Marathon

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.

A gang of large, beast-like guys in black eyed me with obvious intentions, whispering to each other like they were observing wildlife. I sensed they would approach with the slightest provocation, but decided I wasn't quite in the mood for that kind of strange. A cluster of giant goth dudes I'd never met before, practically wearing their dicks on their sleeves... that could end in all sorts of ways, not all good. I went outside to smoke. "No thanks, I've got a lighter." I brushed them off so easily, the cluster retreated, cowering like shunned puppies. I don't like being fucked in the ass, or complicating sex with elaborate fetishes. Good old-fashioned fucking with the occasional wholesome orgy is all I need. I'll come back some other day when I'm bored. The "industrial" music was too doleful and downtempo, and the gogo dancer could only enchant me for an hour, so I headed to the bigger nightclub a mile away.

Passing through the VIP, thanks to friends at the door, was like a celebrity homecoming; the place was already packed with all my people. It was all hugs and catching up and inside jokes, and of course, everyone bought me drinks, like I'm doing them a favor just for being there. Bartenders love me for that, I'm very good for business. And I drink top-shelf like I've got a hollow leg. The outfit was working dark magic, even though the first few DJs did not get me dancing. I just chitchatted with friends, secretly savoring the slip of satin, lace, and tassels that caressed, squeezed, and brushed all over me. Like I said, preparation determines where my night takes me. A couple of guy friends fought to buy me drinks, trying to simultaneously pull the "one of the guys" act as I took off my jacket and flashed just a hint of squished nipple, followed by a "gotcha" wink. The reaction was seismic, I could see them coming undone and wobbling, even as they tried to carry on our dude-ish conversations about my last snowboarding trip, car repairs, UFC matches. Keeping on like it was nothing was delicious, and just a bit evil. Once in a while I'd speak too quietly so they had to lean in to hear me, smell me, wobble some more.

By two in the morning I was pretty tired and starting to feel the earlier hike and the strain I'd earned that day in my hip flexor, so I got ready to call it quits, but then the DJ I'd been waiting all night for came on, and started throwing down the yummiest set, flogging every last ounce of energy out of my already-sore body. My little dance-engine fired on all cylinders and I danced like a gypsy, not caring if anyone was watching, though I'm sure some were... those who were still awake. Two hours later and just before closing, as I tore myself away from the club and out into the welcome cold night, I was drenched in sweat and buzzing high from the second massive workout of my day. The cold air outside was like water in the desert, I felt glued to the inside of my bodystocking, resisted temptation to peel it off in the car. A friend of mine had walked me out, and he snuck in a devilishly tonguey goodbye kiss, so I had to make a break for it before he went any further. He was wonderful but not my type, not enough.

As I closed my door giggling and blowing kisses, my phone lit up, and it was a couple friends who'd left 30 minutes ahead of me. They were hailing me to some afterparty at this guy's house who I kind of knew from a few rager parties and snowboarding. We'd always kind of had a thing for each other but had been too tied up in relationships to act on it. He was hot, really hot... a former navy seal, clean-cut, stylish, funny, well-financed... one of the top "most-wanted" guys in our crowd. I wished he was just a little bit taller though... but finding anyone big enough to make me feel small is kind of unrealistic, it narrows to playing field to just a slim handful. I'm 5'9", and even in flats, I'm basically eye-level with most guys. Against my better judgement I headed over to his place, still in a buzzy fog from the workout and with no plans to stay long. I was dreaming of my bed and ibuprofen.

As I parked on a dark corner, a couple galpals scooped me into their car for a quick 7-11 run. I wasn't about to into 7-11 in my outfit, so two of us hung back in the car, giggling in the back seat. She is one of my favorite girls, a lesbian goth pyxie with big flashing, catlike eyes, long doll's legs, and a very dirty mind. Kissing her in the back seat kep us busy all the way back to the house. I'd never been there before, it was a nice old craftsman with lots of balconies overlooking a canyon. Our handsome host was zipping around the house pouring champagne, making nachos, offering bumps of this and lines of that. It looked like he was setting up for a "rager" but it was already three in the morning and there were only 10 of us, six guys and four girls. I was way too tired for anything but the champagne, so me and my pyxie lesbian friend just slumped onto his couch, our endless legs tangled out into the living room like more decorative furniture. He had a really nice place and was really going out of his way for us, I was a little impressed. I'd never really noticed him properly, and enjoyed watching him in action, high as a kite and trying to hide it, act nonchalant, then be caught staring wide-eyed at my girlfriend and me. Eye contact almost made him stammer, made me want to just wrap my arms around him and tell him to take slow steady breaths.

My lovely lesbian friend had her delicate white hands all over me in my black lace, and we'd slip into another world once in a while right in the middle of the living room, just her mouth and mine and nothing else existed. Everyone at the party took it in stride, they'd seen it before, maybe not with me... anyways, they acted like it was perfectly normal. Except things got real quiet when we kissed. Our host swirled by announcing something excitedly about fresh sheets and was quickly cleaning his bedroom, which was a spacious, creamy, softly lit setup with windows on three sides. The other guests were already slipping away, dozing off on the furniture, tiptoeing away. I was so eager for bed, so tired, so realitively sober... and sore.

