Showing posts with label domination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label domination. Show all posts
Monday, July 06, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Her Angel
We were both trying not to stare.
We were finally meeting, our neglected breakfasts between us as we talked. She had been reading my blog for a couple of years; we had been corresponding for nearly that long. Now that we were finally meeting in person, we had an opportunity to match words to voices, nuances to faces. I didn’t want to make too big a deal about her beauty—I’d already been a bit effusive about the photos she had long ago sent to me—and I understood that she was understandably curious about matching me to “Jefferson.” Now and then, our eyes met and our easy conversation would still for a moment. Her expression seemed to ask, is that really you? I was sure mine replied, yours for the asking.
She had apologized for dressing like such a slob, in paint-splattered jeans and an oversized Ivy-league sweatshirt, but the cold snap had taken her by surprise. She had only packed summer clothes. I chided her for not having her hair done, at the very least, wondering if I had ever blogged about the effect that tomboys have forever had on my queer equilibrium.
Her eyes were a blue so clear that my own were like dull silver in bad need of burnishing. She is not peering into my bare soul, I reminded myself. That’s just what people think about eyes like those.
We fell to talking about conceptual art. Sex leaked into our discussion of identity without leading us to become too personal too soon. She asked how I first became interested in art. “As a kid,” I replied, dragging a fork through egg yolk. “I’m afraid I’ve fallen far from my true calling. I was destined to be a comic book artist for Marvel.”
“I don’t know much about superhero comics,” she averred. “Just the old stuff I read in my dad’s library, Marvel from the sixties and seventies.”
I looked up, wondering if my soul was buttoned a little too revealingly. “Like what?”
“Oh, the usual stuff. Fantastic Four, Spiderman, Avengers . . . I sort of lose track after a certain point. Like, I never read the new X-Men or anything.”
I put down my fork. “By ‘new X-Men,’ are you referring to the Chris Claremont days, like the early eighties?”
She nodded. “Totally lose track by then.”
“Yeah, me too. By then I was busier with life than with comics.” I was mindful that she would not yet have begun life when I put aside comic books. “I gather that most of the original characters have since had their powers so revamped that we’d hardly recognize them.” I sipped my coffee. “I guess that was necessary since, let’s face it, some of the original powers were kind of limited.”
“Like Warren Worthington III,” she agreed.
I risked her eyes. “You recall the name of the Angel, just like that?”
“Well, I had a bit of crush on the Angel. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the naked chest and of course, the wings . . .” She gazed at me again, as if casting me in a new role. “He was so mixed up, though he always had girls chasing him and drove around in roadsters. A poor little rich boy.”
“Wasn’t it true that his role in the team was largely supportive? I seem to remember he generally just lifted the more powerful X-Men into the air so they could attack from above.”
“Well, there’s that, but he also had to hide his power,” she noted. “He always had to wear a harness over his wings and hide them under a suit. It seemed to me that must’ve hurt.”
I raised my coffee cup. “Sensitive reader.”
She grinned. “Yeah, but only to a point. He was also always getting captured and tied up. I really liked that.”
“Ha! That’s right. He had that whole ‘damsel in distress’ thing. He would get captured and the others would have to rescue him.”
“That’s right,” she nodded. She sat forward. “I used to imagine capturing Warren Worthington III and making him my bitch.”
I laughed. “So the truth comes out.”
“Warren Worthington III was my kinky fantasy,” she confessed. She put her hand across the table. I took it. She looked down at our hands and then back to my eyes. “I wanted that blonde angel.”
I held her gaze, gulping slowly. “I see,” I eventually managed.
The waitress interrupted us, offering more coffee. She released my hand and I placed it in my lap. We returned to talking about art and came back to sex, only this time, her Angel was unhindered.
She had an appointment to keep. We paid the bill and retrieved our umbrellas. I offered to walk her to the subway. We talked casually as we walked.
Our first goodbye was also our first kiss. She nibbled on my lower lip. We pushed back our umbrellas, feeling rain drizzle on our faces. I surrendered my mouth to her. “I’m getting wet,” she said, looking up. “In more ways than one.”
“You’ll send me away, walking crooked,” I smiled.
I emailed her later. “Wow.”
“Likewise,” she replied.
She left New York. A few days later, she sent me a cartoon. In place of the breakfast table between us, she now shared her Angel with me.
We were finally meeting, our neglected breakfasts between us as we talked. She had been reading my blog for a couple of years; we had been corresponding for nearly that long. Now that we were finally meeting in person, we had an opportunity to match words to voices, nuances to faces. I didn’t want to make too big a deal about her beauty—I’d already been a bit effusive about the photos she had long ago sent to me—and I understood that she was understandably curious about matching me to “Jefferson.” Now and then, our eyes met and our easy conversation would still for a moment. Her expression seemed to ask, is that really you? I was sure mine replied, yours for the asking.
She had apologized for dressing like such a slob, in paint-splattered jeans and an oversized Ivy-league sweatshirt, but the cold snap had taken her by surprise. She had only packed summer clothes. I chided her for not having her hair done, at the very least, wondering if I had ever blogged about the effect that tomboys have forever had on my queer equilibrium.
Her eyes were a blue so clear that my own were like dull silver in bad need of burnishing. She is not peering into my bare soul, I reminded myself. That’s just what people think about eyes like those.
We fell to talking about conceptual art. Sex leaked into our discussion of identity without leading us to become too personal too soon. She asked how I first became interested in art. “As a kid,” I replied, dragging a fork through egg yolk. “I’m afraid I’ve fallen far from my true calling. I was destined to be a comic book artist for Marvel.”
“I don’t know much about superhero comics,” she averred. “Just the old stuff I read in my dad’s library, Marvel from the sixties and seventies.”
I looked up, wondering if my soul was buttoned a little too revealingly. “Like what?”
“Oh, the usual stuff. Fantastic Four, Spiderman, Avengers . . . I sort of lose track after a certain point. Like, I never read the new X-Men or anything.”
I put down my fork. “By ‘new X-Men,’ are you referring to the Chris Claremont days, like the early eighties?”
She nodded. “Totally lose track by then.”
“Yeah, me too. By then I was busier with life than with comics.” I was mindful that she would not yet have begun life when I put aside comic books. “I gather that most of the original characters have since had their powers so revamped that we’d hardly recognize them.” I sipped my coffee. “I guess that was necessary since, let’s face it, some of the original powers were kind of limited.”
“Like Warren Worthington III,” she agreed.
I risked her eyes. “You recall the name of the Angel, just like that?”
“Well, I had a bit of crush on the Angel. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the naked chest and of course, the wings . . .” She gazed at me again, as if casting me in a new role. “He was so mixed up, though he always had girls chasing him and drove around in roadsters. A poor little rich boy.”
“Wasn’t it true that his role in the team was largely supportive? I seem to remember he generally just lifted the more powerful X-Men into the air so they could attack from above.”
“Well, there’s that, but he also had to hide his power,” she noted. “He always had to wear a harness over his wings and hide them under a suit. It seemed to me that must’ve hurt.”
I raised my coffee cup. “Sensitive reader.”
She grinned. “Yeah, but only to a point. He was also always getting captured and tied up. I really liked that.”
“Ha! That’s right. He had that whole ‘damsel in distress’ thing. He would get captured and the others would have to rescue him.”
“That’s right,” she nodded. She sat forward. “I used to imagine capturing Warren Worthington III and making him my bitch.”
I laughed. “So the truth comes out.”
“Warren Worthington III was my kinky fantasy,” she confessed. She put her hand across the table. I took it. She looked down at our hands and then back to my eyes. “I wanted that blonde angel.”
I held her gaze, gulping slowly. “I see,” I eventually managed.
The waitress interrupted us, offering more coffee. She released my hand and I placed it in my lap. We returned to talking about art and came back to sex, only this time, her Angel was unhindered.
She had an appointment to keep. We paid the bill and retrieved our umbrellas. I offered to walk her to the subway. We talked casually as we walked.
Our first goodbye was also our first kiss. She nibbled on my lower lip. We pushed back our umbrellas, feeling rain drizzle on our faces. I surrendered my mouth to her. “I’m getting wet,” she said, looking up. “In more ways than one.”
“You’ll send me away, walking crooked,” I smiled.
I emailed her later. “Wow.”
“Likewise,” she replied.
She left New York. A few days later, she sent me a cartoon. In place of the breakfast table between us, she now shared her Angel with me.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Fair
She had a tendency to squirm.
She asked me to spank her, so loosened my grip on her forearms and pulled out of her body. I sat back on my heels and touched her hip. “Turn over, girl.”
She pulled herself up on her elbows sluggishly, looking at me askance. She blew hair from her face. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”
I wiped sweat from my brow. “More than likely. It’s a spanking.”
“You’re mean.” Her face twisted into a petulant scowl. “I hate you.”
“That’s enough of that,” I admonished. “Over you go.”
She kept her eyes on me as she twisted her hips. As her torso followed, she buried her face between her hands. She lowered her shoulders. “I hate you,” she repeated into a pillow.
I didn’t reply. My hands lightly caressed her shoulders, her shoulder blades, her ribs, her spine, the base of her back. I sat back as my hands enveloped her ass, so rounded for one so thin. I traced a finger between her buttocks, then used my palms to separate them. I leaned forward to gently kiss and lick her pink hole. She groaned slightly, lifting her hips to my mouth. “My good girl,” I murmured into her body. My finger traced a line along her thigh to arrive at the wetness I had only just departed.
My palm landed firm. Her body jumped and tensed. I waited as her breath slowed and her muscles relaxed. “Good, good,” I mouthed, so quietly even I didn’t quite hear my voice. The first blow was a signal of those to come. I began to spank more properly with light, quick landings on her lower buttocks, slowly but persistently calling blood to flesh. I watched as each slap pinked her skin, so pale that even this light spanking left the impression of my closed fingertips.
I surveyed her body. I rested my left hand on her slightly tensed shoulders. “Easy, easy,” I whispered. “Relax your shoulders, relax your body. Remember to breathe. Just relax to the sensation down here.” Her lower ass was warm to my touch. She nodded into the pillow, letting me know she understood. “Good, good,” I repeated. Another firm blow landed. She tensed involuntarily and drew a deep breath. Her body went limp. “So good.” I pushed back the wet hair at my temples. Now I could let loose.
Blows landed in quick succession before letting up, returning to light slaps. I paused, allowing the sting to travel her body. A loud pop resonated. I could hear her breathing quicken. Lightly, lightly I drummed on her body, for long moments, before building, building to another loud pop. She drew breath, waiting for the next gradual build up that this spanking had taught her to predict. I smiled, rested a comforting hand between her shoulders. Another sharp slap, followed by two on her other buttock.
“No, no!” She squirmed only to find she was pinned by the hand that had seemed to offer reassurance. She freed an arm and hurried a hand to cover her vulnerable ass. “No, please, please. I wasn’t expecting that . . . it hurt . . .”
“Spankings may hurt,” I agreed sympathetically. “But you could be injured if you aren’t careful.” I lifted her hand from harm’s way, gently tucking it back under her head. “No sudden moves, girl. I don’t want to accidentally harm you.” She nodded her understanding. She behaved appropriately as more spankings rained on her.
After, she rested in the crook of my arm, her body curled so that her arms were tucked under her chin. “I don’t know how you can be so mean to me when I am only nice to you,” she complained. “It’s not fair. One day I should do mean things to you and see how you like it.”
“I don’t think I would like that at all,” I tsked. “That sounds simply dreadful. I like that you are good and kind.” I ran a finger along her jaw. She turned to snap her teeth at my hand. I pulled back, surprised.
“I am not nice,” she insisted. “You just get to be the mean one because you know how to do things. If I knew how to do things, I would be very mean to you. You are mean to me so I should get to be mean to you. That’s only fair.”
I chucked her chin. “You’re cute when you think things should be fair.”
She brushed aside my hand and frowned. “Asshole. You know it isn’t fair.”
“Well then, tell me what you would do, if only you knew how.” I moved slightly to better see her face. “What do you have in mind?”
She pulled back her hair, trying to pack away her prettiness so that she would be taken seriously. “I know what I would do. I think about it all the time. I would get me a big piece of rope—really, really long—and I would tie you up in a sad little bundle. Then I would put things in your butt and listen to you cry.” She punched my ribs. “Like the way you do me, only meaner. Because really, deep down, I’m meaner than you.”
I took her fist in my hand and kissed it. “Little sister, there ain’t enough bourbon in Kentucky for me to let you do that.”
“You wouldn’t let me.” She flicked my chest. “I would do what I wanted. But you think you have all the advantages just because you know how to do things I don’t know how to do.” Watching as I nonchalantly placed my hand between her and my nipple, she recalled her growing awareness of my Achille’s heels. “I just realized something, Daddy,” she smiled, resting her hand on my thigh. “We haven’t done anything with rope. Nothing at all. Don’t you want to show your little girl how to tie people up?”
I laughed. “You’re cute when you’re transparent. If I teach you about knots, how long before I wake up hogtied?”
“I don’t know how long it would take.” She looked at my bedside clock. “Would you like a bourbon, Daddy?”
I laughed again and pushed her down. I kissed and fucked her for being so clever. But soon enough, she had her way and I was unpacking rope. “Come here, girl,” I said. I rubbed a strand of rope against her bruised and tender breasts. “Now, this is nylon. See how soft and nice it feels?”
She nodded. “I like the color, too.”
“Yeah, this is all very pretty. It looks good on flesh; heck, see how nice it looks on the floor. All of this, I got from Venus Ropes. Now, feel this hemp.” I rubbed another strand against her other sore breast. “See how much rougher it feels?” She nodded. “Can you guess which one I’m going to use on you?”
She shifted her weight to one hip. “You’re the meanest person ever.”
I nodded. “You keep believing that, sugar.” I tossed a loop over her head. “I’ve got nothing on the cruel bastards in this town, but until you know better, I suppose I’m a badass.” I tied a loop between her breasts and fielded her questions as I worked rope into designs down and around her body. In short order, her long torso was entirely enveloped in an intricate web. “I think that turned out rather nicely,” I allowed. “Go look in the mirror and tell me what you think.”
I watched as she turned before a full-length mirror. “What did you do to my ass?” she asked, looking over a shoulder. “It looks so much higher.”
“You think?”
“I do.” She turned, cupping her small breasts in her hands. “And why are my tits so pointy?” She squinted at the mirror. “Wait, are they turning purple?”
I took a breast in hand and squeezed. “Are they? Gee, that’s odd. I hope the knot between your legs isn’t too tight . . . no, I can feel there’s a little space left there . . . see? I can easily slip my fingers into you.”
She grasped my shoulders as I lifted into her. “You totally suck,” she moaned, slapping my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, grasping her arms behind her back. “I didn’t mean to leave you so vulnerable.” I pushed her back on the bed.
After she came, I sat back. “See? It’s really nice how I can grab this rope to move you to where I want you to be.” I lifted her torso again, tossing her across the bed, twisting so that my cock didn’t leave her pussy. “You’re like a life-sized rag doll.” I tossed her again on the axis of my body. “How fun is that?”
“You are such an asshole,” she complained. “I thought you were going to show me how to tie you up.”
“Tie me up?” I cocked my head. “Oh, right; I remember something about that. Well, this mess, this has nothing to do with restraint. This is just bondage, like macramé for your body. See? Your arms and legs are totally free. That would never work with me. I’d just get away.”
“Then you should show me how to restrain you.” She squirmed away, pulling herself from my cock. “Come on, this isn’t fair.”
“Right.” I nodded. “You want fairness. Okay, come on, I’ll show you some restraints.”
“Thank you.” She stood and slapped my shoulder. “Asshole. Come on, seriously, I want to tie you up.”
“Right behind you.” I followed her to the rope carefully aligned in the next room. I asked her to stand still as I unraveled the hemp on her body. “Did you notice how few knots I used?” I asked. “This design is just tension. You could do this pretty quickly with practice, no special skill required.”
“No, I did not notice.” Her eyes glared. “Because you didn’t teach me. You just did this to me. I don’t know how to do it to you.”
“Oh, didn’t I explain that?” I loosened her breasts, pinching the lines between purple and pale flesh. “Sorry. We’ll do better with restraints. It’s really very simple to learn the basics. I’ll show you one column and two column ties.”
“One and two what?” She turned her neck as I lifted the last of the rope from her body. I rubbed the rough outlines of hemp in her bare skin, assuring her they would fade in no time.
I tossed aside the length of hemp and retrieved two shorter pieces of nylon. “Now, any single post you want to tie with rope can be considered a ‘column,” I began. “A column can be a fencepost, a dock, a bedpost, an arm or a leg.” I took her wrist in my hand. “See how I folded this rope over evenly? Now I’m going to wrap the rope around your wrist three times, keeping it loose enough to slip a couple of fingers between the column and the rope . . . see? That way, you won’t restrict blood flow. Less of a problem with intimate objects . . .” She watched closely as I went on, tying a square knot to secure the restraint in place. I lifted her arm over her head to show how it was now subject to whatever I wanted to do with it. I repeated the lesson for a two-column tie, once more lifting her arms over her head. I tugged and she stood to follow. “Nice,” I nodded. “See, I could haul you right back to bed . . .”
