humans with their eyes and their words (control)
  • They are master seducers who lust after your blood and your body (seduction)
  • They are charming and intelligent (magnetism)
  • They stay young and beautiful forever (immortality)
  • They drink blood, usually from your neck, your wrists or the inside of your thighs (sensuality)
  • They don’t care about your protests, silly human, you are, after all, FOOD (animalistic)
  • They’re immortal, strong, and fast (power)

In other words, you are at their mercy, to the point that you might faint and your blouse might pop all its buttons as you drape your back over his strong arms. It happens.

Unless you can wield that wooden stake just right without them noticing, you don’t stand a chance against a vampire. They’re going to get their way no matter what, so it’s better if you just let go and submit to their will. Anyway, even though they may suck you dry and it might hurt, you’ll love every minute of it.

Hmm, what does that remind you of?

Let’s cut to the 50 Shades of Grey phenomenon, which was born from middle-aged fans of Twilight. E.L. James took this group’s love of vampires and turned the exhilarating control and skillful seduction of a vampire into the story of an experienced Dom and his virgin submissive.

So what is it about vampires? They’re Doms, that’s what. And Doms are intoxicating beings who make subs do all sorts of things they would never ever do for anyone else or under any other circumstances. Trust me, I know from experience.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re a militant feminist or completely vanilla, deep down inside that lack of control turns you on. As a bonus it also exonerates you from fault. “Gosh, Daddy, I didn’t meant to give myself to that hot vampire, but he ripped off my nightie, spread my legs apart and made me do it with just one penetrating gaze. It wasn’t my fault!”

When you realize the profound meaning of that last statement is when you begin to crack one of the biggest secrets to women’s sexuality. We’re afraid of it. I certainly was at that age. Even now that I’m a sub, its insatiable hunger scares me sometimes. But if a vampire Dom makes you do it, it’s a guilt-free walk on the wild side.

Despite my fascination with fangs, I never did let Serena feed off my blood. Though sometimes as I walked through the campus parking lot late at night, I’d wonder if her clan was out there… watching me. Maybe one of them was hungry tonight and didn’t want to play by the rules. Maybe he wanted to find an innocent girl and drag her into the bushes by her long blonde hair. He would take her body and her blood. As she lay limp in his arms, helpless and trembling, she would repeat to herself:

“It’s not my fault, he made me do it.”


Featured Post Image: Bittersweet Taste by Ana Fagarazzi

Image within Post: Vampire-The Turning by Randis Albion

In Pursuit of the Odalisque

An odalisque is female slave or concubine that lives in a Turkish harem.

In art, she is often portrayed nude and lying on her side, sometimes looking straight into the eyes of the spectator with an unflinching, unapologetic gaze. It’s as if she’s saying, “My body is his, he uses it for his pleasure and I am proud of my service and my charms.”

Jean_Auguste_Dominique_Ingres,_La_Grande_Odalisque,_1814

As a fine arts student, I was captivated by the odalisque paintings from Ingres, Goya, Boucher and Lefebvre. Though I never told anyone, I had a secret desire to be an odalisque. I wanted to be owned by a master that knew that I was put on this earth to be his erotic plaything. I wanted to stay naked all day and dance to the beat of primal drums.

I was also seduced by the idea of being kidnapped solely for my beauty and what my body could offer. I fantasized about it all the time. How wonderful to be a harem girl; spirited away from my banal existence and forced to live in a palace full of exotic color, music and sex.

I would bathe and eat and sleep and please. That would be my life.

While nestled on a bed of silk sheets, waiting for him to summon me, I would get wet and needy with anticipation.

I couldn’t think of anything more glorious than to know my only job was to please a man. No paper pushing or emails or phone calls, just your body, your mind, your creativity.

An odalisque is a woman distilled down to her primal essence.

Yet it wasn’t enough for me to be a sexual object. I needed more. My master would love me, he would favor me above all the other beautiful girls in his harem. We would kiss until our lips swelled.

Before long, he would forget any of them existed and we could sink into silk sheets until we melted into one.


Header Image: Odalisque by Jules Joseph Lefebvre (1874).

Image within Post: Grande Odalisque by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (1814)

Where the Light Enters

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi


I thought the wounds from my past were substantial until you left a hole in my heart so wide that its quivering walls began to crack open, revealing the vulnerable soul hidden inside.

Each cell in my body is on fire. I am pain and beauty and love.

Though I want to surrender to unending sleep, I continue on my journey. But how am I supposed to navigate life when my compass refuses to work?

My tears speak of my undying love for a man who has released me from his service. If two enter a D/s relationship together, it seems cruel that only one gets to decide when it ends.

But then again, in any relationship, one is all it takes. The moment a soul inches away from another, the ties that bind them together stretch and strain until they finally snap.

Though you let me go and I said goodbye, we forgot to tell my heart. She still believes, still hopes.

Once she yielded to your commands–tender and firm, loving and dominant–she never turned back. She transformed and now I can no longer control her.

You released me, but my heart is still in bondage.

I told her we’re not doing this again; love hurts too much. I told her to close and protect herself. She won’t listen. She just keeps opening like a rose welcoming the morning sun, leaving herself more and more exposed every day.

If Rumi was right, then I am about to burn as bright as the sun.


Expansion Sculpture by Paige Bradley

Too Many Words

When you broke up with me, you did it with such love and sadness. Your last words–which sent me into a fit of sobs–were:

“I love you my darling so so so very much. I do not have the words.”

Well, apparently, I’m full of them. In fact, they won’t stop coming. I can’t stop trying to contact you, I can’t stop hoping you’ll change your mind.

Seriously, where is my pride? Have I completely lost all my dignity?

Today I took the first step towards letting go of you. After half a dozen unanswered messages, I said goodbye.

Goodbye, Sir James, my first Dom.
Goodbye, James, love of my life.
Goodbye, dreams for a happy ending.

With no word from you, I can only assume that I’ve become quite a nuisance. So I’m trying hard to stop pleading, explaining, professing and asking. But I swear, the minute I pressed SEND on that text, my chest caved in. I couldn’t breathe and I ran to the bathroom to cry. It was as if a part of me had been ripped out. Within minutes, it was too much to bear.

I can’t believe this is happening to us! I can’t believe I won’t be able to call you, Sir or My Love anymore. I’ll never hear you call me MDS (My Darling Sub) or My Love again.

We made plans, James. Wonderful plans.

You’re the only one that knows all my secrets, all my hidden wounds.

What am I supposed to do now that you’ve abandoned me?

Oh, that’s right, you do not have the words.


This image by Juan Osborne is based on a picture from Michael Ezra.