Looking Out

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The Sinful Sunday prompt for June is Outdoor Photography.

view over woman's crossed knees, looking out sliding glass door


This is me, looking out the (curtained, sliding glass) door.


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Knee Socks

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cropped shot showing hip and thigh of woman splayed on her side, wearing knee socks


The Late Afternoon

I pull the soft of my over-the-knees up my calves and slide my arms into the sleeves of his blue shirt, buttoning it once at the navel.

With Alex Turner’s voice echoing through the corridors of my mind, I walk down the hallway toward the streak of late afternoon sun shining through the sliding glass door.  The warmth calls to me, an echo of the heat that’s been rising in me since morning, and all I want now is to stretch out like a cat and bask in the bright window-pinpoint ray.  To feel the sunlit white penetrate the pale of my exposed thighs.  To recline, to relax, to revel – in the prolonging of sweet-heat arousal and the elongation of the soon-summer evening – without constraint or obligation.

The ghost in your room that you always thought didn’t approve of you knocking boots

The sunlight flitters through fluttering sheers, the filtered shadows smattering my skin like the ghost of a memory.  Sifting through memories of my own, I shift and arch, stretching simultaneously toward the light pouring into my living room and into the dark recesses of remembrance to dance with the ghosts of lovers past ~

The one whose voice melted my insides, turning the humdrum of everyday conversation to humming thrumming arousal every time we talked.

The one whose awkward accent and sweet babyfaced adoration led me to his door at 2am, where I was greeted with reckless enthusiasm and fucked with sweet abandon until I had to leave four hours later…

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After our long-distance shared-cam cum and goodnight goodbyes, after my muscles have been spent in the splayed-leg seeking of pleasure and my limbs have stopped trembling from the finding of pleasure sought…

After the high climb, the over-edge plunge, the weak-kneed barely-wake that follows…


Sleepy and sated, I switch apps on my phone, point the camera, and click.

It is a snapshot meant to be sent, a thousand-mile “Sweet Dreams” kiss, the pixels a not-replacement – a photo for him, from me – of tender ministrations from bitten-pink lips.

But when I look, I see something else entirely.

My own image arrests me between the snap and send, and I am stricken – with both alarm and arousal – by what I see:

  • Skin ~ age-grained and freckle-flawed, accented in the harsh highlight of yellow-flash dim
  • Hair ~ tousled kinks and softly falling curls haphazardly frame the outline of a self-satisfied Cheshire-cat-got-the-cream smile
  • Lips ~ alternately dry and damp, still faintly lined from the cosmetics I so rarely wear and tooth-marked from my own lick-over bite-out of NeedToCum from moments before

Close-up, my critical eye catches every detail, dissecting all the wrongs.

But when I back away, taking at a glance the whole from the parts, I  can see what’s right.

I see…

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A Matter Of Taste

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There are some things in life that are just things.  Taken alone, they are neither good things nor bad things.  They are just things.

They can be pragmatic things or provocative things, upliftingly luxurious things or depressingly dull things, steamy and sumptuous things or unctuously unappealing things.  Sometimes they can be all those things, other times none, depending on your taste.

For me, crawling is one of those things.

Like coffee, if it’s done right, crawling can be a delectable treat.  (And by ‘done right’ I mean ‘done in a way that I like’.  I am not insinuating that there is a ‘right’ way to do coffee OR crawling, NOR am I implying that ‘my way’ is the ‘right’ way.  To each their own.)  If it’s the wrong brew, however, it leaves behind a bitter aftertaste.

Some types of crawling make me furrow my brow in bafflement.  My reaction is the same as it is when being invited to pay seven dollars for a burnt-bean latte:  It holds zero appeal for me, and no way in hell am I gonna do it.  For me, this pretty much applies to *any* kind of degradation/humiliation play.  In general, it’s just not my thing.  But crawling in particular – if it’s being forced, if it’s a punishment, if it’s for the purpose of humiliation – goes beyond just “not turning me on.”  It actively turns me off.

Humiliative Crawling (I totally just made up that term, but it works!), especially if it’s a woman who’s doing the crawling and she’s doing it at the behest of a man…  Nope.  Definitely not to my taste.

Crawling as an activity related to puppy play?  Meh.

As any kind of ‘lowering’ protocol in BDSM activities?  Ehhh…  (Insert splayed palms, upturned eyebrows and shrugging shoulders, here.)

Other types of crawling, however, affect my insides in ways that range from lukewarm to steamy hot.  It’s all about the who, the how, and the why.

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