“No, you don’t.” She pulled back on the rope. “Now I get to do you. Get me out of this rope so I can tie you up.”
“Oh, that’s right. Fairness. Here, it’s easy to untie this.” I untied the knot, unraveled the rope and handed it to her. “So now, you restrain me.” I held out my arm. She doubled the rope and carefully wrapped my wrist three times, just as I had wrapped hers. I watched as she executed a fine square knot. My arm was completely in her command. She tugged. My arm followed. “Nice work, little sister,” I commended. “I swear, you’ll surpass all I know in no time.”
She smiled. “Yeah, you are totally my bitch now.” She tried to pull me from the couch, but I resisted, pulling her back.
“Not so fast, cowgirl. Let’s try the double column.” I began to untie my wrist, musing aloud. “You know, this tie is great when you want to have someone spread-eagle; you know, tie each wrist and ankle just so and secure the ends to bedposts, and that person isn’t going anywhere. I used to do that more, but maybe I’m getting lazy now that I have under-the-bed restraints.”
She leaned forward. “Wait, what? You have under-the-bed restraints? How have I known you so long and not known that?” She turned to look at the bedroom door.
“Well, I suppose you don’t know because they are very discreet.” I removed the rope from my wrist and rubbed my forearm. “They are tucked away between the mattress and box spring, just waiting until they are needed. I have to tell you, they are very handy if you decide in the heat of the moment that you want someone restrained. Used to be, I’d have to stop what I was doing, pull out some rope and move around the bed tying knots. That interruption could kill a moment. Not to mention, it could allow your partner to resist or even escape. With these, I just reach under the mattress, slap on the cuffs and continue doing whatever I was doing.”
She kicked my calf. “You mean to tell me all this time I could’ve restrained you while you were asleep and you couldn’t have stopped me?”
I grabbed her foot. “Why do I think I’m going to regret telling you this? Now, let me get a longer rope and show you the double column tie . . .”
“No, fuck that.” She pulled her leg from my hand and stood. “Come on, I want to see these under-the-bed restraints.”
“Come on, then.” I grabbed a breast and pulled. “Let’s go take a look.” She followed, her breast in my grip. I released her in the bedroom and bent to lift the mattress. “See? There’s a cuff at each corner, all connected by straps to that central strap. The straps are all nylon, but look here.” I handed her a cuff. “The cuffs are secured by Velcro, so you can easily close them with one hand. That’s useful, because you can use your other hand to hold someone down, or use a toy, or whatever, so you don’t need to stop what you’re doing to attach a restraint. Plus, look: there are metal clips so you can remove the cuffs from the straps. That allows your partner to be moved or attached to some other device. Like, say you decided you wanted her upright. You could take this all over to a closet door, rig it up the same way—using the door as I’m using the mattress—and there you go.”
She studied the cuff in her hand. “Say, why don’t you lay on the bed?”
I lowered the mattress. “Tell you what, why don’t you lay on the bed? It’s better that you see how it feels to try something before you do it to someone else.”
“I guess that’s fair,” she agreed. “How do you want me—on my back or on my front?”
I leaned forward to kiss her collarbone, resting a hand on her protruding hip. “Better get on your belly,” I said, brushing my hand across her flat abdomen. “If I have you on your back, I’ll just want to fuck you some more.”
She scoffed. “Seems like anyway I move, that thing winds up in me.” She turned to crawl onto the bed. I noticed small purple bruises already taking form on her ass. My cock jumped.
She sprawled on the bed with her arms outstretched. “Like this?”
“Like that,” I nodded, “But with your legs spread further apart.” I took a leg and moved it to the corner of the bed. She extended her other leg to the opposite corner; she was very nearly tall enough to reach all corners. I reached under the mattress to retrieve a cuff. “Now, these straps are adjustable,” I said, quickly securing her. “So if the next person to find herself in this situation happens to be shorter than a bean pole, I can fix the length.”
“I may have to do that when I put you up here,” she teased.
“You very may well,” I replied, securing her other ankle. I ran a hand up her leg, enjoying the view of her splayed body. I crawled onto the bed, lowering my body onto hers. My cock pressed between her buttocks. “Now, let’s say I was fucking your ass . . .”
She squirmed. “No, you are not fucking my ass again. You are just showing me how to use these things.”
I moved hair from her upturned ear. “I didn’t say I was fucking your ass,” I whispered. “I said ‘let’s say I was fucking your ass.’ Now, if I was fucking your ass, I could hold your arm in one hand . . .” I grabbed a wrist. “With the other, I could reach for the cuff.” I leaned forward to pull a strap from its hiding place. With two fingers and a thumb, I worked the Velcro into place. “See? All done. Now to finish the job.” She tugged against the cuff as I secured her other wrist. “See how easy that was?” I nibbled her ear lobe. “And now you are in no position to resist me.” My mouth moved to the back of her neck. I felt a muscle move under my lips.
“Oh yeah?” She laughed, waving her freed right arm. “Look at this. Look how easily I could get away.” Her body squirmed under mine.
“Not bad, Houdini.” I reached for the discarded cuff with one hand, grabbing her arm with the other. “Now, it’s true: Velcro attachments aren’t as binding as rope. If you were truly my prisoner, I’d want something more reliable. But if I attach this more firmly . . . okay, now try it.” She tugged her arm. The restraint didn’t give. “Now you’re trapped, aren’t you?”
“I guess I am.”
I sat up and adjusted the remaining cuffs. “Yes, I suppose I’d say you are.” I lowered myself to her again, returning my mouth to her back. My tongue traced around her shoulder blades. She quivered as my tongue reached the base of her left blade. “Nice, thank you,” I whispered. I bit slowly, pressing for the muscle that had caused that reflex. She flinched. I bit harder. I could feel her body squirm, but now, her hands were unable to swat me away. Now, there was less potential of harming herself. I dug in.
I moved to the other shoulder blade, searching for the reflexive twin. It soon made itself apparent. I marked the second spot, like the first, with my teeth.
I chewed my way across the soft flesh at the curve of her upper back, just under her shoulder blades, enjoying this expanse, unusual on her body, where flesh and muscle were not so tightly joined. She moaned and squirmed as I made my way back and forth, sometimes soothing her with my hand at the base of her neck, other times grabbing fists full of ass and hips.
Biting with my incisors, I could feel my molars grind in expectation that torn flesh would soon be on its way. I calmed their frustrations by gnawing as if chewing gum.
I sat back on her thighs, drugged from her taste. I became lost in thought, absent-mindedly circling her body with my thumb. She looked at me over her shoulder. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Not a thing,” I lied. I leaned forward and opened the drawer holding condoms and lube. “Okay, ready or not, we’re fucking.”
Hours later, she slipped a bookmark into Middlesex and dropped the book to the floor. “I’m going to sleep,” she yawned, sliding her body down under a quilt. “I don’t know why I’m so sore.”
I watched over my book as she turned on her side. I ran a finger along the bruises taking shape across on her back. The next day, she would realize that these marks completed the circle begun with her breasts, a circle I had previously outlined with hemp. My souvenir for her; the next day, she would be leaving for home. For days following, she wouldn’t be able to wear a bra without thinking of me.
“I’m so tired,” she mumbled. “Can you turn off my light?” I rested my book on the quilt and leaned over to pull a lamp’s cord. I kissed her hair. “I just realized,” she said. “I was supposed to put you in restraints, but we never did that.” She curled her body around a pillow. “So unfair. I hate you.”
I returned to my pillows. “Tomorrow’s another day, little sister.” I reached for my book. “Night.”
Under-the-bed restraints are discreet, adjustable and require no special skill to use. They are a handy addition to any pervert’s arsenal and just as much fun for neophytes curious to try something a bit restrictive.
Under-the-Bed Restraints
She asked me to spank her, so loosened my grip on her forearms and pulled out of her body. I sat back on my heels and touched her hip. “Turn over, girl.”
She pulled herself up on her elbows sluggishly, looking at me askance. She blew hair from her face. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”
I wiped sweat from my brow. “More than likely. It’s a spanking.”
“You’re mean.” Her face twisted into a petulant scowl. “I hate you.”
“That’s enough of that,” I admonished. “Over you go.”
She kept her eyes on me as she twisted her hips. As her torso followed, she buried her face between her hands. She lowered her shoulders. “I hate you,” she repeated into a pillow.
I didn’t reply. My hands lightly caressed her shoulders, her shoulder blades, her ribs, her spine, the base of her back. I sat back as my hands enveloped her ass, so rounded for one so thin. I traced a finger between her buttocks, then used my palms to separate them. I leaned forward to gently kiss and lick her pink hole. She groaned slightly, lifting her hips to my mouth. “My good girl,” I murmured into her body. My finger traced a line along her thigh to arrive at the wetness I had only just departed.
My palm landed firm. Her body jumped and tensed. I waited as her breath slowed and her muscles relaxed. “Good, good,” I mouthed, so quietly even I didn’t quite hear my voice. The first blow was a signal of those to come. I began to spank more properly with light, quick landings on her lower buttocks, slowly but persistently calling blood to flesh. I watched as each slap pinked her skin, so pale that even this light spanking left the impression of my closed fingertips.
I surveyed her body. I rested my left hand on her slightly tensed shoulders. “Easy, easy,” I whispered. “Relax your shoulders, relax your body. Remember to breathe. Just relax to the sensation down here.” Her lower ass was warm to my touch. She nodded into the pillow, letting me know she understood. “Good, good,” I repeated. Another firm blow landed. She tensed involuntarily and drew a deep breath. Her body went limp. “So good.” I pushed back the wet hair at my temples. Now I could let loose.
Blows landed in quick succession before letting up, returning to light slaps. I paused, allowing the sting to travel her body. A loud pop resonated. I could hear her breathing quicken. Lightly, lightly I drummed on her body, for long moments, before building, building to another loud pop. She drew breath, waiting for the next gradual build up that this spanking had taught her to predict. I smiled, rested a comforting hand between her shoulders. Another sharp slap, followed by two on her other buttock.
“No, no!” She squirmed only to find she was pinned by the hand that had seemed to offer reassurance. She freed an arm and hurried a hand to cover her vulnerable ass. “No, please, please. I wasn’t expecting that . . . it hurt . . .”
“Spankings may hurt,” I agreed sympathetically. “But you could be injured if you aren’t careful.” I lifted her hand from harm’s way, gently tucking it back under her head. “No sudden moves, girl. I don’t want to accidentally harm you.” She nodded her understanding. She behaved appropriately as more spankings rained on her.
After, she rested in the crook of my arm, her body curled so that her arms were tucked under her chin. “I don’t know how you can be so mean to me when I am only nice to you,” she complained. “It’s not fair. One day I should do mean things to you and see how you like it.”
“I don’t think I would like that at all,” I tsked. “That sounds simply dreadful. I like that you are good and kind.” I ran a finger along her jaw. She turned to snap her teeth at my hand. I pulled back, surprised.
“I am not nice,” she insisted. “You just get to be the mean one because you know how to do things. If I knew how to do things, I would be very mean to you. You are mean to me so I should get to be mean to you. That’s only fair.”
I chucked her chin. “You’re cute when you think things should be fair.”
She brushed aside my hand and frowned. “Asshole. You know it isn’t fair.”
“Well then, tell me what you would do, if only you knew how.” I moved slightly to better see her face. “What do you have in mind?”
She pulled back her hair, trying to pack away her prettiness so that she would be taken seriously. “I know what I would do. I think about it all the time. I would get me a big piece of rope—really, really long—and I would tie you up in a sad little bundle. Then I would put things in your butt and listen to you cry.” She punched my ribs. “Like the way you do me, only meaner. Because really, deep down, I’m meaner than you.”
I took her fist in my hand and kissed it. “Little sister, there ain’t enough bourbon in Kentucky for me to let you do that.”
“You wouldn’t let me.” She flicked my chest. “I would do what I wanted. But you think you have all the advantages just because you know how to do things I don’t know how to do.” Watching as I nonchalantly placed my hand between her and my nipple, she recalled her growing awareness of my Achille’s heels. “I just realized something, Daddy,” she smiled, resting her hand on my thigh. “We haven’t done anything with rope. Nothing at all. Don’t you want to show your little girl how to tie people up?”
I laughed. “You’re cute when you’re transparent. If I teach you about knots, how long before I wake up hogtied?”
“I don’t know how long it would take.” She looked at my bedside clock. “Would you like a bourbon, Daddy?”
I laughed again and pushed her down. I kissed and fucked her for being so clever. But soon enough, she had her way and I was unpacking rope. “Come here, girl,” I said. I rubbed a strand of rope against her bruised and tender breasts. “Now, this is nylon. See how soft and nice it feels?”
She nodded. “I like the color, too.”
“Yeah, this is all very pretty. It looks good on flesh; heck, see how nice it looks on the floor. All of this, I got from Venus Ropes. Now, feel this hemp.” I rubbed another strand against her other sore breast. “See how much rougher it feels?” She nodded. “Can you guess which one I’m going to use on you?”
She shifted her weight to one hip. “You’re the meanest person ever.”
I nodded. “You keep believing that, sugar.” I tossed a loop over her head. “I’ve got nothing on the cruel bastards in this town, but until you know better, I suppose I’m a badass.” I tied a loop between her breasts and fielded her questions as I worked rope into designs down and around her body. In short order, her long torso was entirely enveloped in an intricate web. “I think that turned out rather nicely,” I allowed. “Go look in the mirror and tell me what you think.”
I watched as she turned before a full-length mirror. “What did you do to my ass?” she asked, looking over a shoulder. “It looks so much higher.”
“You think?”
“I do.” She turned, cupping her small breasts in her hands. “And why are my tits so pointy?” She squinted at the mirror. “Wait, are they turning purple?”
I took a breast in hand and squeezed. “Are they? Gee, that’s odd. I hope the knot between your legs isn’t too tight . . . no, I can feel there’s a little space left there . . . see? I can easily slip my fingers into you.”
She grasped my shoulders as I lifted into her. “You totally suck,” she moaned, slapping my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, grasping her arms behind her back. “I didn’t mean to leave you so vulnerable.” I pushed her back on the bed.
After she came, I sat back. “See? It’s really nice how I can grab this rope to move you to where I want you to be.” I lifted her torso again, tossing her across the bed, twisting so that my cock didn’t leave her pussy. “You’re like a life-sized rag doll.” I tossed her again on the axis of my body. “How fun is that?”
“You are such an asshole,” she complained. “I thought you were going to show me how to tie you up.”
“Tie me up?” I cocked my head. “Oh, right; I remember something about that. Well, this mess, this has nothing to do with restraint. This is just bondage, like macramé for your body. See? Your arms and legs are totally free. That would never work with me. I’d just get away.”
“Then you should show me how to restrain you.” She squirmed away, pulling herself from my cock. “Come on, this isn’t fair.”
“Right.” I nodded. “You want fairness. Okay, come on, I’ll show you some restraints.”
“Thank you.” She stood and slapped my shoulder. “Asshole. Come on, seriously, I want to tie you up.”
“Right behind you.” I followed her to the rope carefully aligned in the next room. I asked her to stand still as I unraveled the hemp on her body. “Did you notice how few knots I used?” I asked. “This design is just tension. You could do this pretty quickly with practice, no special skill required.”
“No, I did not notice.” Her eyes glared. “Because you didn’t teach me. You just did this to me. I don’t know how to do it to you.”
“Oh, didn’t I explain that?” I loosened her breasts, pinching the lines between purple and pale flesh. “Sorry. We’ll do better with restraints. It’s really very simple to learn the basics. I’ll show you one column and two column ties.”
“One and two what?” She turned her neck as I lifted the last of the rope from her body. I rubbed the rough outlines of hemp in her bare skin, assuring her they would fade in no time.
I tossed aside the length of hemp and retrieved two shorter pieces of nylon. “Now, any single post you want to tie with rope can be considered a ‘column,” I began. “A column can be a fencepost, a dock, a bedpost, an arm or a leg.” I took her wrist in my hand. “See how I folded this rope over evenly? Now I’m going to wrap the rope around your wrist three times, keeping it loose enough to slip a couple of fingers between the column and the rope . . . see? That way, you won’t restrict blood flow. Less of a problem with intimate objects . . .” She watched closely as I went on, tying a square knot to secure the restraint in place. I lifted her arm over her head to show how it was now subject to whatever I wanted to do with it. I repeated the lesson for a two-column tie, once more lifting her arms over her head. I tugged and she stood to follow. “Nice,” I nodded. “See, I could haul you right back to bed . . .”
“No, you don’t.” She pulled back on the rope. “Now I get to do you. Get me out of this rope so I can tie you up.”
“Oh, that’s right. Fairness. Here, it’s easy to untie this.” I untied the knot, unraveled the rope and handed it to her. “So now, you restrain me.” I held out my arm. She doubled the rope and carefully wrapped my wrist three times, just as I had wrapped hers. I watched as she executed a fine square knot. My arm was completely in her command. She tugged. My arm followed. “Nice work, little sister,” I commended. “I swear, you’ll surpass all I know in no time.”
