Sweet, sticky

You are delicious, like a shiny red apple, like temptation, like innocence. I can be swirled into your fantasy like vanilla extract in cake batter. I want to make erotic films with you — being covered in honey or you pouring whiskey into my mouth and drinking from it like a cup. I want my heels pointed to the ceiling. I want you to rip my panties off. Shove them in my mouth. Split me open like you’re breaking the bindings of a book. Dig in like you would set up camp in my pussy. Make me growl like a stalking animal — make me forget how to talk. Make me speak only in incoherent yes-es and swear words. Let me bite into that skin, taste that flesh, swallow you. Fill me. Drench me. I want it, all that shiny newness. Even now, my mouth is filling with my saliva — my hunger growing. Feed me.

Black lacquer, golden boy

San Tropez golden boy with lacquered hair

This young man. This tasty young man with sweet pink lips that remind me that once, long ago, I liked kissing. And his kisses send me into a tailspin, and I find myself clutching onto his collar to steady myself. He requested that I “dress sexy” for him. My kind of request. I know — from our car tete a tete — that he likes blue. I choose a blue sheer camisole and matching panties with a darker blue lace trim. I pair this with my 7″ stiletto heels.

Today I feel like your ultimate big booty-bisexual-tattooed-married woman-stripper-teacher sex fantasy. Watch out.

While describing the taste of toffee to a friend, I just realized that good toffee tastes like good sex: sweet, rich, and a little salty.

 

It’s never the ones you expect

She didn't mind teaching...

So often women chuckle at the skill and passion of younger men. “I don’t want to have to teach my lover”, comes so easily from women’s mouths, you wonder if they have even considered if they believe it.  Sometimes, younger men come already knowing how to please, already eager, already full of such virility and intensity that instruction is unnecessary. Or perhaps he is riding the waves of the moment — your collective chemistry — such that you feel innocent and defer to him! I have always had a taste for younger men, they smell so good like baked bread, so it’s no wonder that when I finally got my hands on one it was exactly as I had hoped. Better even.

Another Corset Adventure

Dita Von Teese brought the corset back, and I follow her lead

He’s stopping through my city — two, no more than three days. “Will you come visit me in the hotel? I’m still not finished with you,” he breathes into the phone. He pauses a moment. “Wear the corset?” he can hear my smile on the other end. “i’ll let you know when i’m on my way.”

When I hang up, my husband gives me a devilish grin, his green eyes glinting. “i’m taking you first, and sending you to him with my scent on you.” He leads me upstairs and my skin prickles when the door clicks shut. We have guests downstairs and he simply doesn’t give a fuck. He walks briskly towards me and grabs me by the throat. He leads me in this way to the bed.

Watch me work

When he arrives, I’ve barely changed out of my clothes. I have promised him something dirty, something nasty, and its up to me to set the appropriate tone. I have an underused feather plug — a gift from my husband — glossy black ostrich plumes with a shiny black bulb.  I put on a white mesh thong, trimmed in black, and insert the plug and descend the stairs. He is most impressed.

Where has Mzfatbooty been?

So sorry loyal readers (all five of you), I’ve been swamped with non-sexy work for the last year, and despite having many delicious tales to tell, I have had time to commit any of them to paper (or web, whatever). I intend to start sharing my adventures over the last year slowly for you, drawing them out, teasing you, bringing back the sensuousness that defines my sex blog.

 

Marabou slippers and fantasies

This time away from writing my sexcapades has given me some time for introspection. I’ve begun to detect patterns in my desires. In my lovers even. At the center of each encounter is the element of the fantastical. It’s necessary for my lovers to bring some magic into our activities, make me wish there was someone to see our sex, make me want to perform. If there is no magic, there is no desire. I’d rather masturbate and recreate my experiences than to have a common one. By common, I mean there cannot be the presence of the real. Dirty laundry, the scent of an earlier meal, the television blaring Family Guy.

When I’ve decided to take a lover, I consider everything. What type of lover I’m going to channel, what type of lover I want to draw out, what kind of sex we’re going to have.  Should I wear the screen siren peach corset or the lace black bra and tap panty? Stockings? Rope? Marabou slippers–even if the heels are a bit too high? No makeup and a thin cotton tank or high fashion Andrew Blake style? I get to experience so many different types of sex, they whirl in my head like the choices of what kind of food to have for dinner. Is it Moroccan with scented rosewater to wash with or raw sushi with wasabi and hot sake?

Speaking of sushi and sake, I’ve determined that my desire to eat Japanese with a lover is a choice to aggressively seduce that person. I have two seduction modes, both tied closely to food, to drink, and a carefully crafted image. The Sushi Mzfatbooty uses the exotic. She draws out the chase. The sake is delivered in small doses, as is her flirtations, but they compile until the heat of the sake reaches the loins. She keeps right out of reach, using her interest in the East to appear foreign–an expanse of an entire culture separating them. This is my favorite. As foreign as it seems, it also feels quite natural. It is the closest to my innate self.

