Slowly coming back to life…

I hate to admit it, but sometimes W is right. No really, he is – I swear! (~smirk~)

Actually he is right a lot, which may be one of the reasons I love him so. He’s smart. He’s engaged. He’s interested and interesting. He has stuff to say, and thinks about things. He has depth and emotion and heart. Also, he loves that I am Working Girl, and actually wants to listen to me yammer on about all the crazy, sometimes-infuriating, sometimes-happy-making things that go on in my job day-to-day. I love that he likes to assist me when I need help, and helps keep me focused when I need to be kept on track. He respects the shit out of the fact that I am a professional-type person, with a semi-important job, doing semi-important work.

Maybe more than I do.

I’ve never been one of those “live for my job” type people. I have a job so that I can live the way I want, not the other way around. I don’t need much, I don’t live too extravagantly – just comfortably enough, with the occasional (ok, more than occasional, but who’s counting) trip somewhere or hot pair of fuck-me heels. So I don’t want or need a high-powered, high-paying position. I require a job that I like, that pays the bills with a little left over, that keeps me interested and challenged mentally – and that doesn’t make me lose sleep.  I refuse to spend the bulk of my time awake here on earth doing something that I despise. Falling into the job I have, that fits these requirements for the most part, was unexpected and a blessing.

But I’d still rather be doing anything of my own choosing rather than work.

W, as might be expected, is different. I think he really believes, heart and soul, in that whole Puritan Work Ethic thing, and at times glorifies Work to the point that, well (honestly and a little sheepishly), I get a little irritated. Yes, I love my job, and yes I feel enormous satisfaction in what I do and how I do it, but no, work is not the Best Thing There Ever Was. And I can say emphatically that, for me, work does not “always come first.” I have given up, gotten rid of, walked away from and changed jobs for a variety of reasons having to do with my sanity, my happiness or just plain boredom, and never regretted it.  My job, my work, does not define me, and I will never let it dictate my life for me. I am grateful for what I have, and if I were to lose my job tomorrow, for whatever reason, I would be unhappy, and probably scared, but…I’d survive.

And no, if I won the lottery tomorrow I would not keep working, at any job, anywhere.

So it was with considerable surprise yesterday afternoon, that, as I looked over all that I had accomplished during the day, I realized I felt better than I had at the start of the day. It felt good to have put in a solid, productive day at work.  Doing so had actually made me feel better.

Sometimes, a hard day’s work is a good thing.

So, feeling better as I was, I decided to do a little actual sex writing. (I know – gasp! – right?)

end::work talk

start::sex talk

A couple of weekends ago, Ad and I and W all hung out. We’d been playing a bit over the weekend, but for whatever reason, Ad hadn’t climaxed once over the previous day and evening, an unusual occurrence for my at-least-once-sometimes-twice-a-day man. Especially since we’d been being pretty sexual.

“I’ll get mine,” he assured me, as we lay down to sleep that night.

And he did.

The next morning, sleeping between the two of them, my back to Ad, snuggled against W’s side, I woke when I felt Ad stirring. He always wakes with a hard-on, and 9 times out of 10 either masturbates or has me take care of it for him, or has sex with me, even if I am sleepy and only half-awake. Sometimes especially when I am sleepy and only half-awake.  I kind of like that with both guys too, that feeling of helplessness-brought-on-by-being-heavily-asleep, of waking to being penetrated, without volition on my part, of having my half-sleeping body used by them.  It’s a game I play with them, trying to see how long I can actually remain in that near-drugged state. This morning was no different – I lay there drowsing against W, feeling Ad stir and start to stroke the skin of my arm, my hip, my belly and breasts – except that rather than slipping his fingers into my cunt after that, as he usually does, I felt his wet finger pushing at my tight little anus.

He usually doesn’t go for anal first thing in the AM. I know he loves it, though, and although I was surprised to feel him wetting my ass with his spit (he doesn’t like the pain of forcing his way in dry like W does) I didn’t resist.