She smiled. “Yeah, you are totally my bitch now.” She tried to pull me from the couch, but I resisted, pulling her back.
“Not so fast, cowgirl. Let’s try the double column.” I began to untie my wrist, musing aloud. “You know, this tie is great when you want to have someone spread-eagle; you know, tie each wrist and ankle just so and secure the ends to bedposts, and that person isn’t going anywhere. I used to do that more, but maybe I’m getting lazy now that I have under-the-bed restraints.”
She leaned forward. “Wait, what? You have under-the-bed restraints? How have I known you so long and not known that?” She turned to look at the bedroom door.
“Well, I suppose you don’t know because they are very discreet.” I removed the rope from my wrist and rubbed my forearm. “They are tucked away between the mattress and box spring, just waiting until they are needed. I have to tell you, they are very handy if you decide in the heat of the moment that you want someone restrained. Used to be, I’d have to stop what I was doing, pull out some rope and move around the bed tying knots. That interruption could kill a moment. Not to mention, it could allow your partner to resist or even escape. With these, I just reach under the mattress, slap on the cuffs and continue doing whatever I was doing.”
She kicked my calf. “You mean to tell me all this time I could’ve restrained you while you were asleep and you couldn’t have stopped me?”
I grabbed her foot. “Why do I think I’m going to regret telling you this? Now, let me get a longer rope and show you the double column tie . . .”
“No, fuck that.” She pulled her leg from my hand and stood. “Come on, I want to see these under-the-bed restraints.”
“Come on, then.” I grabbed a breast and pulled. “Let’s go take a look.” She followed, her breast in my grip. I released her in the bedroom and bent to lift the mattress. “See? There’s a cuff at each corner, all connected by straps to that central strap. The straps are all nylon, but look here.” I handed her a cuff. “The cuffs are secured by Velcro, so you can easily close them with one hand. That’s useful, because you can use your other hand to hold someone down, or use a toy, or whatever, so you don’t need to stop what you’re doing to attach a restraint. Plus, look: there are metal clips so you can remove the cuffs from the straps. That allows your partner to be moved or attached to some other device. Like, say you decided you wanted her upright. You could take this all over to a closet door, rig it up the same way—using the door as I’m using the mattress—and there you go.”
She studied the cuff in her hand. “Say, why don’t you lay on the bed?”
I lowered the mattress. “Tell you what, why don’t you lay on the bed? It’s better that you see how it feels to try something before you do it to someone else.”
“I guess that’s fair,” she agreed. “How do you want me—on my back or on my front?”
I leaned forward to kiss her collarbone, resting a hand on her protruding hip. “Better get on your belly,” I said, brushing my hand across her flat abdomen. “If I have you on your back, I’ll just want to fuck you some more.”
She scoffed. “Seems like anyway I move, that thing winds up in me.” She turned to crawl onto the bed. I noticed small purple bruises already taking form on her ass. My cock jumped.
She sprawled on the bed with her arms outstretched. “Like this?”
“Like that,” I nodded, “But with your legs spread further apart.” I took a leg and moved it to the corner of the bed. She extended her other leg to the opposite corner; she was very nearly tall enough to reach all corners. I reached under the mattress to retrieve a cuff. “Now, these straps are adjustable,” I said, quickly securing her. “So if the next person to find herself in this situation happens to be shorter than a bean pole, I can fix the length.”
“I may have to do that when I put you up here,” she teased.
“You very may well,” I replied, securing her other ankle. I ran a hand up her leg, enjoying the view of her splayed body. I crawled onto the bed, lowering my body onto hers. My cock pressed between her buttocks. “Now, let’s say I was fucking your ass . . .”
She squirmed. “No, you are not fucking my ass again. You are just showing me how to use these things.”
I moved hair from her upturned ear. “I didn’t say I was fucking your ass,” I whispered. “I said ‘let’s say I was fucking your ass.’ Now, if I was fucking your ass, I could hold your arm in one hand . . .” I grabbed a wrist. “With the other, I could reach for the cuff.” I leaned forward to pull a strap from its hiding place. With two fingers and a thumb, I worked the Velcro into place. “See? All done. Now to finish the job.” She tugged against the cuff as I secured her other wrist. “See how easy that was?” I nibbled her ear lobe. “And now you are in no position to resist me.” My mouth moved to the back of her neck. I felt a muscle move under my lips.
“Oh yeah?” She laughed, waving her freed right arm. “Look at this. Look how easily I could get away.” Her body squirmed under mine.
“Not bad, Houdini.” I reached for the discarded cuff with one hand, grabbing her arm with the other. “Now, it’s true: Velcro attachments aren’t as binding as rope. If you were truly my prisoner, I’d want something more reliable. But if I attach this more firmly . . . okay, now try it.” She tugged her arm. The restraint didn’t give. “Now you’re trapped, aren’t you?”
“I guess I am.”
I sat up and adjusted the remaining cuffs. “Yes, I suppose I’d say you are.” I lowered myself to her again, returning my mouth to her back. My tongue traced around her shoulder blades. She quivered as my tongue reached the base of her left blade. “Nice, thank you,” I whispered. I bit slowly, pressing for the muscle that had caused that reflex. She flinched. I bit harder. I could feel her body squirm, but now, her hands were unable to swat me away. Now, there was less potential of harming herself. I dug in.
I moved to the other shoulder blade, searching for the reflexive twin. It soon made itself apparent. I marked the second spot, like the first, with my teeth.
I chewed my way across the soft flesh at the curve of her upper back, just under her shoulder blades, enjoying this expanse, unusual on her body, where flesh and muscle were not so tightly joined. She moaned and squirmed as I made my way back and forth, sometimes soothing her with my hand at the base of her neck, other times grabbing fists full of ass and hips.
Biting with my incisors, I could feel my molars grind in expectation that torn flesh would soon be on its way. I calmed their frustrations by gnawing as if chewing gum.
I sat back on her thighs, drugged from her taste. I became lost in thought, absent-mindedly circling her body with my thumb. She looked at me over her shoulder. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Not a thing,” I lied. I leaned forward and opened the drawer holding condoms and lube. “Okay, ready or not, we’re fucking.”
Hours later, she slipped a bookmark into Middlesex and dropped the book to the floor. “I’m going to sleep,” she yawned, sliding her body down under a quilt. “I don’t know why I’m so sore.”
I watched over my book as she turned on her side. I ran a finger along the bruises taking shape across on her back. The next day, she would realize that these marks completed the circle begun with her breasts, a circle I had previously outlined with hemp. My souvenir for her; the next day, she would be leaving for home. For days following, she wouldn’t be able to wear a bra without thinking of me.
“I’m so tired,” she mumbled. “Can you turn off my light?” I rested my book on the quilt and leaned over to pull a lamp’s cord. I kissed her hair. “I just realized,” she said. “I was supposed to put you in restraints, but we never did that.” She curled her body around a pillow. “So unfair. I hate you.”
I returned to my pillows. “Tomorrow’s another day, little sister.” I reached for my book. “Night.”
Under-the-bed restraints are discreet, adjustable and require no special skill to use. They are a handy addition to any pervert’s arsenal and just as much fun for neophytes curious to try something a bit restrictive.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Dom on Dom
I recognized her from across the street and waved. She smiled and waved back. He nodded. I nodded in response. The traffic light took its sweet time about changing. We continued nodding and smiling at one another as vehicles flew between us.
That dude, I surmised, could break me in half.
When the light changed, they stepped to the curb together, waiting as I crossed the street. I noticed that they were holding hands. Good. If I’m in this for them, it’s best that they are in this together.
She stepped forward, holding out her arms. “Oh my God, Jefferson! I can’t believe it.”
I stepped into her embrace and bent to kiss her cheek. “Long time coming, Julia. Nice to finally meet in the flesh.”
“Likewise.” She hugged me and stepped back, smiling. “Jefferson, this is my husband, Brogan.”
I extended a hand. Brogan took it in his own massive hand. “Jefferson, heard a lot about you, man.”
“None of it good, I trust?” He laughed slightly, revealing a wide mouth full of sturdy white teeth. I smiled back, allowing my hand to rest in his grip.
Julia and I have been correspondents since she dropped a line a few years ago to let me know she enjoyed my blog. We traded notes on parenting and sexuality, writing and books, easily making jokes with one another. “If you’re ever in Oakland, we should get together,” she wrote. “Brogan would really like you.”
Seeing them now, in my city, I thought that I should get to Oakland more often.
We went into a restaurant and settled into a corner table surrounded by windows. As we looked over brunch menus, Brogan ordered a pitcher of sangria. “Anything for the two of youse?” he joked. We placed our orders and relaxed into conversation. Julia and I did most of the talking. Brogan seemed to be assessing how well we got along. Our correspondence had already established a nice rapport between us, and now that we were talking in person, and I saw her eyes behind round lenses, her straight hair and her easy smile, I began to rethink the surprise I had in store for my new friends. See, I had decided that I wasn’t going to fuck Julia.
I was going to fuck Brogan.
Julia had laid the groundwork for my decision. Brogan had never been fucked by a man, nor had he been submissive to a man. He was curious to try it, but whenever the situation arose, the other man was either more interested in having sex with Julia or in being submissive to Brogan. It was easy to see why this was so—Julia was lovely and Brogan was broad and muscular. He looked the part of the dominant he was. How could anyone expect such a burly man to be submissive?
But I’ve been around enough to know that our sexualities don’t always conform to our appearances. I’ve dominated Amazons and I’ve been flipped by slight fey boys. Now, faced with a straight dominant man, I intended to take care of him as no one else seemed capable of doing. After all, his wife had been so sweet in bringing us together.
After brunch, we walked out into a hot summer afternoon. We had been talking about the injuries sustained by Brogan’s teenage son years before in a car accident. He had come to live with Brogan then, as the boy’s mother wasn’t able to care for him. Brogan was describing the nature of his son’s ongoing challenges when he interrupted himself. “Look at that,” he said. “That’s a beautiful cathedral.”
“Isn’t it?” I agreed. “I pass it every day. Never been inside.”
“Would you mind if we stopped in?” Brogan asked. “It’s really lovely.”
“Brogan left Ireland twenty years ago,” Julia explained. “But he’s still a good Irish Catholic kid.” We crossed the street and entered the cathedral. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. People sat apart from one another in the pews. An altar boy waved a thurible, his back to the congregants. Julia’s eyes rose to the clerestory. “Ooh, such beautiful stained glass,” she marveled.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been inside,” I said, looking up.
Brogan touched Julia’s arm. “Hey, I’ll be back,” he murmured. “I want to light a candle.”
Julia kissed her husband’s cheek and watched as he walked up the aisle. “Brogan lost his mother not so long ago.” She paused. “Complicated relationship, but . . .”
“Aren’t they all?” I took Julia’s hand. “I like him. You were right.”
She smiled. “Yeah, and I can tell he likes you. He’s nervous, a little, but he’ll be okay.” We watched as Brogan searched for a candle, but there didn’t seem to be any remaining. He gave up his search, bowed his head for a few moments, and then crossed himself. He returned shaking his head. “Nothing?”
“No, I could ask someone, but . . .” He raised a shoulder. “It’s the thought that counts, eh?”
We left the cathedral and walked the remaining blocks to my apartment. I turned on fans, apologizing for the heat wave and the few boxes still remaining from my recent move. I offered them a drink before noticing through the bedroom door that one of my curtains had fallen. “Darn, that’s a bother,” I said. “I think we’re going to want to fix that before . . . well, we should fix that.”
“Here, let me look.” Brogan slipped off his shoes and climbed onto my window ledge. “Well, here’s your problem, man. The curtain rod wasn’t installed correctly. Do you have a drill?”
I retrieved my toolbox. Julia and I drank water as Brogan hung the curtain rod. “This makes him happy,” she said quietly. “I’m sure it’s good for his nervousness. He loves to fix things. One reason my dad is always glad to see him.”
“There, that’ll hold.” Brogan hopped down from the window ledge and returned the drill to the toolbox. He looked around the bedroom, as if searching for his next chore. I pointed out his water and he quickly downed the entire glass. He tugged at his t-shirt. “It really is warm, isn’t?”
“Perhaps we’d be more comfortable nude,” I suggested. Brogan grinned and pulled off his shirt. Julia followed suit, pulling up her tank top to bare her small firm breasts. Soon, we were nude and looking at one another. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have such lovely company,” I smiled.
“Yeah, likewise,” Julia nodded, taking me in.
“I think . . .” Brogan began. “Say, you’re a bourbon man, right? Do you think . . . ?”
“Of course, how rude of me not to offer. Please, make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring drinks.” I returned with three tumblers to find the couple in bed, propped up on my pillows. Julia scooted to one side and patted the bed. I put down the drinks and lay next to Julia. I stroked her thigh as we talked. Brogan made short work of his drink, so I brought in another round.
Julia remembered something and skipped out to the living room. She brought back a Tarot deck. “It’s a gift for you, for having us over. Would you like a reading?”
“That’s really sweet. Thanks!” We sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed. Brogan helped himself to another drink as Julia lay out my cards. As she read my life, I thought how nice it was to have grown-up Californians as friends. Drinks, Tarot cards, casual nudity—the left coast had opened a branch in my Manhattan apartment. My friends were refreshingly not New Yorkers. Julia even had pubic hair.
As Julia put away the cards, I asked for a tour of the tattoo that covered Brogan’s back. He lay on his front to accommodate his wife’s turn as docent of his body. Julia explained that the central figure covering the length of his spine was the feminine embodiment of wisdom, and each of the brightly colored rays emanating from her body represented a branch of knowledge relevant to the education life had brought to Brogan. I touched a bare area of his back. “I see that the tattoo isn’t complete.”
“Life isn’t complete,” Brogan said in his subdued brogue.
Brogan the good husband, Brogan the good father, Brogan the good son, Brogan the good helper . . . my heart was genuinely warm for this good man. I was going to fuck him so well. But I know that fucking a straight man can require a circuitous approach. He took comfort in the rapport between Julia and me. I would start there.
Julia took my kisses softly, closing her eyes. Mine, open, watched Brogan watching us. She reached to hold his hand as I flicked her clit with my tongue, my nose inhaling the scent of her moist hair. I wanted to get her off even as she suspected, I believed, that her body was a stepping stone to his. Julia reached out and kissed her husband.
I turned my body slightly, taking his cock in my mouth. He moaned into his wife’s mouth.
We were in no rush. We were adults on a hot summer Sunday afternoon, two Californians and one Southerner. Manhattan was just the place we met. What we wanted wouldn’t happen in a New York minute.
I lolled his soft cock in my mouth, holding it in my cheek, savoring it under my tongue. I braced for the pulsing moments of arousal, followed back when he again grew soft. My own cock was pleasantly flaccid. There was no urgency to any of our touch.
Or was there? I knew this was a new branch of knowledge for Brogan. I knew he was nervous. And now, he may have suspected, this would go as it had in the past: I would fuck his wife and he would be left unknowing.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said. “I guess I’m just nervous . . .”
I took his cock from my mouth. “It’s so hot.”
“You have been drinking,” Julia added. The excuses for a soft cock were laid out for Brogan, inventoried and forgiven. “Let me see if I can help,” Julia went on. She took her husband’s cock from me and returned it to a more familiar mouth.
Brogan grew hard. “You’re my girl, you are,” he murmured. Julia cooed, taking him deep.
Brogan stood and walked to the other side of the bed. He spit in his palm, greased his cock, and slid into his wife’s pussy. I moved to put my cock into her newly vacated mouth. There was no pressure now. This was a threesome, pure and simple. Brogan with his wife, his wife blowing another man. Still, I was determined: I was not fucking Julia. I was fucking Brogan.
Brogan gave Julia a good, solid fucking, and she came into my cock. “Good girl,” I said, He fucked on, nodding his approval to me. That’s right, he thought, let’s dom my girl. That’s where these two men would meet. These two men who knew how to satisfy a woman, his woman, the woman he loved.
I could meet him there.
We rested afterward. Brogan lay on his back in the center of the bed, nursing a bourbon, Julia curled up in his arms, nursing her own. I sipped my bourbon, taking in the scent of our sweating bodies. We were talking easily when, without a word of warning, I bent forward to kiss Brogan. He responded with surprise, but didn’t say anything. I pulled back, smiled into his eyes, and kissed him again. My tongue traced his lips, found his teeth and swirled in his mouth. “Boys,” Julia whispered. Brogan opened his mouth, surrendering to mine.
I locked my eyes on his, my hands massaging his hole, working with lube and condom. I could do those things in the dark, and frequently have. Every gesture told Brogan he was safe, he was in good hands, and, for now, he was mine.
I entered him easily. His eyes widened. Julia whispered into his ear, but what she said didn’t matter. It was her voice, my cock, his mind, his body. Brogan flashed on new, brightly-colored branches of knowledge.
I took his long blond hair in my fist and pulled. He didn’t resist. He submitted to me as so many had submitted to him.