The next thing I knew it was me, my lesbian pyxie, and a third girlfriend in the fresh sheets, giggling, fondling, kissing, pulling off each other's shoes and tops, taking off our earrings. I was the only one really dressed, just down to my bodystocking and panties, since it was such a promise to peel it off. We lost ourselves in the sweet, warm, secret world of girl mouths and fingers, nipples and soft flesh. It felt like being in the middle of warm apple pie, and every caress felt like heaven on my tired, lace-bound body. Our third player was new to the girls-on-girls thing, straight as me, so fun to "turn." Once in a while more champagne would appear, our host would hover, ask if we needed anything, adjust the music. I hardly noticed him but every time I looked for him, there he was. He was down to just a pair of jeans, looking prettier than I'd ever noticed, and more flustered than ever, like a kid waiting for Christmas morning.

I got up from the apple pie once, to check my massively smudged black eyeliner in his tiny bathroom, and like lightning, he was there, fixated on me like nothing else in the world existed. I flirted openly with him out of sight of my ladies, letting him watch me as I posed in my lace, naked but not, twirling one way, then the other, sliding my hands all over myself, giggling. He almost airlocked right then, leaning on the doorway, smiling and panicking all at once. I lavished him with this slow torture, bent low, snaked breathily up his side and into his neck, whispering, "Patience my dear. Breathe." His chest heaved, eyelids fluttered, I slid past him and back into the bedroom, feeling like a geisha trained to bring a man to his knees with a single glance. As I crawled back across the huge, cream-colored bed, I winked back at him over my arched back and tiny lace-covered ass, then giggled as he almost fell over. Then I dove back into the moaning, warm pile of breasts and pussy.

Us girls took turns in the middle of the pie, making each other come with the most delicate touch, like witches conjuring majik. When it came my turn the bodystocking peeled off, and I felt so warm, naked, and soft. I made our third come for the first time with a girl, in seconds, whispering naughty instructions in her ear. Right in the middle of her screams I threw him a smoldering grin. He hid his face in his hands, his brawny biceps and washboard abs flexing defensively around him. All of us had come a couple of times, except for me, only my pyxie got it once, with her hot little mouth. Both the girls were starting to look tired finally, it was already way past sunrise and sunlight was streaming in all over the room .... that, and having shed my bodystocking and found more champagne on the nightstand, I had a second wind.

He sensed the shift like a mating call and was on me in an instant, out of nowhere like a descending angel. His kisses were gentle without seeming too insistent, and bless him, he kept checking around that we were all OK with it. The other two were busy with each other but clearly drowsy. His hands and mouth closed out everything else, even the girls, and before I knew it I felt his burning hot, rock-hard body breathing feverishly against mine. In seconds we went from standoffish hallway-hellos to "knowing" each other, and I don't even remember where his jeans went. The girls snuck off, leaving us to each other, and it wasn't long before his fingers were exploring my breasts, then my cunt. He was no less than wonderful, and very strong. His cock was even gorgeous, perfectly thick, light pink, and somehow "fresh" looking. He was blonde like me, and had practically no body hair. At first, he was gentle, but whatever he was on called for more force, and I told him he could be as rough as he wanted. Then he fucked me eagerly, not holding back, overpowering me handily. I let him; my strained hip and tired, sore muscles let him. He seemed to want me to let him. I did. I love being overpowered, dominated, driven over the edge. I must be fun to control, I seem formidable but I come so easily. Sometimes, just a little dirty talk and I lurch and writhe, squealing like a trapped cat. I've damaged walls before this way.

He locked onto this feature fast, flipped me on my stomach, entered me in one deliciously smooth, sudden thrust, bit my neck, growling "I've wanted to see you naked for so long. You have no idea. I can't believe you're here. Nobody can." His thrusts sped up, strengthened. I was speechless. "You are so ... fucking... tight!" he grunted. I swung one leg sideways, high up by my shoulder, around his head. Yoga comes in handy sometimes. His eyes flashed as he vollied more powerful thrusts at the deepest angle I know. I saw colors, then resurfaced, whispering "just... please don't come inside me... I wasn't prepared for this" and he nodded, and then flipped me on my back, folded me in half, crushed me with his weight. His heat and smell, all wonderful, enveloped me, his kisses rough and demanding, I knew he was too high to come, and I surrendered. I was pleasantly surprised he could so easily throw me around, and he drew gasps, cries, giggles, and yelps from me for hours. Try as we did, we couldn't finish him, and soon I was getting sore at both ends. I told him he had a very pretty cock, told him it wasn't fair he was so high. He laughed, asked if I didn't mind that he didn't like blowjobs. Delighted, I replied that I hoped he was OK with absolutely no strings attached. His answer was a raging hard-on, and another hour of relentless fucking, the best kind, ecstatic, athletic, relentless. His fresh sheets were soaked with sweat and (mostly) my come, the whole bed looked like it had been through a hurricane. I had to leave, yummy as he was, I had dance class in an hour and it was not to be missed. He was demolished and surprised I had to go, surprised I could even get up.

I gathered my things, staggered to my car, soaking with sweat for the third time that weekend, leaving an ex navy seal destroyed in his wrecked bed, dreaming of lesbian threesomes. Two days later and I am still walking funny and get butterflies every time I think about it; a photo he sent me of himself almost makes me come. Friends ask me how my weekend was, I tell them "Active." My chiropractor can't figure out what I did to myself. Mr. Perfect texted, then sexted, offering himself at my beck and call, promising to be more sober and less rough. I reassured him, he had done everything right. More than right.