Impulse Control

I adore my new boyfriend, Mr. Esquire.
I really do.
He is a simple man, a guy's guy.
He likes college football and golf.
He listens to what I say, and doesn't ask too many questions to which I would have to provide uncomfortable answers.
He buys me pretty things. He makes sure I eat.
He is handsome, yet insecure enough about it to not be an asshole.
He is, as far as I can tell, very honest.
He is easy to get along with, and liked by the people I introduce him to.

Really, we have next to nothing in common.

I'm none of those things, do none of those things.
I can generally be found whizzing through this life without much thought for consequence (until it's too late).

Which is probably why I recently found myself drunk on wine and high on temptation at the mercy of the restauranteur's hands.
Afterwards, I would tell myself that it was the drink, maybe.
I didn't know what I was doing.
I would mostly have been lying.

Because the truth is, I loved the feel of his hands as they traveled my body - caressing my hair, pushing up my top, taking off my bra, holding my tits firmly in place as he licked and sucked my nipples until they could have cut glass.

(You know how I feel about hands.)

I loved the way he pushed me back onto the ice machine and maneuvered me out of my jeans.
I loved the way he insistently pushed my thighs open, so that he had free access to my dripping slit, from which he drank voraciously, as I squirmed in pleasure over the cold metal of the machine and marble bar.
I loved the way he looked kneeling on the floor, the glow of the monitor casting an eerie green glow over his blond hair as he lost himself in me.
I loved the abandon I felt as I realized that we were probably easily visible in silhouette to anybody passing by.
I loved the palpability of the desire and passion washing over me in waves as I undulated with the flow of his touch, his grasping.
I loved the way he clasped his hand over my pussy and firmly fingered my hole and sucked at my earlobes and neck as I breathlessly told him how I had fantasized about him fucking me.
I loved the feel of his hardness straining against his pants, trying to seek out my waiting wetness.

I felt completely owned, at his mercy, his willing conquest.

"If I'm going to do you, it's going to be light, because I want to see everything," he said, and I let loose with an involuntary frustrated gasp.

I composed myself enough to replace and rearrange my clothing. He never stopped touching me, lips, tongue, and hands everywhere.

He tried to bet me $1000 I would not be able to avoid coming back in for the rest of the year.
I told him it was a stupid bet - I'd rather have the money.
"I'll give you the thousand even if you do come in. I have to see you again before the year's out."

And even though that indicated a shift in power, I still felt completely at his mercy, his willing whore.

I try to avoid thinking about it now, because I feel guilty.
I do adore Mr. Esquire.
But if nothing else, I know myself, too.

I'll be back.
And if the money is offered, I'll probably take that too.

p.s. I finally updated the links list - removed blogs that appear to be (more) abandoned, added some new ones of interested, dusted, lit incense, yougetthepicture.

Small Town

Okay.

You know how sometimes, when you go to a place and you keep running into someone who looks really familiar, but you think there's no way you know this person?

Yeah.
That.

I went out tonight to a place here in town that I hadn't been to in a while (I'm y'know, all straight up and shit since Mr. Esquire came into the fray). I saw a guy I see every time I go in this place, but I knew I knew him from someplace else. Or he looked like someone I knew from someplace else. He looks different now. There are a lot more tattoos, thinner, more mature, hotter, rockabilly mother fucker.

Tonight, he finally asked me, "where do I know you from?" After some serious mulling over of the question at hand, we figured it out.

I named the person I thought connected us, and that was it.

Damn. Now I remember. The last time I saw you, you were on my floor, sucking my toes with your crazy ass foot fetish, and I'm thinking "what the fuck?!"

Now I'm feeling a little odd remembering what is now a virtual stranger in that way. And a little embarrassed I didn't make the connection sooner.
I mean, hello? Toe sucking is an activity generally reserved for the familiar, I should think.

I know I didn't fuck him, so that's good, because that would be really horrible. The not immediately remembering and all.

But if I let him suck my toes, there must have been something, so that's not so good.

I don't know what he remembers, but apparently he either likes his memories, or is using the old familiarity as a new jumping point, because now, he's all smiles, flirtatiousness and friendly.

It's weird.

This town is too small. I have got to move.