Julia smiled at me, joyous in her husband’s bliss. I cupped her face in my free right hand. I took back my hand, balled it into a fist and hit her husband in the chest. He grunted and tensed his arms in reaction. But then his mind relaxed his body. He gave over. I punched my fist firmly, methodically, into his well-developed pectorals. I was harsh, wanting my pelts to be felt, to resonate in all his muscle. His eyes were wide on mine. He felt my fists, my cock in his body and he was gone, deeply gone.
Julia held his arm, anchoring him in their shared reality. I knew this. He wasn’t mine, not truly; I was there for them, and they were in this together. That was good.
Brogan was relaxed as we dressed later. “You need to come to Burning Man this year,” he told me. “It’s not what it used to be, but there are still paths, ways to experience it. I can show them to you.”
“I’ve never been and I’m not likely to go this year. But I’d love you as my guide.” I put my hands on his shoulders and put my lips to his.
“You’ll come see us,” he said. “You’re a good lover.”
“We’re just getting started,” I assured him.
Julia looked on, smiling.
A few days later, they were back home in Oakland. Their son was glad to have them back and life was back to normal, Julia wrote. She thanked me for having them over and I thanked her for visiting. That was great, I wrote, and I really enjoyed how sweet Brogan had been when we parted.
“Well, that was then,” she replied. “He was cursing your grave when we were on the plane. His chest was murdering him.”
That dude, I surmised, could break me in half.
When the light changed, they stepped to the curb together, waiting as I crossed the street. I noticed that they were holding hands. Good. If I’m in this for them, it’s best that they are in this together.
She stepped forward, holding out her arms. “Oh my God, Jefferson! I can’t believe it.”
I stepped into her embrace and bent to kiss her cheek. “Long time coming, Julia. Nice to finally meet in the flesh.”
“Likewise.” She hugged me and stepped back, smiling. “Jefferson, this is my husband, Brogan.”
I extended a hand. Brogan took it in his own massive hand. “Jefferson, heard a lot about you, man.”
“None of it good, I trust?” He laughed slightly, revealing a wide mouth full of sturdy white teeth. I smiled back, allowing my hand to rest in his grip.
Julia and I have been correspondents since she dropped a line a few years ago to let me know she enjoyed my blog. We traded notes on parenting and sexuality, writing and books, easily making jokes with one another. “If you’re ever in Oakland, we should get together,” she wrote. “Brogan would really like you.”
Seeing them now, in my city, I thought that I should get to Oakland more often.
We went into a restaurant and settled into a corner table surrounded by windows. As we looked over brunch menus, Brogan ordered a pitcher of sangria. “Anything for the two of youse?” he joked. We placed our orders and relaxed into conversation. Julia and I did most of the talking. Brogan seemed to be assessing how well we got along. Our correspondence had already established a nice rapport between us, and now that we were talking in person, and I saw her eyes behind round lenses, her straight hair and her easy smile, I began to rethink the surprise I had in store for my new friends. See, I had decided that I wasn’t going to fuck Julia.
I was going to fuck Brogan.
Julia had laid the groundwork for my decision. Brogan had never been fucked by a man, nor had he been submissive to a man. He was curious to try it, but whenever the situation arose, the other man was either more interested in having sex with Julia or in being submissive to Brogan. It was easy to see why this was so—Julia was lovely and Brogan was broad and muscular. He looked the part of the dominant he was. How could anyone expect such a burly man to be submissive?
But I’ve been around enough to know that our sexualities don’t always conform to our appearances. I’ve dominated Amazons and I’ve been flipped by slight fey boys. Now, faced with a straight dominant man, I intended to take care of him as no one else seemed capable of doing. After all, his wife had been so sweet in bringing us together.
After brunch, we walked out into a hot summer afternoon. We had been talking about the injuries sustained by Brogan’s teenage son years before in a car accident. He had come to live with Brogan then, as the boy’s mother wasn’t able to care for him. Brogan was describing the nature of his son’s ongoing challenges when he interrupted himself. “Look at that,” he said. “That’s a beautiful cathedral.”
“Isn’t it?” I agreed. “I pass it every day. Never been inside.”
“Would you mind if we stopped in?” Brogan asked. “It’s really lovely.”
“Brogan left Ireland twenty years ago,” Julia explained. “But he’s still a good Irish Catholic kid.” We crossed the street and entered the cathedral. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. People sat apart from one another in the pews. An altar boy waved a thurible, his back to the congregants. Julia’s eyes rose to the clerestory. “Ooh, such beautiful stained glass,” she marveled.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been inside,” I said, looking up.
Brogan touched Julia’s arm. “Hey, I’ll be back,” he murmured. “I want to light a candle.”
Julia kissed her husband’s cheek and watched as he walked up the aisle. “Brogan lost his mother not so long ago.” She paused. “Complicated relationship, but . . .”
“Aren’t they all?” I took Julia’s hand. “I like him. You were right.”
She smiled. “Yeah, and I can tell he likes you. He’s nervous, a little, but he’ll be okay.” We watched as Brogan searched for a candle, but there didn’t seem to be any remaining. He gave up his search, bowed his head for a few moments, and then crossed himself. He returned shaking his head. “Nothing?”
“No, I could ask someone, but . . .” He raised a shoulder. “It’s the thought that counts, eh?”
We left the cathedral and walked the remaining blocks to my apartment. I turned on fans, apologizing for the heat wave and the few boxes still remaining from my recent move. I offered them a drink before noticing through the bedroom door that one of my curtains had fallen. “Darn, that’s a bother,” I said. “I think we’re going to want to fix that before . . . well, we should fix that.”
“Here, let me look.” Brogan slipped off his shoes and climbed onto my window ledge. “Well, here’s your problem, man. The curtain rod wasn’t installed correctly. Do you have a drill?”
I retrieved my toolbox. Julia and I drank water as Brogan hung the curtain rod. “This makes him happy,” she said quietly. “I’m sure it’s good for his nervousness. He loves to fix things. One reason my dad is always glad to see him.”
“There, that’ll hold.” Brogan hopped down from the window ledge and returned the drill to the toolbox. He looked around the bedroom, as if searching for his next chore. I pointed out his water and he quickly downed the entire glass. He tugged at his t-shirt. “It really is warm, isn’t?”
“Perhaps we’d be more comfortable nude,” I suggested. Brogan grinned and pulled off his shirt. Julia followed suit, pulling up her tank top to bare her small firm breasts. Soon, we were nude and looking at one another. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have such lovely company,” I smiled.
“Yeah, likewise,” Julia nodded, taking me in.
“I think . . .” Brogan began. “Say, you’re a bourbon man, right? Do you think . . . ?”
“Of course, how rude of me not to offer. Please, make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring drinks.” I returned with three tumblers to find the couple in bed, propped up on my pillows. Julia scooted to one side and patted the bed. I put down the drinks and lay next to Julia. I stroked her thigh as we talked. Brogan made short work of his drink, so I brought in another round.
Julia remembered something and skipped out to the living room. She brought back a Tarot deck. “It’s a gift for you, for having us over. Would you like a reading?”
“That’s really sweet. Thanks!” We sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed. Brogan helped himself to another drink as Julia lay out my cards. As she read my life, I thought how nice it was to have grown-up Californians as friends. Drinks, Tarot cards, casual nudity—the left coast had opened a branch in my Manhattan apartment. My friends were refreshingly not New Yorkers. Julia even had pubic hair.
As Julia put away the cards, I asked for a tour of the tattoo that covered Brogan’s back. He lay on his front to accommodate his wife’s turn as docent of his body. Julia explained that the central figure covering the length of his spine was the feminine embodiment of wisdom, and each of the brightly colored rays emanating from her body represented a branch of knowledge relevant to the education life had brought to Brogan. I touched a bare area of his back. “I see that the tattoo isn’t complete.”
“Life isn’t complete,” Brogan said in his subdued brogue.
Brogan the good husband, Brogan the good father, Brogan the good son, Brogan the good helper . . . my heart was genuinely warm for this good man. I was going to fuck him so well. But I know that fucking a straight man can require a circuitous approach. He took comfort in the rapport between Julia and me. I would start there.
Julia took my kisses softly, closing her eyes. Mine, open, watched Brogan watching us. She reached to hold his hand as I flicked her clit with my tongue, my nose inhaling the scent of her moist hair. I wanted to get her off even as she suspected, I believed, that her body was a stepping stone to his. Julia reached out and kissed her husband.
I turned my body slightly, taking his cock in my mouth. He moaned into his wife’s mouth.
We were in no rush. We were adults on a hot summer Sunday afternoon, two Californians and one Southerner. Manhattan was just the place we met. What we wanted wouldn’t happen in a New York minute.
I lolled his soft cock in my mouth, holding it in my cheek, savoring it under my tongue. I braced for the pulsing moments of arousal, followed back when he again grew soft. My own cock was pleasantly flaccid. There was no urgency to any of our touch.
Or was there? I knew this was a new branch of knowledge for Brogan. I knew he was nervous. And now, he may have suspected, this would go as it had in the past: I would fuck his wife and he would be left unknowing.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said. “I guess I’m just nervous . . .”
I took his cock from my mouth. “It’s so hot.”
“You have been drinking,” Julia added. The excuses for a soft cock were laid out for Brogan, inventoried and forgiven. “Let me see if I can help,” Julia went on. She took her husband’s cock from me and returned it to a more familiar mouth.
Brogan grew hard. “You’re my girl, you are,” he murmured. Julia cooed, taking him deep.
Brogan stood and walked to the other side of the bed. He spit in his palm, greased his cock, and slid into his wife’s pussy. I moved to put my cock into her newly vacated mouth. There was no pressure now. This was a threesome, pure and simple. Brogan with his wife, his wife blowing another man. Still, I was determined: I was not fucking Julia. I was fucking Brogan.
Brogan gave Julia a good, solid fucking, and she came into my cock. “Good girl,” I said, He fucked on, nodding his approval to me. That’s right, he thought, let’s dom my girl. That’s where these two men would meet. These two men who knew how to satisfy a woman, his woman, the woman he loved.
I could meet him there.
We rested afterward. Brogan lay on his back in the center of the bed, nursing a bourbon, Julia curled up in his arms, nursing her own. I sipped my bourbon, taking in the scent of our sweating bodies. We were talking easily when, without a word of warning, I bent forward to kiss Brogan. He responded with surprise, but didn’t say anything. I pulled back, smiled into his eyes, and kissed him again. My tongue traced his lips, found his teeth and swirled in his mouth. “Boys,” Julia whispered. Brogan opened his mouth, surrendering to mine.
I locked my eyes on his, my hands massaging his hole, working with lube and condom. I could do those things in the dark, and frequently have. Every gesture told Brogan he was safe, he was in good hands, and, for now, he was mine.
I entered him easily. His eyes widened. Julia whispered into his ear, but what she said didn’t matter. It was her voice, my cock, his mind, his body. Brogan flashed on new, brightly-colored branches of knowledge.
I took his long blond hair in my fist and pulled. He didn’t resist. He submitted to me as so many had submitted to him.
Julia smiled at me, joyous in her husband’s bliss. I cupped her face in my free right hand. I took back my hand, balled it into a fist and hit her husband in the chest. He grunted and tensed his arms in reaction. But then his mind relaxed his body. He gave over. I punched my fist firmly, methodically, into his well-developed pectorals. I was harsh, wanting my pelts to be felt, to resonate in all his muscle. His eyes were wide on mine. He felt my fists, my cock in his body and he was gone, deeply gone.
Julia held his arm, anchoring him in their shared reality. I knew this. He wasn’t mine, not truly; I was there for them, and they were in this together. That was good.
Brogan was relaxed as we dressed later. “You need to come to Burning Man this year,” he told me. “It’s not what it used to be, but there are still paths, ways to experience it. I can show them to you.”
“I’ve never been and I’m not likely to go this year. But I’d love you as my guide.” I put my hands on his shoulders and put my lips to his.
“You’ll come see us,” he said. “You’re a good lover.”
“We’re just getting started,” I assured him.
Julia looked on, smiling.
A few days later, they were back home in Oakland. Their son was glad to have them back and life was back to normal, Julia wrote. She thanked me for having them over and I thanked her for visiting. That was great, I wrote, and I really enjoyed how sweet Brogan had been when we parted.
“Well, that was then,” she replied. “He was cursing your grave when we were on the plane. His chest was murdering him.”
Monday, March 23, 2009
Runway
Adélaïde’s note was like many I’ve received. She was bored in her marriage and missed the exciting sex life she had once enjoyed. She related to the stories I had written about my long marriage lacking in intimacy. “My husband, too, is like this. Dull. It is more frustrating even because we have so many friends who like to party. I tell them I envy them.”
I offered her my condolences. As we corresponded, it became apparent that Adélaïde was fairly jaded. Everything seemed to bore her, she told me. “I hate to be so boring, always complaining,” she apologized. “Maybe it’s the summer, all the partying, so boring. I’ll be better when we get back to Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles does have its excitements,” I wrote. “Are you currently on vacation?”
“No, not vacation, really. We always spend summer in the Riviera, ever since I was a girl. It’s too much partying, always partying. It makes me so tired and bored.”
Adélaïde’s colossal ennui aside, I understood her frustration. Even the fabulous can be unhappy, of course, and it sounded to me that she was perhaps wrongly cast in her jetset life. She wrote me with great frequency, suggesting that our notes offered a more interesting diversion than any she could find on the Riviera. After getting to know one another a bit, I suggested that we trade photographs. I sent her a pleasant shot of my face.
She responded with a portfolio bulging with nudes. “Thanks,” I wrote. “These look professionally done. But I’m confused: did you make these photographs or is this you in them?”
“Yes, those are me,” she replied. “Years ago when I was a model. I’m fat now, so lazy in summer.”
“You were a model?”
“Yes, runways when I was studying dance, just like every other young girl in Paris. I am a cliché, so boring. Now I’m a lawyer, like everyone else.”
I looked through the portfolio. Horizontal poses emphasized her long limbs. Black and white images contrasted tones across her rich, dark skin. Her thin body turned in simple yet challenging positions. Always, her face was still, utterly implacable.
Had we not been corresponding for some time, I might have suspected that I was being fooled. A runway model on the French Riviera discovered my blog and struck up a correspondence? A runway model bored in her marriage and stunning, in the way that French runway models may be?
She had certainly roused my curiosity, so I asked to know more about her life. She was born in Algeria, she said, and adopted as a baby by a Parisian couple. Her father was a surgeon and her mother a popular novelist. When she was in her teens, she met a much older man who introduced her to sex clubs and dungeons. She found she craved the kinks he introduced to her. “Sadly, he died,” she wrote. “Actually, I fear I killed him. So demanding, always wanting more making love. I think he died happy in my arms. So then I got married and went to law school and found your blog.”
“That’s an incredible story,” I replied. Truly, I wondered how credible all of this could be. Yet she seemed genuine and her story held up to follow up questions. And then, there was the portfolio.
“All I want is to find someone who does what you write about,” she wrote. “But everyone is so boring, and so I am boring.”
I asked the inevitable question. “Are you ever in New York?”
“Of course, we are there, it’s famous. We are required to go to a birthday party in the city soon, but it will be short and I will be with my husband. Can you come to Los Angeles?”
“I’m there now and then. But I don’t have the frequent flyer miles I imagine you have.”
“This is true, I could send you a ticket for free. I did that once. I met a man in London and flew him to Paris. We had a good affair. That was long ago.”
A former runway model on the Riviera was proposing to fly me to Los Angeles to have “a good affair.” I supposed that I could do that. We continued to correspond and, as summer ended, she prepared to return to Los Angeles via the birthday party in New York. She would be in Manhattan for about twenty-four hours. “I understand that we can’t meet on this trip,” I wrote. “If you can get away for coffee or drinks, drop me a line. It would be nice to meet my correspondent.” She gave me the name of her hotel, and I gave her the name of my neighborhood.
I thought of her on the morning after her party, knowing she’d be off to the airport that evening. I had no expectation of actually meeting her then, and assumed I would next hear from her once she was back in Los Angeles. I made coffee and sat to work.
Mid-morning, I checked my email. She had written at nine-thirty-three: “I can see you today.” At nine-forty-two, she wrote: “Are you there? Can you see me today?” Just after ten, she wrote; “I am coming to your neighborhood now. If I see you, good. If I don’t, there will be another time.” She mentioned a local landmark, a small plaza. She didn’t know that the plaza was currently under renovation and possibly inaccessible.
It was nearly eleven. “If you get this note, I am meeting you,” I typed quickly. “I’ll be in a navy jacket.” I hurried to put on shoes, grabbed my jacket and raced out the door.
“This is insane,” I thought, walking around the high plywood walls that shut of the construction in the plaza, wishing I had asked for her cell phone number. I looked along the crowded sidewalk, realizing that not only had I never seen Adélaïde in person, I had only seen her photographed nude. Then, turning a corner, I caught a glimpse of her. She was walking away, but there was no question in my mind that it was her. Her hips swayed with studied nonchalance with the landing of each graceful step, her straight hair moving side to side along the length of her back. She stood in bold relief from the mortals she towered above.
I ran to catch up. She stopped to speak to a security guard, as if to ask directions. I slowed my pace and walked to her side. “Adélaïde?”
She turned and looked at my face, then down my body, and back to my eyes. “Thank you,” she said to the guard, her eyes not leaving mine. “I don’t have much time.”
