The ink from the nightclub stamps still stains my left wrist. It will take a few more long hot showers and lots of soap to wash off everything else. After one of the longest, mostly sober Saturdays I've had in a couple of years, I staggered home covered in sweat and come (mostly my own)... and an ear-to-ear grin. I'll confess right up front, I really like sex. Not the prim, romanticized kind women are supposed to want (although it can be nice sometimes)... you know, the kind where women are supposed to pretend they don't want it, mewl like wounded kittens, struggle not to show their pleasure. No, not that kind. I like real sex, happy, rough, athletic, ecstatic, like a wrestling match. If I'm going to the trouble... letting you mess up my hair and makeup and have your way, well then, we might as well make it count. I don't ever pretend not to want it. I don't act like its all being forced on me and I'm some sort of good girl. I like real fucking and I am a very happily naughty girl. When I am loud in bed, it is laughing, giggling, gasping, the same sounds I'd make on a roller coaster, snowboarding, or getting a really amazing massage. Fucking is a celebration, playtime, always full of surprise, discover, and parts of my nerve endings and mind that I only encounter right then.
Last night was a marathon in celebration, the crescendo to an enormous day. It started pretty early, with an unexpectedly long hike with friends. Some of them brought other friends, particularly handsome ones. I played "just one of the guys" the whole time, and pretended not to notice them perving out on me. I kept up with the fastest hikers, challenging their manhood, let them see and hear me breathing heavy, behind them, in front of them, alongside them, as we practically ran up mountains. I pretended not to notice them watching me stretch at breaks, the bare spot on my back showing just a peak of lacy thong panties as I bent over. I acted oblivious when the cold wind made my beadlike nipples pop right through my white shirt. I shared beer and tales of much harder hikes like just one of the dudes, bravado and all. They were trying not to stare, to look nonchalant. They are not used to a girl, let alone one who looks like a pinup, beat them at the outdoorsy thing. But I knew this game better than them, and loved it. My cardio could tire out a horse and they feared that. There was friction in our group, I'd fuss with my hair and sing something silly, act girly while we ran up the trail. Then I'd casually parkour up a boulder while they were catching their breath, and balance on one foot.
Yes, that definitely made them stare. Any minute I could have made them drop and give me 20, lick my boot, carry me behind a tree. They were so handsome, eager to prove themselvse, like hungry dogs waiting for a treet. I let them wait. At the end of the hike, I quickly invited the prettiest of three them to a party I'm throwing in a couple of weeks. with just enough edge in my voice as I suggested they come stag... for the pretty ladies and all. They goggled back at me, struggling not to show excitement, nodding "yes" furiously, willing slaves. Nervous eye contact, uncontrollable grins, you know the signals that subtly mean "Yes Mistress, whatever you ask, I will do anything." I'm starting to think that sort of squirm is sexy. With a gruff, mannish handshake I was off, driving home for a quick, steamy shower and clean clothes, then off to a girlfriend's house for some sewing.
After that project, I took extra time getting ready for the night, "princessing." Trying on one outfit, then another, deciding who I wanted to be that night. The entire process of princessing is so important to me, it determines the entire course of my night. This time, after slathering on my favroite body lotion from Paris, I slipped on a tiny black lace thong panty and this ridiculous French lace bodystocking I've had for ages, but never quite known how to wear. It has long sleeves and comes all the way up to my throat; it was custom-made for me for a dance performance I was in. Unlike most storebought ones, this one had no crotch opening, so it was a pretty committed outfit, either you're in it or you're naked. The lace was strong and tight, made me feel like a very refined sort of cat burglar. Armored, but exposed. It was especially tight on my breasts, which have "grown" a bit since the bodystocking was made. They pressed up against the lace like a window. Over this I added a heavy tapestry miniskirt with lush satin lining and thick tassel trim, and a matching cropped vest that just covered the R-rated part of my chest unless I moved in a certain way. Big black roses in my hair and towering platform gogo boots with tassel trim finished the ensemble... I looked across between a lacey jewel thief, a black matador, and a gypsy acrobat. It was gorgeous and terrifying all at once. I resisted the urge to frizz and snarl my hair like one of those ultramodern runway models, little did I know that would happen later.
My first stop after nightfall was a new goth club near my place; it must have been the wrong night, because it was too dark, sparsely attended, and reminded me of over-18 clubs I used to go to in my teens. I recognized a few faces, turned every head in the place, and ejoyed the one good gogo dancer. She was dancing in a red-lit window box like a peepshow girl. She moved well and her polka-dot miniskirt and croptop bared her best assets, a long, lean pair of white legs and a tiny, ballerina-like ass. I kept watching her but secretly watched everyone watching me... watching her. I was clearly the "new-meat" there, I would be remembered. The best part of that phase in a new scene is throwing smoldering glances around, watching interested onlookers twitch when caught staring, as if they were summoned, and then flatly ignoring them.