The other me is attached to the smell of old leather, dusty books, whiskey. Humidors lined with Cuban cigars. I cling to age, time, masculinity. I dance the line between the dry and the smoldering. I dare him to cut to the chase. Attack.

The sad thing is that these two identities don’t get enough air. There’s no place for neat whiskey and silk stockings in the everyday world. No one has time for dainty sashimi and unfiltered sake; they want beer and pizza. I don’t know how to seduce in that environment. I come off as aloof, insane, or worse, awkward. I need the fantasy. I thrive on the plot, on the ambience, on my lingerie. So mostly, I play wingman. I leave the chase to better women. I take few risks. Most people might not get me. I mean, what is the purpose of a marabou slipper anyway?

If my lover doesn’t know that answer, then we are ill-suited. Obviously, the answer is…magic.

Without that magic, how can I truss a lover, wear a strap-on, be bitten until I cry out, or have sex on the top of my desk at 2:30 in the afternoon? You need magical tools. Crimson lipstick, for starters. Ostrich feathers or strips of worn brown leather. French knickers. A straight razor for shaving a lover. A rich duvet or else innumerous throw pillows. A kimono, definitely. Acquire these magical tools, as many as you can, create a toolkit. Know their use, their place, and when stark nudity will do. And employ them whenever you can. A camera is a necessity. But no face pictures. Make everything part of a larger story of sensuality. Live in that languor. That’s how I think.

That’s why I wear marabou slippers.

Mzfatbooty conjures Bijou the prostitute

He’s invited me out to the strip club with his lady friend. The plan: drink, ogle the dancers, and carouse together in the hopes of getting a sexual chemistry going. He messaged me earlier, saying she wanted to learn to be a better sub. He thought I could help; I knew I could.

I treated the outing as though I was a call girl. They were in the hotel room, showering, drinking, waiting on me. Knowing this, I took my time preparing. Thorough shower, skin oiled, perfumed, peach corset fastened tightly, holding up silk thigh highs. I wore black heels and an unassuming purple dress. I felt like Anais Nin’s Bijou. I felt like walking sex. I grabbed a length of nylon rope and shoved it into my bag before heading out. I put my mind on the performance of sex — the tone, the audience, the trappings. I let the stereo set my internal temperature. The idea of “working” was turning me on.

When I entered the hotel, surveying the lobby, my eyes met with those of the concierge. He gave me a look that pierced through my plain dress and saw the corset (and my plan) underneath. I blushed and scurried to the elevator. 209.

Once I knocked on the door, the event would begin. No matter the distractions and ruses, when I stepped over the threshold, I’d be at work. I wasn’t expecting though, for her to be so much like myself. I wasn’t ready to be face to face with a curvy, dimpled woman with an eagerness to match my own. This would be fun. I left my tote in the hotel room, the rope still a mystery.

We went to the strip club, where glossy women with firm asses really showed me what “walking sex” meant. One stripper leaned in close, and noticing my garters, writhed her honeyed ass and pussy on my legs. I could feel the elastic rubbing roughly on her skin, and it pleased me. She turned to face me and rubbed her breast against my cheek as she rolled my nipples between her fingers. The other patrons watched from a distance — the couple I was with eyed us greedily.

We hurried back to the hotel room, he deposited us out front, then went for parking. She and I went upstairs to wait for him. I didn’t want to wait. Enjoying her promised to be oddly narcissistic, and I wanted her at that moment. An aggressiveness took over me. I asked her one question:

“do you trust me?”
“yes,” she answered firmly.

I stood behind her and wrapped my arms around her. I let my hands explore her curves. I instructed her to close her eyes. I slipped her out of her dress and watched her nervously hold herself. I needed a blindfold; I was ready to educate her. The sash of my purple dress was a perfect prop.

I pulled it free in one easy motion and covered her eyes. Now, I thought, she is mine. I took my own dress off and stood there: corset, thigh highs, heels. I fondled her greedily, and every touch I gave her translated to heat on my body. I unfastened her bra, but left on her panties. Grabbing the rope, I began a simple breast piece, a rough harness, easy to move her where I wanted to go. She was swooning, and then I heard his key card in the door just under her moan.

“do you still trust me?”
“yes.” this time weaker. “is that the door?”
“ignore it. focus on me.”

I hadn’t met his eyes when he came through the door, so I don’t know if they reflected shock, elation, or horror when he saw us. I didn’t care; I was enjoying my prey.

I used the rope to navigate her to the bed — threw her down. I kissed her ass, knelt down, licked her sex. I used the rope to handle her. When I finally set her free, we were frantic — rough kisses, grinding, rolling around with each other. It was like doubling oneself. Every pleasure given, it is also received. My outfit was pulled off, my body exploding free of its harness, just as I had freed her from her rope constraints.

And in all of this, he is only watching. We draw him in like a prop — his sex there to explore with both our tongues. We fight to kiss each other around his dick. We straddle him to get closer to each other. Then I hear my little inner voice: he is feeling left out. Once again you have glutted yourself and left someone hungry.

I leave them to finish their sex session. I dress, throw my gear in my bag, and slink out into the night still smelling her in my nose and tasting her in my mouth, and it tastes like me.