“My apartment is nearby,” I smiled, indicating the direction with a sweep of my hand. “Shall we?”
She began to walk, still staring at me. “Are you from Wales?”
“Um, no. Well, yes, my family is, but we left in the seventeenth century.” I hoped I didn’t sound nervous. “Or sixteenth. I forget.”
“So you are a typical American?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “Very typical.”
“Good.” She said. We walked to my place without further conversation. I replayed her biography in my mind. She had referred to being fat, but she had the ultrathin body of the runway model she had been. She had referred to things she had done long ago, but she was clearly not yet thirty. She was tan and made up, wearing a loose top and tight jeans, obviously designer, and stepping in sandal heels that added several inches to her already impressive height.
I felt at once decidedly normal and incredibly apart, as if her reflected glamour at once attenuated and enhanced my own appearance. A taxi slowed so that the driver could admire her. She seemed not to notice.
I showed her into my apartment. She walked into the living room. She put down her bag and turned her head to me. Her body followed, her hair carrying the motion into space. “Well, you have me for only one hour,” she said. She held her chin high, apparently defying me to make proper use of the hour she was granting.
I smiled. “Then let’s not waste time on words.” I stepped forward and kissed her. She opened her mouth slightly. I took her jaw in my grip and lifted her face. “Lose the shoes,” I growled, pushing my mouth into hers. She fumbled with her shoes, kicking off one and then the other as we kissed. Once she stood flatfooted, inches shorter, I lowered myself from standing on my toes.
As one hand gripped her neck, the other moved around her body, getting familiar with the stranger I now had for one hour. Her breasts were firm yet clothed. “Hands up,” I ordered. She offered no resistance. I lifted her top over her body, exposing her bare torso. She looked at me waiting to be admired, but I had no time for that. I unzipped her jeans and pushed them down her hips, stopping midthigh. She wore no panties. I barely registered her body in my mind before shoving two fingers into her pussy. “Nice and wet,” I said, and then kissed her. “You came here to get fucked, didn’t you?”
“I have no other reason to bother,” she shrugged.
I took her hair in my fist and pulled up into her cunt. “Come,” I ordered. I walked backwards down the hall, pulling inside her body as she waddled behind in her lowered jeans.
I took my fingers from her and pushed her onto the bed. I tugged the jeans from her legs. “It’s a shame your husband waits,” I said. “This means I can’t mark you. I’d like nothing better than to beat you.”
She pulled back on the pillows, turning on a hip and extending her legs. Her eyelids lowered to her body then looked up to me. “Is that all you can think to do to me?”
I opened a drawer and pulled out a condom. “I’m full of ideas for what to do to you.”
I undressed and put on the condom. She watched, assessing me, and continued to size me up as I entered her. I can’t speak for her, but I was keenly aware of the artifice of the moment. She was probably the most conventionally beautiful person I have even seen nude, much less fucked. She would have been perfectly at home in a Playboy centerfold or walking Dior down a runway. I looked her over as I fucked her, taking in her perfectly tan breasts—implants, large for her frame—her flawless skin stretched over precise bones, the tiny sliver of pale skin a remnant of the thong she had worn all summer, the freshly waxed slip that now swallowed my cock. This girl had been admired her entire life for her exoticism and her beauty, and as we fucked, she must have expected those things to be the source of my pleasure with her.
But I knew her from her letters. I had one hour and the meter was ticking.
I took her legs over my shoulders, grabbed her arms and fucked into her, hard. She missed rough sex and I was going to fuck her roughly, using her, reminding her of what it had been like to kill a man with her pussy.
She closed her eyes, her head bouncing back and forth on my pillows. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me. “What’s the matter? Don’t I turn you on?”
“Are you taunting me?” I grunted. “Seriously, Adélaïde, husband or no husband, I will slap the shit out of you.”
She pulled up a shoulder, even as her body moved under my thrusts. “You will do what you have to do,” she sighed, affecting boredom.
“You fucking hole.” I pulled back and slapped her cheek. “You fucking plastic hole. Did you come here to insult me?”
“No.” Her face was already reddening when she turned back to me. “I came here to get ‘fucked,’ as you say, if you don’t mind.”
I felt the artifice fade. This runway model had come to me to get fucked by a dominant named Jefferson. I happened to be that dominant, or at least, to write him, and I know damned well how he fucks. If that was the lady’s pleasure, she had forty-five minutes of it coming.
I fell onto her body and grabbed her shoulders. I fucked her roughly in every way I knew, in ways I had observed my friends fucking, in ways I had picked up in other places. I flipped her around. I chewed her feet. I mauled her fake breasts. I shoved fingers into her ass and alongside my cock inside her pussy. I slapped in her ways I hoped wouldn’t leave marks.
She looked up at me. “I’m thinking you don’t like me.”
I spit in her face. “What the fuck did you say?”
She wiped at the spittle. “I think I don’t turn you on very much.”
My cock wilted inside her. Maybe she was right. Perhaps I was well outside my league. Who knows what runway models do in Paris sex clubs? She was probably remembering times when she was coked out of her mind with porn star men who left her feeling precisely how she wanted to feel under the direction of a man she would later murder with her headline beauty. I kissed her lightly and rolled off her body, panting.
“I don’t know.” She extended a foot in perfect pointe and wrapped a hand around her thigh. The thumb approached her forefinger. “Maybe you don’t like me because I’m fat now.”
I looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes. “I refuse to go there with you,” I said sharply.
She turned on the pillow. “What do you mean?” Just then, “The Ride of the Valkyries” began to play, tinny and distant but getting louder. “Oh, my phone!” She jumped from the bed and ran into the living room. I heard her speaking casually in French. Her voice got more heated and she hung up. She was agitated when she returned to the bedroom. “That was my husband, I am late. He is so angry. I must go.” She picked up her jeans and tugged at the legs.
“No.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “What you must do is suck this cock.”
She looked at me and shook her head. “No, really, he is already waiting. I’m late.”
I lowered my voice. “On your knees, Adélaïde. Suck my cock.”
Her arms dropped. Her jeans rested against her bare legs. “Can you do it quickly?”
I looked her in the eye. She understood my answer. She dropped to her knees and began to suck me.
I don’t hold out much hope for the blowjobs of pretty women. They know that men will get off on their beauty, so they may not have bothered to think seriously about working to get a man to orgasm. This was not the case with Adélaïde. Here was a runway model who had seriously sucked cock and who knew that each moment she spent with my dick in her mouth was another moment she would have to explain to her waiting husband.
I took full advantage of her beauty, her skill and her anxiety. I fucked her face hard. Finally, I announced that I was going to cum. “Oui, mon Dieu,” she whispered. I grunted and heaved as I came on her expensive face. She leaned forward to feel me as I streamed on her cheeks. “Oh, God,” she rasped. “I thought you didn’t like me.”
I was still catching my breath when she left. She hadn’t bothered to fix her make up, saying she would do so in a cab. She washed up quickly, pulled on her clothes, and was gone. I wondered if this experience would warrant me “a good affair” in Los Angeles.
She contacted me when she was home, saying she had had a good time. Her notes came at the usual pace and then tapered off as she got back into the routines of partying.
A couple of months later, she wrote to tell me she was pregnant.
She had been pregnant when we met, actually, but she had not known it. “I’m sure the baby will be healthy,” she wrote. “After you fucked me so hard and all the partying I did in LA, this baby is proven to be invincible! I am very happy, dear man. This baby is my life and changes everything.”
“That’s right,” I replied. “A baby can change so much.”
I offered her my condolences. As we corresponded, it became apparent that Adélaïde was fairly jaded. Everything seemed to bore her, she told me. “I hate to be so boring, always complaining,” she apologized. “Maybe it’s the summer, all the partying, so boring. I’ll be better when we get back to Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles does have its excitements,” I wrote. “Are you currently on vacation?”
“No, not vacation, really. We always spend summer in the Riviera, ever since I was a girl. It’s too much partying, always partying. It makes me so tired and bored.”
Adélaïde’s colossal ennui aside, I understood her frustration. Even the fabulous can be unhappy, of course, and it sounded to me that she was perhaps wrongly cast in her jetset life. She wrote me with great frequency, suggesting that our notes offered a more interesting diversion than any she could find on the Riviera. After getting to know one another a bit, I suggested that we trade photographs. I sent her a pleasant shot of my face.
She responded with a portfolio bulging with nudes. “Thanks,” I wrote. “These look professionally done. But I’m confused: did you make these photographs or is this you in them?”
“Yes, those are me,” she replied. “Years ago when I was a model. I’m fat now, so lazy in summer.”
“You were a model?”
“Yes, runways when I was studying dance, just like every other young girl in Paris. I am a cliché, so boring. Now I’m a lawyer, like everyone else.”
I looked through the portfolio. Horizontal poses emphasized her long limbs. Black and white images contrasted tones across her rich, dark skin. Her thin body turned in simple yet challenging positions. Always, her face was still, utterly implacable.
Had we not been corresponding for some time, I might have suspected that I was being fooled. A runway model on the French Riviera discovered my blog and struck up a correspondence? A runway model bored in her marriage and stunning, in the way that French runway models may be?
She had certainly roused my curiosity, so I asked to know more about her life. She was born in Algeria, she said, and adopted as a baby by a Parisian couple. Her father was a surgeon and her mother a popular novelist. When she was in her teens, she met a much older man who introduced her to sex clubs and dungeons. She found she craved the kinks he introduced to her. “Sadly, he died,” she wrote. “Actually, I fear I killed him. So demanding, always wanting more making love. I think he died happy in my arms. So then I got married and went to law school and found your blog.”
“That’s an incredible story,” I replied. Truly, I wondered how credible all of this could be. Yet she seemed genuine and her story held up to follow up questions. And then, there was the portfolio.
“All I want is to find someone who does what you write about,” she wrote. “But everyone is so boring, and so I am boring.”
I asked the inevitable question. “Are you ever in New York?”
“Of course, we are there, it’s famous. We are required to go to a birthday party in the city soon, but it will be short and I will be with my husband. Can you come to Los Angeles?”
“I’m there now and then. But I don’t have the frequent flyer miles I imagine you have.”
“This is true, I could send you a ticket for free. I did that once. I met a man in London and flew him to Paris. We had a good affair. That was long ago.”
A former runway model on the Riviera was proposing to fly me to Los Angeles to have “a good affair.” I supposed that I could do that. We continued to correspond and, as summer ended, she prepared to return to Los Angeles via the birthday party in New York. She would be in Manhattan for about twenty-four hours. “I understand that we can’t meet on this trip,” I wrote. “If you can get away for coffee or drinks, drop me a line. It would be nice to meet my correspondent.” She gave me the name of her hotel, and I gave her the name of my neighborhood.
I thought of her on the morning after her party, knowing she’d be off to the airport that evening. I had no expectation of actually meeting her then, and assumed I would next hear from her once she was back in Los Angeles. I made coffee and sat to work.
Mid-morning, I checked my email. She had written at nine-thirty-three: “I can see you today.” At nine-forty-two, she wrote: “Are you there? Can you see me today?” Just after ten, she wrote; “I am coming to your neighborhood now. If I see you, good. If I don’t, there will be another time.” She mentioned a local landmark, a small plaza. She didn’t know that the plaza was currently under renovation and possibly inaccessible.
It was nearly eleven. “If you get this note, I am meeting you,” I typed quickly. “I’ll be in a navy jacket.” I hurried to put on shoes, grabbed my jacket and raced out the door.
“This is insane,” I thought, walking around the high plywood walls that shut of the construction in the plaza, wishing I had asked for her cell phone number. I looked along the crowded sidewalk, realizing that not only had I never seen Adélaïde in person, I had only seen her photographed nude. Then, turning a corner, I caught a glimpse of her. She was walking away, but there was no question in my mind that it was her. Her hips swayed with studied nonchalance with the landing of each graceful step, her straight hair moving side to side along the length of her back. She stood in bold relief from the mortals she towered above.
I ran to catch up. She stopped to speak to a security guard, as if to ask directions. I slowed my pace and walked to her side. “Adélaïde?”
She turned and looked at my face, then down my body, and back to my eyes. “Thank you,” she said to the guard, her eyes not leaving mine. “I don’t have much time.”
“My apartment is nearby,” I smiled, indicating the direction with a sweep of my hand. “Shall we?”
She began to walk, still staring at me. “Are you from Wales?”
“Um, no. Well, yes, my family is, but we left in the seventeenth century.” I hoped I didn’t sound nervous. “Or sixteenth. I forget.”
“So you are a typical American?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “Very typical.”
“Good.” She said. We walked to my place without further conversation. I replayed her biography in my mind. She had referred to being fat, but she had the ultrathin body of the runway model she had been. She had referred to things she had done long ago, but she was clearly not yet thirty. She was tan and made up, wearing a loose top and tight jeans, obviously designer, and stepping in sandal heels that added several inches to her already impressive height.
I felt at once decidedly normal and incredibly apart, as if her reflected glamour at once attenuated and enhanced my own appearance. A taxi slowed so that the driver could admire her. She seemed not to notice.
I showed her into my apartment. She walked into the living room. She put down her bag and turned her head to me. Her body followed, her hair carrying the motion into space. “Well, you have me for only one hour,” she said. She held her chin high, apparently defying me to make proper use of the hour she was granting.
I smiled. “Then let’s not waste time on words.” I stepped forward and kissed her. She opened her mouth slightly. I took her jaw in my grip and lifted her face. “Lose the shoes,” I growled, pushing my mouth into hers. She fumbled with her shoes, kicking off one and then the other as we kissed. Once she stood flatfooted, inches shorter, I lowered myself from standing on my toes.
As one hand gripped her neck, the other moved around her body, getting familiar with the stranger I now had for one hour. Her breasts were firm yet clothed. “Hands up,” I ordered. She offered no resistance. I lifted her top over her body, exposing her bare torso. She looked at me waiting to be admired, but I had no time for that. I unzipped her jeans and pushed them down her hips, stopping midthigh. She wore no panties. I barely registered her body in my mind before shoving two fingers into her pussy. “Nice and wet,” I said, and then kissed her. “You came here to get fucked, didn’t you?”
“I have no other reason to bother,” she shrugged.
I took her hair in my fist and pulled up into her cunt. “Come,” I ordered. I walked backwards down the hall, pulling inside her body as she waddled behind in her lowered jeans.
I took my fingers from her and pushed her onto the bed. I tugged the jeans from her legs. “It’s a shame your husband waits,” I said. “This means I can’t mark you. I’d like nothing better than to beat you.”
She pulled back on the pillows, turning on a hip and extending her legs. Her eyelids lowered to her body then looked up to me. “Is that all you can think to do to me?”
I opened a drawer and pulled out a condom. “I’m full of ideas for what to do to you.”
I undressed and put on the condom. She watched, assessing me, and continued to size me up as I entered her. I can’t speak for her, but I was keenly aware of the artifice of the moment. She was probably the most conventionally beautiful person I have even seen nude, much less fucked. She would have been perfectly at home in a Playboy centerfold or walking Dior down a runway. I looked her over as I fucked her, taking in her perfectly tan breasts—implants, large for her frame—her flawless skin stretched over precise bones, the tiny sliver of pale skin a remnant of the thong she had worn all summer, the freshly waxed slip that now swallowed my cock. This girl had been admired her entire life for her exoticism and her beauty, and as we fucked, she must have expected those things to be the source of my pleasure with her.
But I knew her from her letters. I had one hour and the meter was ticking.
I took her legs over my shoulders, grabbed her arms and fucked into her, hard. She missed rough sex and I was going to fuck her roughly, using her, reminding her of what it had been like to kill a man with her pussy.
She closed her eyes, her head bouncing back and forth on my pillows. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me. “What’s the matter? Don’t I turn you on?”
“Are you taunting me?” I grunted. “Seriously, Adélaïde, husband or no husband, I will slap the shit out of you.”
She pulled up a shoulder, even as her body moved under my thrusts. “You will do what you have to do,” she sighed, affecting boredom.
“You fucking hole.” I pulled back and slapped her cheek. “You fucking plastic hole. Did you come here to insult me?”
“No.” Her face was already reddening when she turned back to me. “I came here to get ‘fucked,’ as you say, if you don’t mind.”
I felt the artifice fade. This runway model had come to me to get fucked by a dominant named Jefferson. I happened to be that dominant, or at least, to write him, and I know damned well how he fucks. If that was the lady’s pleasure, she had forty-five minutes of it coming.
I fell onto her body and grabbed her shoulders. I fucked her roughly in every way I knew, in ways I had observed my friends fucking, in ways I had picked up in other places. I flipped her around. I chewed her feet. I mauled her fake breasts. I shoved fingers into her ass and alongside my cock inside her pussy. I slapped in her ways I hoped wouldn’t leave marks.
She looked up at me. “I’m thinking you don’t like me.”
I spit in her face. “What the fuck did you say?”
She wiped at the spittle. “I think I don’t turn you on very much.”