But I didn’t help, either.  I just lay there on my side, acquiescent, half-asleep, breathing in the smell of W’s warm, sleepy body and cocooned in the warmth of Ad’s body behind me, as he pushed his finger slowly, one tiny increment at a time, inside me.

As you know if you’ve been reading me for long, I love many things about anal sex. I love the ferocity of when W ass-rapes me. I love the vulnerability of being taken anally, the helplessness, the feeling of being overpowered. I love the pain-that-turns-to-pleasure, and I even love it when it never does turn to pleasure.  I love how it has the power to strip me raw, to my most base self emotionally, even when it’s done without pain. But if an “anal intrusion” is done just for me, for my pleasure, my very favorite thing is one finger, or a very small, slim toy, inserted only about an inch or two inside me and then wiggled, ever so slightly. I enjoy the feeling of being full, of being stretched, but that tiniest of sensations really is all it takes.

And Ad knows this. So that morning, he played that way with my ass, pushing his finger in, wiggling it around, then pulling it out slightly before pushing it in again. A very wet finger.  And I relaxed for him, and opened to him.

This is not to say that I am not still embarrassed by this kind of play.  And even more so when I feel I am being…observed. Anal sex of any kind is a huge emotional/mental trigger when it’s just between me and whomever is taking my ass – but when there are others to witness it? Embarrassment (in a good, squishy wet-making way) x1000. Even when that observer is W. So it was sweet and sensual and hot all at the same time, wondering if W knew what Ad was doing, and if he did, if he knew how just the thought of him knowing made it all that much hotter for me.

Still, I gave little indication that I was, by now, fully awake and aware. I kept myself limp, kept my body compliant.

Ad positioned himself behind me and I felt his cock nudging at my ass hole. My body opened easily for him, and he pushed his way, slowly, gently, inside me.

Maybe because he had taken the effort to prepare me a bit, my body did not resist as much as it does at times with W. (With W it is a final act of capitulation, of submission – a lovely feeling, but a different one – when my ass opens to him.)  Instead, there was just this gentle pressure and an opening up, and eventually, being filled and stretched – but not painfully – with his cock. He began to rock against me.  My body was open, receptive, wet.  His cock, so long and hard and yet malleable, form-fitting to the canal it was in, slid in and out. Not forcefully. Almost dreamily.

And I still lay on my side, against W, who may have been awake by this time, but wasn’t moving either.

Ad’s rhythm increased, but only incrementally. He did begin to push deeper, in longer strokes, into me. The feel of his cock in me didn’t feel like an invasion. This time, as vaginal sex so often seems to me, it felt like…completion. He just…fit. And the slide of his skin against mine – my inside skin – and of the wetness of him and my body, of the presence of all that wet slipperyness in that most private of places, was so incredibly sensual it about took my breath away.

His breathing became more labored and his hands tightened on my hips where he had grasped me to hold me in place. My pelvis rocked in time with Ad’s rhythm against W’s hip, and I could no longer pretend sleep.  I started to squirm back against him, and moan in breathy little pants. I love a man to come in my ass.  It’s a fantasy image that always fills me with heat, and a reality that makes me insane with desire.

Then Ad thrust into me once more, and then twice, long, long strokes that pushed me to the limits of my endurance physically – he has a good-size cock and it can be a challenge to take him all the way in.  With a final shuddering thrust and a deep groan, I felt him pulsing inside me. I’d like to say I felt his semen spilling into me, hot and sticky and wet, but I can’t be sure. It may have only been my over-active imagination. And I’m fine with that. ;-)

With a sigh, he relaxed and pulled me back against him as he softened inside of me. I almost pulled away from him – I had gotten damned excited rubbing myself against W’s hip, and Ad coming in my ass had almost tipped me over the edge into my own orgasm, but then I relaxed back into Ad’s arms. There would be time enough for orgasms for me. With a happy, sleepy sigh, I snuggled into his arms and fell deeply asleep.

I never did find out if W woke up or not.

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