My cock wilted inside her. Maybe she was right. Perhaps I was well outside my league. Who knows what runway models do in Paris sex clubs? She was probably remembering times when she was coked out of her mind with porn star men who left her feeling precisely how she wanted to feel under the direction of a man she would later murder with her headline beauty. I kissed her lightly and rolled off her body, panting.
“I don’t know.” She extended a foot in perfect pointe and wrapped a hand around her thigh. The thumb approached her forefinger. “Maybe you don’t like me because I’m fat now.”
I looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes. “I refuse to go there with you,” I said sharply.
She turned on the pillow. “What do you mean?” Just then, “The Ride of the Valkyries” began to play, tinny and distant but getting louder. “Oh, my phone!” She jumped from the bed and ran into the living room. I heard her speaking casually in French. Her voice got more heated and she hung up. She was agitated when she returned to the bedroom. “That was my husband, I am late. He is so angry. I must go.” She picked up her jeans and tugged at the legs.
“No.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “What you must do is suck this cock.”
She looked at me and shook her head. “No, really, he is already waiting. I’m late.”
I lowered my voice. “On your knees, Adélaïde. Suck my cock.”
Her arms dropped. Her jeans rested against her bare legs. “Can you do it quickly?”
I looked her in the eye. She understood my answer. She dropped to her knees and began to suck me.
I don’t hold out much hope for the blowjobs of pretty women. They know that men will get off on their beauty, so they may not have bothered to think seriously about working to get a man to orgasm. This was not the case with Adélaïde. Here was a runway model who had seriously sucked cock and who knew that each moment she spent with my dick in her mouth was another moment she would have to explain to her waiting husband.
I took full advantage of her beauty, her skill and her anxiety. I fucked her face hard. Finally, I announced that I was going to cum. “Oui, mon Dieu,” she whispered. I grunted and heaved as I came on her expensive face. She leaned forward to feel me as I streamed on her cheeks. “Oh, God,” she rasped. “I thought you didn’t like me.”
I was still catching my breath when she left. She hadn’t bothered to fix her make up, saying she would do so in a cab. She washed up quickly, pulled on her clothes, and was gone. I wondered if this experience would warrant me “a good affair” in Los Angeles.
She contacted me when she was home, saying she had had a good time. Her notes came at the usual pace and then tapered off as she got back into the routines of partying.
A couple of months later, she wrote to tell me she was pregnant.
She had been pregnant when we met, actually, but she had not known it. “I’m sure the baby will be healthy,” she wrote. “After you fucked me so hard and all the partying I did in LA, this baby is proven to be invincible! I am very happy, dear man. This baby is my life and changes everything.”
“That’s right,” I replied. “A baby can change so much.”
Monday, May 19, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Poor Connection
We were in bed enjoying post-coital bourbons when she began to muse on her desire to be dominant. “Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy how submissive I feel with you,” she said, touching my forearm. “But I also wonder what it would be like to be the one in charge. I think I’d like having someone bowing in front of me, kissing my boots as I whipped him.” She rested her glass in her bare sternum. “I know, that sounds incredibly clichéd.”
“Why should that be cliché?” I asked. “That’s a perfectly fine fantasy, and perfectly realizable. But you’ve never done anything like that, have you?”
She took a sip. “No,” she swallowed. “No, the most I’ve done is like this, being submissive. Maybe a little bit of bossing men around in bed, but nothing very extreme.” She took another sip. “I’ve certainly never whipped anyone. I wouldn’t know how.”
“It’s something you can learn,” I said. “I didn’t know anything either until I started learning.”
She turned to me. “You could teach me that, couldn’t you?”
“Well, there are more experienced teachers,” I demurred. “But yes, I know enough to get you started.” I sipped my drink and thought for a moment. “You know what we need? We need a submissive to work on together. A teaching submissive.”
“Really?” she sat up. “Really? Because that would be perfect. Wouldn’t it? We could team up and really work holy hell on someone. I’d learn a lot from that.”
I turned and leaned on an elbow. “Yeah, let’s think that through. I’d really enjoy doing this with you. We’re having a great time together. This would be a fun project for us.”
“Yeah! Let’s do it.” She raised her glass. I clinked mine to hers and leaned to kiss her cheek. I fucked her ass to seal the deal.
That night we drew up a wish list for our submissive. I suggested that we start by looking for someone with whom neither of us had a preexisting history. That way, we could find a recruit who was dedicated to serving us equally, without interfering with our other relationships. She agreed and added that she would prefer a man if possible, as she wasn’t sure she felt ready to dominate a woman. Fine by me, I said—even better if he’s someone we can “force” to be bisexual. Hot! she exclaimed. Hell yeah, I nodded. We decided to see what might come our way online.
She sat on my lap as we composed an ad.
Attractive, creative, educated couple seeks submissive boy for our shared use.
“Nice,” she said, squeezing my cock. I kissed her shoulder blade and continued typing.
You will be expected to serve us together, as a servant to the pleasure we already share. You can expect to be our sexual plaything at our discretion, or you may simply be ignored as we enjoy one another’s company. You will take care of our basic needs, such as refilling our drinks, changing our sheets and generally proving useful. He will use your flesh to teach her to flog, cane and whip, so you must be willing to submit to the lash.
I squeezed her breast. “Anything else?” She leaned forward to type.
Enthusiasm more important than experience.
“Right,” I nodded. “Oh, and one more thing.” I reached for the keyboard.
Some domestic duties required.
“Really?” she asked.
“My bathroom doesn’t scrub itself, you know.” I hit send and patted her hips. “Come on, let’s get back to drinking and screwing. We can check responses tomorrow.”
The next morning, I made coffee as she stayed in bed. Although we awoke to sex, she had decided to forego a shower, preferring to head to her office smelling of us. I stroked semen from her hair as we kissed goodbye at the door.
As expected, there were dozens of responses waiting when I signed on. I poured a second cup of coffee and began to weed through my inbox. By the time I returned for my third cup, my trash was filled with men who expressed a readiness to fuck my “wife,” men who weren’t interested in being submissive but hoped we would forego that requirement after considering photographs of their cocks, and one-line replies asking ‘sup, are you for real, how about tonight. Such is the white noise of trash when a woman is mentioned in the mix.
I was left with a few contenders. I asked a muscular young man to tell us more about his oral fixation. A graduate student alluded to his quest to serve smart people. An artist asked if he could show his devotion by sketching us as he waited in service.
One man wrote simply, “Can we talk on the phone? I have a few specific questions that are better discussed that way.”
He had no way to know of my own peculiar aversion to telephones, which I regard with a wariness reserved for traps waiting to be sprung. Once I’m on a phone call, manners preclude me from rushing it to a conclusion. If we spoke, I would be stuck until this stranger had his say. It was just after nine. I had work waiting. I sent a quick reply.
Thank you for your response. I don’t have time for a phone call this morning. Please tell us more about your interests and experiences. Also, we require a photograph.
He replied quickly.
I can’t send a pic. I must be discreet. I have an important job. Please, a call will just take a moment. I will know quickly if this is a good match.
“Discreet.” I supposed this meant he was married. This wasn’t an issue for me, but I knew it was a deal breaker for my friend. I took another sip of coffee and steeled my dom manner.
We appreciate your need for discretion. You should respect our wishes. I can not waste time on phone calls this morning. I asked simple questions you can answer via email. Now I add another: are you married? That doesn’t work for us.
Again, his reply was instant.
Sir, please. I promise our conversation will be brief.
“Sir.” Another strike—why should he presume to address me as “sir?” I finished my coffee and opened my work. The prospective submissive could wait until I had time for him.
Another email swiftly followed.
Sir, my questions are few. I can only talk for a moment. May I please call you?
Call me? No one calls me. Everyone knows my phone works in one direction only. I drew a breath and exhaled. Maybe I should just get this over with and get on with the day.
I’ll give you five minutes. What’s your number?
He answered in a moment.
Sir, I can’t receive calls. I am at my office. Please give me your number and I will call you.
I didn’t like this at all. But I had taken on the task of recruiting a submissive, and that meant taking the time to vet applicants. I relented, and gave him my number, along with instructions that he was never to call without permission. My cell rang instantly. The caller id read “private caller.” He had blocked his number, which further irritated me. He had insisted on taking information from me, and I had none in return.
“Yes?” I answered. My ear was immediately filled with an electronic squall. His voice hid somewhere in its center.
“Thank you for allowing me to call, sir.” I strained to hear him over the poor connection. His voice was deep and accented. He spoke in a hush.
“This will be short,” I said tersely. “And you’ll have to speak up.”
“Thank you, sir. I promise, I only have a few questions." His voice remained low. "I know specifically what I need to make this work for me. I’m sure it will be better if we are all clear about these things from the beginning. Otherwise, it can’t work. If it doesn’t work for me, I lose interest. That’s no good for me.”
“You’re wasting my time,” I said impatiently, already regretting that I had agreed to this call. “Ask your questions.”
“Thank you, sir. I know what will work for me. I hope you will accept my needs. You are a couple, is that correct?”
“The ad stated that,” I reminded him.
“Uh huh, I see. Is she you wife?”
“No.”
“Uh huh, I see. Is she your mistress?”
“Why are you so concerned about the nature of our relationship?”
“Sir, I need to know that you are a real couple. That’s important to me if I am to stay interested.”
I nestled the phone against my shoulder and returned to my email. “We are a real couple. Any more questions?”
“Yes, sir, thank you.” A spike in the surface noise made me wince. “When you meet with a submissive, are you nude? Or do you wear clothes?”
I opened another email and read it. “We dress as we choose,” I replied absentmindedly.
“So you do wear clothes?”
“Or we are nude. This is our choice.”
“Oh, well, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that only I am nude. I don’t like to see other people’s genitals. It’s . . .” He said something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t bother asking him to repeat it.
“Fine then, we can wear clothes.” I sent an email and opened another.
“Thank you, sir. Do you have uniforms, or do you wear street clothes?”
“Uniforms?” My ear was numb. I transferred the phone to another shoulder. “No, we don’t have uniforms.”
“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer uniforms.”
“I suppose this isn’t a good match then,” I said impatiently.
“No, wait, perhaps we can make it work. Do you own black clothes?”
“This is New York. Of course we own black clothes.”
“Do you have them in leather, or rubber?”
“Neither. But we wouldn’t be averse to you providing them as gifts.”
“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. You would need to have the clothes on when I arrived.” He paused. Something scratched the microphone of his receiver. “Do you have black pants and a shirt? What would she wear?”
“I have those things, yes.” Another email sent. “I know she has a black dress.”
“No, a dress won’t work. I can’t have a dress in the room. She would need to wear slacks, or I would lose interest.”
“Okay.” My voice indicated that I had already lost interest.
“Is that acceptable, sir? That she could wear slacks?”
“I’ll ask her. Are you finished with your questions?”
“No sir, thank you, just a few more, please. Now, my master and mistress would be dressed, and I would be nude. Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them?”
“That would be up to our discretion.”
“But sir, what do you think would happen? Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them, or maybe torture them?”
I had run out of emails to answer. “I suppose we would torture them.”
“Oh sir, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that you both ignore my genitals. My problem is that I’m a premature ejaculator. If you touch me, it’s over for me, and I lose interest.”
“Understood.”
“Of course, you can touch me at the end. That would be acceptable.”
“Understood.” I stood and paced. “Your five minutes are over. Any more questions?”
“Just a few, thank you sir. Now, your wife, or your mistress . . . is she slender or heavy?”
“My partner is slender.”
“Oh, see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer a heavy woman, a thick woman.”
I stopped pacing. I could accommodate many requests, but I couldn’t alter my friend’s body to suit him. “Why didn’t you simply say so at the beginning?” I said, clearly irritated. “Why ask me question after question if you have a specific preference? Why not just tell me what you have in mind?”
“Oh sir, but you see, this way I get the truth. You tell me the correct answer rather than what you think I want to hear.”
“I have no reason to lie to you.”
“I have to be careful,” he went on. “I can’t take risks. I’m a rabbi and my wife is unaware of this. I trust you can host?”
“Wait, what?” I pinched my brow. “You’re a rabbi?”
He paused. “This is a problem?” His receiver rustled again. I realized he was using it to scratch his beard.
I shook my head. “We prefer not to have a dress code imposed on us. We do not own uniforms. My partner doesn’t want married men and she’s not your preferred body type. We specifically requested a submissive for sexual use and you can’t provide that.”
“Please, there are compromises, sir . . .”
“I gave you five minutes and I answered your questions. This is clearly not a match. This concludes our telephone call. Do not call this number again. Good bye.” I hung up. My ears still rung from the background buzz of his connection.
I needed to clear my head. I took a short shower, washing away the sweet scent of morning sex and the cloying desperation of a submissive rabbi.
A new email was waiting when I returned to my computer.
It sounds like you don’t want to meet.
“Why should that be cliché?” I asked. “That’s a perfectly fine fantasy, and perfectly realizable. But you’ve never done anything like that, have you?”
She took a sip. “No,” she swallowed. “No, the most I’ve done is like this, being submissive. Maybe a little bit of bossing men around in bed, but nothing very extreme.” She took another sip. “I’ve certainly never whipped anyone. I wouldn’t know how.”
“It’s something you can learn,” I said. “I didn’t know anything either until I started learning.”
She turned to me. “You could teach me that, couldn’t you?”
“Well, there are more experienced teachers,” I demurred. “But yes, I know enough to get you started.” I sipped my drink and thought for a moment. “You know what we need? We need a submissive to work on together. A teaching submissive.”
“Really?” she sat up. “Really? Because that would be perfect. Wouldn’t it? We could team up and really work holy hell on someone. I’d learn a lot from that.”
I turned and leaned on an elbow. “Yeah, let’s think that through. I’d really enjoy doing this with you. We’re having a great time together. This would be a fun project for us.”
“Yeah! Let’s do it.” She raised her glass. I clinked mine to hers and leaned to kiss her cheek. I fucked her ass to seal the deal.
That night we drew up a wish list for our submissive. I suggested that we start by looking for someone with whom neither of us had a preexisting history. That way, we could find a recruit who was dedicated to serving us equally, without interfering with our other relationships. She agreed and added that she would prefer a man if possible, as she wasn’t sure she felt ready to dominate a woman. Fine by me, I said—even better if he’s someone we can “force” to be bisexual. Hot! she exclaimed. Hell yeah, I nodded. We decided to see what might come our way online.
She sat on my lap as we composed an ad.
Attractive, creative, educated couple seeks submissive boy for our shared use.
“Nice,” she said, squeezing my cock. I kissed her shoulder blade and continued typing.
You will be expected to serve us together, as a servant to the pleasure we already share. You can expect to be our sexual plaything at our discretion, or you may simply be ignored as we enjoy one another’s company. You will take care of our basic needs, such as refilling our drinks, changing our sheets and generally proving useful. He will use your flesh to teach her to flog, cane and whip, so you must be willing to submit to the lash.
I squeezed her breast. “Anything else?” She leaned forward to type.
Enthusiasm more important than experience.
“Right,” I nodded. “Oh, and one more thing.” I reached for the keyboard.
Some domestic duties required.
“Really?” she asked.
“My bathroom doesn’t scrub itself, you know.” I hit send and patted her hips. “Come on, let’s get back to drinking and screwing. We can check responses tomorrow.”
The next morning, I made coffee as she stayed in bed. Although we awoke to sex, she had decided to forego a shower, preferring to head to her office smelling of us. I stroked semen from her hair as we kissed goodbye at the door.
As expected, there were dozens of responses waiting when I signed on. I poured a second cup of coffee and began to weed through my inbox. By the time I returned for my third cup, my trash was filled with men who expressed a readiness to fuck my “wife,” men who weren’t interested in being submissive but hoped we would forego that requirement after considering photographs of their cocks, and one-line replies asking ‘sup, are you for real, how about tonight. Such is the white noise of trash when a woman is mentioned in the mix.
I was left with a few contenders. I asked a muscular young man to tell us more about his oral fixation. A graduate student alluded to his quest to serve smart people. An artist asked if he could show his devotion by sketching us as he waited in service.
One man wrote simply, “Can we talk on the phone? I have a few specific questions that are better discussed that way.”
He had no way to know of my own peculiar aversion to telephones, which I regard with a wariness reserved for traps waiting to be sprung. Once I’m on a phone call, manners preclude me from rushing it to a conclusion. If we spoke, I would be stuck until this stranger had his say. It was just after nine. I had work waiting. I sent a quick reply.
Thank you for your response. I don’t have time for a phone call this morning. Please tell us more about your interests and experiences. Also, we require a photograph.
He replied quickly.
I can’t send a pic. I must be discreet. I have an important job. Please, a call will just take a moment. I will know quickly if this is a good match.
“Discreet.” I supposed this meant he was married. This wasn’t an issue for me, but I knew it was a deal breaker for my friend. I took another sip of coffee and steeled my dom manner.
We appreciate your need for discretion. You should respect our wishes. I can not waste time on phone calls this morning. I asked simple questions you can answer via email. Now I add another: are you married? That doesn’t work for us.
Again, his reply was instant.
Sir, please. I promise our conversation will be brief.
“Sir.” Another strike—why should he presume to address me as “sir?” I finished my coffee and opened my work. The prospective submissive could wait until I had time for him.
Another email swiftly followed.
Sir, my questions are few. I can only talk for a moment. May I please call you?
Call me? No one calls me. Everyone knows my phone works in one direction only. I drew a breath and exhaled. Maybe I should just get this over with and get on with the day.
I’ll give you five minutes. What’s your number?
He answered in a moment.
Sir, I can’t receive calls. I am at my office. Please give me your number and I will call you.
I didn’t like this at all. But I had taken on the task of recruiting a submissive, and that meant taking the time to vet applicants. I relented, and gave him my number, along with instructions that he was never to call without permission. My cell rang instantly. The caller id read “private caller.” He had blocked his number, which further irritated me. He had insisted on taking information from me, and I had none in return.
“Yes?” I answered. My ear was immediately filled with an electronic squall. His voice hid somewhere in its center.
“Thank you for allowing me to call, sir.” I strained to hear him over the poor connection. His voice was deep and accented. He spoke in a hush.
“This will be short,” I said tersely. “And you’ll have to speak up.”
“Thank you, sir. I promise, I only have a few questions." His voice remained low. "I know specifically what I need to make this work for me. I’m sure it will be better if we are all clear about these things from the beginning. Otherwise, it can’t work. If it doesn’t work for me, I lose interest. That’s no good for me.”
“You’re wasting my time,” I said impatiently, already regretting that I had agreed to this call. “Ask your questions.”
“Thank you, sir. I know what will work for me. I hope you will accept my needs. You are a couple, is that correct?”
“The ad stated that,” I reminded him.
“Uh huh, I see. Is she you wife?”
“No.”
“Uh huh, I see. Is she your mistress?”
“Why are you so concerned about the nature of our relationship?”
“Sir, I need to know that you are a real couple. That’s important to me if I am to stay interested.”
I nestled the phone against my shoulder and returned to my email. “We are a real couple. Any more questions?”
“Yes, sir, thank you.” A spike in the surface noise made me wince. “When you meet with a submissive, are you nude? Or do you wear clothes?”
I opened another email and read it. “We dress as we choose,” I replied absentmindedly.
“So you do wear clothes?”
“Or we are nude. This is our choice.”
“Oh, well, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that only I am nude. I don’t like to see other people’s genitals. It’s . . .” He said something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t bother asking him to repeat it.
“Fine then, we can wear clothes.” I sent an email and opened another.
“Thank you, sir. Do you have uniforms, or do you wear street clothes?”
“Uniforms?” My ear was numb. I transferred the phone to another shoulder. “No, we don’t have uniforms.”
“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer uniforms.”
“I suppose this isn’t a good match then,” I said impatiently.
“No, wait, perhaps we can make it work. Do you own black clothes?”
“This is New York. Of course we own black clothes.”
“Do you have them in leather, or rubber?”
“Neither. But we wouldn’t be averse to you providing them as gifts.”
“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. You would need to have the clothes on when I arrived.” He paused. Something scratched the microphone of his receiver. “Do you have black pants and a shirt? What would she wear?”
“I have those things, yes.” Another email sent. “I know she has a black dress.”
“No, a dress won’t work. I can’t have a dress in the room. She would need to wear slacks, or I would lose interest.”
“Okay.” My voice indicated that I had already lost interest.
“Is that acceptable, sir? That she could wear slacks?”
“I’ll ask her. Are you finished with your questions?”
“No sir, thank you, just a few more, please. Now, my master and mistress would be dressed, and I would be nude. Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them?”
“That would be up to our discretion.”
“But sir, what do you think would happen? Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them, or maybe torture them?”
I had run out of emails to answer. “I suppose we would torture them.”
“Oh sir, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that you both ignore my genitals. My problem is that I’m a premature ejaculator. If you touch me, it’s over for me, and I lose interest.”
“Understood.”
“Of course, you can touch me at the end. That would be acceptable.”
“Understood.” I stood and paced. “Your five minutes are over. Any more questions?”
“Just a few, thank you sir. Now, your wife, or your mistress . . . is she slender or heavy?”
“My partner is slender.”
“Oh, see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer a heavy woman, a thick woman.”
I stopped pacing. I could accommodate many requests, but I couldn’t alter my friend’s body to suit him. “Why didn’t you simply say so at the beginning?” I said, clearly irritated. “Why ask me question after question if you have a specific preference? Why not just tell me what you have in mind?”
“Oh sir, but you see, this way I get the truth. You tell me the correct answer rather than what you think I want to hear.”
“I have no reason to lie to you.”
“I have to be careful,” he went on. “I can’t take risks. I’m a rabbi and my wife is unaware of this. I trust you can host?”
“Wait, what?” I pinched my brow. “You’re a rabbi?”
He paused. “This is a problem?” His receiver rustled again. I realized he was using it to scratch his beard.
I shook my head. “We prefer not to have a dress code imposed on us. We do not own uniforms. My partner doesn’t want married men and she’s not your preferred body type. We specifically requested a submissive for sexual use and you can’t provide that.”
“Please, there are compromises, sir . . .”
“I gave you five minutes and I answered your questions. This is clearly not a match. This concludes our telephone call. Do not call this number again. Good bye.” I hung up. My ears still rung from the background buzz of his connection.
I needed to clear my head. I took a short shower, washing away the sweet scent of morning sex and the cloying desperation of a submissive rabbi.
A new email was waiting when I returned to my computer.
It sounds like you don’t want to meet.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Friday, December 21, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Body Man
The President of the United States has a body man. His body man is a personal assistant charged with the care of the man behind the office, the flesh-and-blood human who needs someone to fetch aspirin, remember appointments and hold his keys. The President’s body man takes care of such things so that the chief executive can focus on larger matters.
I have a body man. She’s my servant girl.
Eden originally came to me for sex, offering in return her body as my whipping post. She takes much more punishment from flogs, whips and fists than I was accustomed to giving. With her body as my guide, I’m learning to be more brutal. I’m grateful for this. I show my gratitude by keeping her orgasms and bruises fresh.
There are times when I am bruised. Eden understands this. She recently offered to go into service for me, with the implicit acknowledgment that at times, I must allow her to take care of me. I agreed, knowing that being cared for will help me to care for others.
Eden was unable to attend Dark Odyssey last week due to an unhappy convergence of too much school and too little money. I petted her hair and told her that I wanted her service on my return.
I had learned last year that Dark Odyssey—or sex camp, as it’s also called in the vernacular—can be a phenomenal immersion in sexual freedom and education. I had also learned that it can be draining, both physically and psychically. I could anticipate several days of grinding my stamina on too little rest, allowing my mind and libido to push my body’s limits. More so, I have begun to appreciate the crash that sometimes follows when I walk around as “Jefferson.”
My public appearances as Jefferson have been few but are increasingly common. I’m gaining confidence in this role. Certainly, I enjoy meeting people who read me and I revel in teaching the things I know about sex and sexuality. Still, I appreciate that every step I take in Jefferson’s boots, like every word I write under his name, comes with some risks. Being a public pervert may not be wise in many aspects of my life, not the least of which is my relationship with my ex wife. Lucy continues in her mission to convince people that her decision to destroy our marriage was sound, which means continuing her search for evidence that I am not a good person. If she were to suspect my life as a pervert, she would surely take vindictive action. As time passes, I wonder if perhaps she would do otherwise and simply let me be. But memories of her abuse don’t fade easily, and so that anxiety remains.
The dread of Lucy’s rage looms beyond every new smile I encounter, every new hand I shake.
Last Monday, I returned from camp at four in the morning. By five, the car was unloaded and garaged. I fell to sleep at dawn. At ten, I awoke and went to work. Wendy had returned home with me and crashed at my place. I left without disturbing her.
Eden was waiting when I returned home. She and Wendy were talking. We were hungry. I ordered Chinese. We ate and the three of us undressed and cuddled. In time, Wendy pulled together her bags to return to her home. Eden and I were alone in bed. I pulled my body close to hers.
She ran her fingers though my hair. “Are you okay?”
I nodded into her shoulder. “Tired. Worn out by people.” I traced a finger along the soft down of her belly. “There was so much sex, incredible stuff, but sometimes I wanted . . . this.”
“Intimacy,” she nodded, caressing me. “It’s okay to want intimacy.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” I took her breast in my mouth. She drew a long breath as my teeth sank into her, increasing in intensity until finally, she was released. She exhaled. I fingered the indentation of my teeth in her flesh.
She put her hand on my arm. “It sounds like you had fun, though.”
“I did. I really, really did.” I thought about the stories I could tell her. Tender stories, like waking with Viviane, holding Wendy after a beating or making love under a clear blue sky. Unexpected stories, like fisting a woman I had just met or crushing a young boy under my boots, digging my heels into his bound breasts and pushing my soles into his flaccid strap-on penis. Outrageous stories, like acting as master of ceremonies at a blowjob contest, putting on a live sex show or being hauled into the woods by a chain around my waist. Secret stories, like what happened when I was taken away, or the abduction I managed to execute in full view with no one’s knowledge.
I might have told her about my strategies for feeling comfortable as Jefferson. Sharing a cabin with twenty people who fucked openly and continuously, I preferred to take my sex privately. When the bodies piled on one another, I escaped into long walks. I would get blown in front of one class I was teaching, and I would bring six women to orgasms in front of another. Otherwise, I tended to keep sex between myself and one partner at a time.
I sorted out these stories and strategies, knowing Eden would be curious. But I was tired of words and wearied by the sound of my voice. My body ached. My mind slurred.
I kissed her. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close. I kissed my way down her neck, nibbling her torso, listening for her breath. I took her cunt in my mouth and made her cum, listening for the scream that is, for now, mine. I fucked her until I was exhausted by fucking.
I fell back on my pillows. She curled next to me, talking low. I nodded and replied in monosyllables.
She brought me a drink. She studied my body, pushing my hair from my face, turning my hands in her own. She went to my medicine cabinet to retrieve scissors and clippers. She trimmed my nose hairs. She gave me a pedicure. She rubbed my legs.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“No.” I emptied my tumbler, swallowing slivers of ice. “Another drink. Three fingers.”
Eden smiled. “Two.”
I smiled. “Three.”
“My fingers are very big,” she noted.
“I’m well aware of the size of your fingers,” I said, holding forward my glass. “My thirst is also very big.”
She leaned forward, kissed me, and took my glass. At the door, she turned back to face me. “Two.”
“Brat,” I called after her. “Two and a half.”
I closed my eyes, waiting. She returned with a tall pour of bourbon.
“Ha!” I said taking the glass. “Four?”
“I got confused with all the math,” she laughed. “I think that’s two and a half.”
I took a deep sip and exhaled. “Okay, I’m ready.” I took another gulp and set aside the glass. I turned on my belly, holding a pillow to my body.
Eden left again, returning with a warm washcloth. I closed my eyes as she cleaned me. I sighed as her tongue found my ass. She had warned me when we met that she had some hard limits. Among these, she wouldn’t have her ass fucked. She wouldn’t rim anyone. Her throat could not be touched.
Now, her ass is mine to fuck. Her throat is mine to touch. Her mouth is mine to direct. Eden has come to a place where she does things she doesn’t do.
“That’s so good,” I moaned. My shoulders slumped forward, relaxing. Her tongue gave way to her fingers, which disappeared into my body—one, two, two and a half. My lower back clenched and released. My breathing slowed and deepened.
I turned on my hip and looked at her. “Okay.” I reached to touch her face, bringing her green eyes to mine. “I’m ready.”
She nodded. “Big or small?”
“Your small isn’t small. But it will do.” I rolled over on my back. “I want to see you. You are so pretty, Eden.”
She smiled. I took a few drinks as I watched her prepare.
When she was ready, she stood and looked at me. “Where . . . ?” she asked.
“Here,” I pointed. “Lay on your back, on my side of the bed.”
Eden lay back on my pillows, her sandy blond hair catching the light of my lamp. I leaned forward to kiss her, deep and long. I pulled back to caress her hair and smiled into her eyes.
I reached between my thighs and pulled her cock into me.
I lowered myself onto her as she pushed up into me, pivoting her hips slightly. “Shhh, shhh, let me,” I whispered. I rested my palms on her breasts, squeezing as I eased her into me.
Wearing a strap-on cock is the only act of topping that interests Eden. Her devotion to bottoming and service had led her to offer her cock to me. She knew that I enjoyed my experiences with Carlos, and if there was a service she could provide, she wanted to make it available.
I understood the generosity of her offer. I cherished it. It seemed that my writing about Carlos was read by some as a cri de coeur, a plea to be fucked, and by others as the beginning of open season on my ass. Eden understood that this was not a notch on her dildo. This was something she could give that I was prepared to take.
Riding her cock, I looked down at her pretty face, her eyes so intent on me and my sensation. I was exhausted and a little drunk, yet I felt entirely safe and at peace.
I began to cry.
My emotions had been tangled in all that had happened over the weekend, in all the kindnesses done for me, in all the good things people had done for one another, in all the ways my body was moved and touched. My sensations and feelings had also been kept guarded, as I avoided any missteps that might foment drama or unhappiness in others. I had locked up my anxieties about the risks I take in being Jefferson, about the fragility of the life I build so long as it is still in my ex’s power to do harm to me or my children.
Eden’s face became concerned. She touched my hips. “Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry,” I wept. “I just feel very lucky.”
“Oh my God,” she sniffled, her eyes tearing. “If you cry, I’m going to cry.”
I laughed over my sobs. “So cry!”
In my bed, my servant girl and I cried and kissed as she fucked me. I caressed her face, licking the salt from her cheeks.
Layers of vulnerability fell from me.
I realized how badly I needed to rest.
My crying subsided. I squeezed my nose, wiping snot on my thigh. “Ugh, disgusting,” I winced, coughing a sob. “I’m covered in snot and lube. Do you want to shower?”
“No.” Eden’s eyes grew large. “Let’s take a bath.”
When had I last taken a bath? I lit a candle. We soaked side by side. I don’t recall a word we said.
We made the bed with flannel sheets. I slept.
I have a body man. She’s my servant girl.
Eden originally came to me for sex, offering in return her body as my whipping post. She takes much more punishment from flogs, whips and fists than I was accustomed to giving. With her body as my guide, I’m learning to be more brutal. I’m grateful for this. I show my gratitude by keeping her orgasms and bruises fresh.
There are times when I am bruised. Eden understands this. She recently offered to go into service for me, with the implicit acknowledgment that at times, I must allow her to take care of me. I agreed, knowing that being cared for will help me to care for others.
Eden was unable to attend Dark Odyssey last week due to an unhappy convergence of too much school and too little money. I petted her hair and told her that I wanted her service on my return.
I had learned last year that Dark Odyssey—or sex camp, as it’s also called in the vernacular—can be a phenomenal immersion in sexual freedom and education. I had also learned that it can be draining, both physically and psychically. I could anticipate several days of grinding my stamina on too little rest, allowing my mind and libido to push my body’s limits. More so, I have begun to appreciate the crash that sometimes follows when I walk around as “Jefferson.”
My public appearances as Jefferson have been few but are increasingly common. I’m gaining confidence in this role. Certainly, I enjoy meeting people who read me and I revel in teaching the things I know about sex and sexuality. Still, I appreciate that every step I take in Jefferson’s boots, like every word I write under his name, comes with some risks. Being a public pervert may not be wise in many aspects of my life, not the least of which is my relationship with my ex wife. Lucy continues in her mission to convince people that her decision to destroy our marriage was sound, which means continuing her search for evidence that I am not a good person. If she were to suspect my life as a pervert, she would surely take vindictive action. As time passes, I wonder if perhaps she would do otherwise and simply let me be. But memories of her abuse don’t fade easily, and so that anxiety remains.
The dread of Lucy’s rage looms beyond every new smile I encounter, every new hand I shake.
Last Monday, I returned from camp at four in the morning. By five, the car was unloaded and garaged. I fell to sleep at dawn. At ten, I awoke and went to work. Wendy had returned home with me and crashed at my place. I left without disturbing her.
Eden was waiting when I returned home. She and Wendy were talking. We were hungry. I ordered Chinese. We ate and the three of us undressed and cuddled. In time, Wendy pulled together her bags to return to her home. Eden and I were alone in bed. I pulled my body close to hers.
She ran her fingers though my hair. “Are you okay?”
I nodded into her shoulder. “Tired. Worn out by people.” I traced a finger along the soft down of her belly. “There was so much sex, incredible stuff, but sometimes I wanted . . . this.”
“Intimacy,” she nodded, caressing me. “It’s okay to want intimacy.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” I took her breast in my mouth. She drew a long breath as my teeth sank into her, increasing in intensity until finally, she was released. She exhaled. I fingered the indentation of my teeth in her flesh.
She put her hand on my arm. “It sounds like you had fun, though.”
“I did. I really, really did.” I thought about the stories I could tell her. Tender stories, like waking with Viviane, holding Wendy after a beating or making love under a clear blue sky. Unexpected stories, like fisting a woman I had just met or crushing a young boy under my boots, digging my heels into his bound breasts and pushing my soles into his flaccid strap-on penis. Outrageous stories, like acting as master of ceremonies at a blowjob contest, putting on a live sex show or being hauled into the woods by a chain around my waist. Secret stories, like what happened when I was taken away, or the abduction I managed to execute in full view with no one’s knowledge.
I might have told her about my strategies for feeling comfortable as Jefferson. Sharing a cabin with twenty people who fucked openly and continuously, I preferred to take my sex privately. When the bodies piled on one another, I escaped into long walks. I would get blown in front of one class I was teaching, and I would bring six women to orgasms in front of another. Otherwise, I tended to keep sex between myself and one partner at a time.
I sorted out these stories and strategies, knowing Eden would be curious. But I was tired of words and wearied by the sound of my voice. My body ached. My mind slurred.
I kissed her. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close. I kissed my way down her neck, nibbling her torso, listening for her breath. I took her cunt in my mouth and made her cum, listening for the scream that is, for now, mine. I fucked her until I was exhausted by fucking.
I fell back on my pillows. She curled next to me, talking low. I nodded and replied in monosyllables.
She brought me a drink. She studied my body, pushing my hair from my face, turning my hands in her own. She went to my medicine cabinet to retrieve scissors and clippers. She trimmed my nose hairs. She gave me a pedicure. She rubbed my legs.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“No.” I emptied my tumbler, swallowing slivers of ice. “Another drink. Three fingers.”
Eden smiled. “Two.”
I smiled. “Three.”
“My fingers are very big,” she noted.
“I’m well aware of the size of your fingers,” I said, holding forward my glass. “My thirst is also very big.”
She leaned forward, kissed me, and took my glass. At the door, she turned back to face me. “Two.”
“Brat,” I called after her. “Two and a half.”
I closed my eyes, waiting. She returned with a tall pour of bourbon.
“Ha!” I said taking the glass. “Four?”
“I got confused with all the math,” she laughed. “I think that’s two and a half.”
I took a deep sip and exhaled. “Okay, I’m ready.” I took another gulp and set aside the glass. I turned on my belly, holding a pillow to my body.
Eden left again, returning with a warm washcloth. I closed my eyes as she cleaned me. I sighed as her tongue found my ass. She had warned me when we met that she had some hard limits. Among these, she wouldn’t have her ass fucked. She wouldn’t rim anyone. Her throat could not be touched.
Now, her ass is mine to fuck. Her throat is mine to touch. Her mouth is mine to direct. Eden has come to a place where she does things she doesn’t do.
“That’s so good,” I moaned. My shoulders slumped forward, relaxing. Her tongue gave way to her fingers, which disappeared into my body—one, two, two and a half. My lower back clenched and released. My breathing slowed and deepened.
I turned on my hip and looked at her. “Okay.” I reached to touch her face, bringing her green eyes to mine. “I’m ready.”
She nodded. “Big or small?”
“Your small isn’t small. But it will do.” I rolled over on my back. “I want to see you. You are so pretty, Eden.”
She smiled. I took a few drinks as I watched her prepare.
When she was ready, she stood and looked at me. “Where . . . ?” she asked.
“Here,” I pointed. “Lay on your back, on my side of the bed.”
Eden lay back on my pillows, her sandy blond hair catching the light of my lamp. I leaned forward to kiss her, deep and long. I pulled back to caress her hair and smiled into her eyes.
I reached between my thighs and pulled her cock into me.
I lowered myself onto her as she pushed up into me, pivoting her hips slightly. “Shhh, shhh, let me,” I whispered. I rested my palms on her breasts, squeezing as I eased her into me.
Wearing a strap-on cock is the only act of topping that interests Eden. Her devotion to bottoming and service had led her to offer her cock to me. She knew that I enjoyed my experiences with Carlos, and if there was a service she could provide, she wanted to make it available.
I understood the generosity of her offer. I cherished it. It seemed that my writing about Carlos was read by some as a cri de coeur, a plea to be fucked, and by others as the beginning of open season on my ass. Eden understood that this was not a notch on her dildo. This was something she could give that I was prepared to take.
Riding her cock, I looked down at her pretty face, her eyes so intent on me and my sensation. I was exhausted and a little drunk, yet I felt entirely safe and at peace.
I began to cry.
My emotions had been tangled in all that had happened over the weekend, in all the kindnesses done for me, in all the good things people had done for one another, in all the ways my body was moved and touched. My sensations and feelings had also been kept guarded, as I avoided any missteps that might foment drama or unhappiness in others. I had locked up my anxieties about the risks I take in being Jefferson, about the fragility of the life I build so long as it is still in my ex’s power to do harm to me or my children.
Eden’s face became concerned. She touched my hips. “Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry,” I wept. “I just feel very lucky.”
“Oh my God,” she sniffled, her eyes tearing. “If you cry, I’m going to cry.”
I laughed over my sobs. “So cry!”
In my bed, my servant girl and I cried and kissed as she fucked me. I caressed her face, licking the salt from her cheeks.
Layers of vulnerability fell from me.
I realized how badly I needed to rest.
My crying subsided. I squeezed my nose, wiping snot on my thigh. “Ugh, disgusting,” I winced, coughing a sob. “I’m covered in snot and lube. Do you want to shower?”
“No.” Eden’s eyes grew large. “Let’s take a bath.”
When had I last taken a bath? I lit a candle. We soaked side by side. I don’t recall a word we said.
We made the bed with flannel sheets. I slept.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Fuck Me, Boy
Carlos leaned back on my couch, fully dressed. He caught his breath after a full day’s work. A glass of cold water sweated on the coffee table.
Our third date was almost routine. There was a nice domestic quality to awaiting his arrival, watching him relax and hearing about his day. I could imagine massaging his temples as he sipped a martini before sitting down to my home cooking.
However, I knew better than to harbor wifely fantasies about the man who fucked me.
Carlos already had one lover who was eager to be his boyfriend, and another who was a good friend. I was fitting into his life as a regular cocktail-hour lay between leaving his office and returning to the apartment he shared with his younger brother. Living with family curtailed his availability for late nights and sleepovers, and made it impossible to bring home dates. I had the time and place to offer him good solid sex.
Our relationship was not merely one of convenience, but it certainly didn’t hurt that it was convenient.
It worked for me as well. I liked that I could get in some hot sex with a boy who got me going before getting on with my evening plans, which, admittedly, generally revolved around hot sex. I liked that he enjoyed being with me and kept coming back for more, as that allowed me to think about ways I wanted to be with him.
He allowed the conversation to lapse and leaned forward to kiss me. I allowed him to take the lead; it felt good to know he wanted me.
I caught myself smiling as he kissed my teeth.
“C’mon.” I took his hand and pulled him to the bedroom. I undressed him, running my hands over each area of his body to be exposed to my touch. I kissed his body as he stood, his hand resting on my shoulder. He taste was becoming familiar to me, and that only increased my hunger.
I pushed him on to the bed, barely acknowledging him as I continued with his body. I could sense his withdrawal into passivity, his surrender to my mouth.
I lingered across his ribs, admiring how they vanished into his latissimus dorsi. I nibbled lightly on the muscle, watching it twitch in response, feeling his lungs fill and empty.
I turned to watch my finger traced its way lightly between his buttocks, looking back to see his head turn in response.
If Carlos were to stay over, this is how I would pass hours, touching him, looking at him, watching how his body responds to sleep.
His passivity aroused this desire to take my time, as if he had departed the room and left behind his body for my delectation.
I turned him, burrowing my nose into the canal of his spine. I bit his shoulder, leaning close to hear his breath.
“Carlos,” I whispered, having nothing further to add.
He opened his eyes and twisted around to kiss me. I took him in my arms, pressing close. One day, Carlos will fall in love. That man will be lucky to have ardor added to Carlos’s sweet sensuality.
Carlos turned me in his arms. He pressed into my back, rubbing his cock against my ass. His hands found my chest.
“No, wait.” I turned to look at him. “You’re beautiful and I want to watch you.” I pulled him onto me, looking at his face as I rubbed the stubble of his haircut. I kissed him again, gently, and reached for a condom.
He held back my thighs and lubed me. I put my hands behind my neck, watching as he rolled on the condom. I ran my foot along his cheek and down his smooth chest.
I gasped as he entered me.
He stopped. “You okay?”
I huffed and nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. Fuck me, handsome.”
He pressed forward, filling me. My body seared.
He folded me back, pulling my legs to rest on his shoulder. I touched his face and nodded, meaning I didn’t know what, except that I wanted him, very much.
He rocked me back and forth as we fucked. As I relaxed he began to thrust harder.
How often had I had someone where he now had me? How rarely had I been there?
He kept his eyes on mine. I didn’t want to blink for missing a moment of his intent. I wanted him to fuck me.
I wanted to fuck him.
“Carlos,” I said, looking at him. He nodded, not replying, just fucking me.
I couldn’t stand being immobile, so far from his lips. “Carlos, wait. Pull out.”
“You’re okay?” he asked, falling back.
“Yes.” I pulled myself up. “I’m just so hot for you right now. We need to kiss.” I pushed him back and lay over him. I dropped my mouth to his, sighing as he opened to me.
I pulled my knees forward and sat up. My eyes dropped to his torso, my hands against his flesh. I took his eyes in mine again. Wordlessly, I slipped two fingers into his mouth. His eyes closed as he felt me against his tongue.
With my other hand, I reached down and returned his cock to my body.
I pushed my hips back and forth, pumping him in me. His eyes opened to watch me moving on his body. I put my free hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
I fell forward, taking my fingers from his mouth, taking his mouth in mine.
I held his face between my hands, growling into him as my hips pressed him into me.
I squeezed his cheeks and scowled. “You need to fuck me, boy. Like you fucking mean it. Now.”
His eyes sparked. He grabbed my thighs with his full strength and pressed up into me. I flexed around his cock, tugging him deeper into me.
I punched his chest with my fist. “Harder.”
Carlos realized I had him pinned. He struggled, pushing against me. I hit him again and grabbed his face. “No. Behave. You fuck me.”
His face flushed. He couldn’t make sense of this. In his experience, you either topped or bottomed. He had his cock in my ass, so he was topping. But I wasn’t bottoming. I was getting fucked, and I was topping.
I released his face and gently caressed his hair. I rested my thumbs on his eyebrows and smiled at him.
My desire for his body had not subsided in the least. Now, I also wanted his mind.
I leaned forward again, kissing him, gently gyrating my hips to fuck him with my ass. I gradually increased my speed. I flexed my hole, pumping him.
My lips left his. I dropped my forehead against his, closing my eyes, focused on his body in mine. I inhaled every breath he exhaled.
He couldn’t take anymore. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me. I fell away willingly.
He pulled off his condom and crouched over my face, jerking furiously. I pushed my head into his thigh, caressing him with my hair. I raised my hands to hold his waist as he came on his chest and my face.
He gasped. I realized that he held his breath as he orgasmed.
I wiped my face with my hand and pulled him down to my kiss.
I washed my face and left him to shower alone. I wanted to soap him. I wanted to bath him, by candlelight.
But I’m smart. I save some fantasies. I wanted to savor the afterglow of this one.
That night, Madeline called.
“How’s your day, darlin’?”
“I’m having a great day. I now know how I like to get fucked.”
“Really? And how, pray tell, is that?”
“I dom with a dick in my ass.”
“Oh, honey, that’s great,” she laughed. “Carlos is so hot.”
“Carlos,” I nodded. “Is so hot.”
Our third date was almost routine. There was a nice domestic quality to awaiting his arrival, watching him relax and hearing about his day. I could imagine massaging his temples as he sipped a martini before sitting down to my home cooking.
However, I knew better than to harbor wifely fantasies about the man who fucked me.
Carlos already had one lover who was eager to be his boyfriend, and another who was a good friend. I was fitting into his life as a regular cocktail-hour lay between leaving his office and returning to the apartment he shared with his younger brother. Living with family curtailed his availability for late nights and sleepovers, and made it impossible to bring home dates. I had the time and place to offer him good solid sex.
Our relationship was not merely one of convenience, but it certainly didn’t hurt that it was convenient.
It worked for me as well. I liked that I could get in some hot sex with a boy who got me going before getting on with my evening plans, which, admittedly, generally revolved around hot sex. I liked that he enjoyed being with me and kept coming back for more, as that allowed me to think about ways I wanted to be with him.
He allowed the conversation to lapse and leaned forward to kiss me. I allowed him to take the lead; it felt good to know he wanted me.
I caught myself smiling as he kissed my teeth.
“C’mon.” I took his hand and pulled him to the bedroom. I undressed him, running my hands over each area of his body to be exposed to my touch. I kissed his body as he stood, his hand resting on my shoulder. He taste was becoming familiar to me, and that only increased my hunger.
I pushed him on to the bed, barely acknowledging him as I continued with his body. I could sense his withdrawal into passivity, his surrender to my mouth.
I lingered across his ribs, admiring how they vanished into his latissimus dorsi. I nibbled lightly on the muscle, watching it twitch in response, feeling his lungs fill and empty.
I turned to watch my finger traced its way lightly between his buttocks, looking back to see his head turn in response.
If Carlos were to stay over, this is how I would pass hours, touching him, looking at him, watching how his body responds to sleep.
His passivity aroused this desire to take my time, as if he had departed the room and left behind his body for my delectation.
I turned him, burrowing my nose into the canal of his spine. I bit his shoulder, leaning close to hear his breath.
“Carlos,” I whispered, having nothing further to add.
He opened his eyes and twisted around to kiss me. I took him in my arms, pressing close. One day, Carlos will fall in love. That man will be lucky to have ardor added to Carlos’s sweet sensuality.
Carlos turned me in his arms. He pressed into my back, rubbing his cock against my ass. His hands found my chest.
“No, wait.” I turned to look at him. “You’re beautiful and I want to watch you.” I pulled him onto me, looking at his face as I rubbed the stubble of his haircut. I kissed him again, gently, and reached for a condom.
He held back my thighs and lubed me. I put my hands behind my neck, watching as he rolled on the condom. I ran my foot along his cheek and down his smooth chest.
I gasped as he entered me.
He stopped. “You okay?”
I huffed and nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. Fuck me, handsome.”
He pressed forward, filling me. My body seared.
He folded me back, pulling my legs to rest on his shoulder. I touched his face and nodded, meaning I didn’t know what, except that I wanted him, very much.
He rocked me back and forth as we fucked. As I relaxed he began to thrust harder.
How often had I had someone where he now had me? How rarely had I been there?
He kept his eyes on mine. I didn’t want to blink for missing a moment of his intent. I wanted him to fuck me.
I wanted to fuck him.
“Carlos,” I said, looking at him. He nodded, not replying, just fucking me.
I couldn’t stand being immobile, so far from his lips. “Carlos, wait. Pull out.”
“You’re okay?” he asked, falling back.
“Yes.” I pulled myself up. “I’m just so hot for you right now. We need to kiss.” I pushed him back and lay over him. I dropped my mouth to his, sighing as he opened to me.
I pulled my knees forward and sat up. My eyes dropped to his torso, my hands against his flesh. I took his eyes in mine again. Wordlessly, I slipped two fingers into his mouth. His eyes closed as he felt me against his tongue.
With my other hand, I reached down and returned his cock to my body.
I pushed my hips back and forth, pumping him in me. His eyes opened to watch me moving on his body. I put my free hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
I fell forward, taking my fingers from his mouth, taking his mouth in mine.
I held his face between my hands, growling into him as my hips pressed him into me.
I squeezed his cheeks and scowled. “You need to fuck me, boy. Like you fucking mean it. Now.”
His eyes sparked. He grabbed my thighs with his full strength and pressed up into me. I flexed around his cock, tugging him deeper into me.
I punched his chest with my fist. “Harder.”
Carlos realized I had him pinned. He struggled, pushing against me. I hit him again and grabbed his face. “No. Behave. You fuck me.”
His face flushed. He couldn’t make sense of this. In his experience, you either topped or bottomed. He had his cock in my ass, so he was topping. But I wasn’t bottoming. I was getting fucked, and I was topping.
I released his face and gently caressed his hair. I rested my thumbs on his eyebrows and smiled at him.
My desire for his body had not subsided in the least. Now, I also wanted his mind.
I leaned forward again, kissing him, gently gyrating my hips to fuck him with my ass. I gradually increased my speed. I flexed my hole, pumping him.
My lips left his. I dropped my forehead against his, closing my eyes, focused on his body in mine. I inhaled every breath he exhaled.
He couldn’t take anymore. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me. I fell away willingly.
He pulled off his condom and crouched over my face, jerking furiously. I pushed my head into his thigh, caressing him with my hair. I raised my hands to hold his waist as he came on his chest and my face.
He gasped. I realized that he held his breath as he orgasmed.
I wiped my face with my hand and pulled him down to my kiss.
I washed my face and left him to shower alone. I wanted to soap him. I wanted to bath him, by candlelight.
But I’m smart. I save some fantasies. I wanted to savor the afterglow of this one.
That night, Madeline called.
“How’s your day, darlin’?”
“I’m having a great day. I now know how I like to get fucked.”
“Really? And how, pray tell, is that?”
“I dom with a dick in my ass.”
“Oh, honey, that’s great,” she laughed. “Carlos is so hot.”
“Carlos,” I nodded. “Is so hot.”
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