Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Shampoo
And, for good measure, the reason I can't get a meeting in Hollywood. Let's face it, I fucked 'em all.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Monday, July 06, 2009
Office
She often told me that I pushed her limits. Every now and then, she pushed mine, intentionally or not. So it was when she confessed a desire for sex in her office building, a corporate skyscraper in midtown. “I’m your man,” I said, swallowing two quiet anxieties that have trailed me since childhood—mild vertigo and a too-highly attuned respect for authority.
She had already caught a glimpse of my discomfort with heights one evening as we made our way through a crowded opening at the New Museum. We had collected glasses of absinthe and wedged ourselves into a place on the slender rooftop balcony. She was telling me a story when I suddenly grasped the wall behind me. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” I said, hurriedly gulping my drink. My eyes were focused over her shoulder.
“What?” she turned. “What are you looking at?”
“It’s nothing, really,” I said. She looked at me querulously. “Okay, look. You see that guy holding the toddler? Over by the railing?”
She turned her head. “Sure. Cute kid.”
“Yeah, well, that cute kid is bored and squirming and the guy isn’t really paying attention. I can’t help imagining the kid going over the railing.”
She looked at me. “Seriously? He looks safe to me.”
“I know, it’s my thing.” I diverted my eyes from the child. “I get this vertiginous feeling at times and imagine heights exist primarily to provide places from which to fall.”
“Oh, I hate that feeling, too. Should we go inside?”
“No, let’s stay out here. Hang on.” I moved to the railing and peered over. The Bowery waited for me seven floors below. A wave of anxiety passed over me, causing my heart to race.
She came up behind me. “That’s brave of you.”
“Cheap thrills,” I admitted. “I always do this at the Guggenheim, too. The interior walls along the ramp tilt out at a slight angle. Now, that’s just death’s way of making life fun.”
We soon made a date for office sex. Eddie Izzard was playing Radio City Music Hall, which happened to be near her office building. She proposed that we take in the show and then repair to her office, which would presumably be empty at that hour. I agreed. Throughout the show, my mind flashed forward; I would soon be having sex with this lovely, kinky woman, I reassured myself, and the odds of getting arrested for it weren’t really all that great.
Afterward, we shuffled out among the crowd, laughing about the show. We hadn’t walked far when she took my arm. “Here it is,” she said. “Are you ready to do this?”
I looked up and drew a short breath. “Yes. Let’s fuck in your office.” I took her hand and followed into the lobby.
She stopped to flash her identification card to the security guard, explaining that I was a client stopping in to pick up a package. He looked me over. “That’s fine, but you’ll need to get a visitor’s pass for your guest. After hours, those are only issued at the main desk, other entrance.” She confirmed the location and thanked him.
I looked up as we approached the main entrance. The company’s logo moved across a series of animated screens. “That’s going to look so dated in a few years,” I said. “It’s a wonder they did something so . . . flashy.”
“If it gets old, they’ll just scrap it off and put up something else,” she replied, waving a hand as if to erase the facade. “This company is over a century old and they have more money than God.”
At the main desk, we faced five guards. One took my driver’s license, scribbled some notes and returned it to me with a plastic badge. “Keep that visible at all times,” he instructed me.
“Yes sir,” I said, attaching the badge to my shirt. I tried to look like someone who had business to conduct at this late hour and not like someone trespassing for sex.
Back at the original entrance, the guard looked at my badge, looked again at her identification and allowed us to pass. I admired the blue-chip art on the way to the elevator.
When the doors closed, she pushed the button to her office’s floor. “I’d suggest we get started in the elevator, but . . .” she raised her eyes. “Video cameras.”
“Oh, right,” I said, noting the glossy dark hemisphere in the ceiling. “Say, there aren’t cameras on your floor, are there?”
“No.” Her brow furrowed. “Well, not that I’m aware of.” My stomach dropped as the elevator halted.
I followed as she led me past long rows of empty workstations. I knocked on a desk as I passed, listening for the solid report of good wood. Identical offices banked the opposite wall, each with a fine southern view of midtown, none with any sign of occupancy. “Does anyone actually work on this floor?” I asked.
“Yes, we’re all grouped in the back. This area has been pretty empty since the last round of layoffs.” We passed a kitchen area stocked with drinks, snacks and two espresso machines. A glass wall revealed a library with shelves of oversized art books. “No one reads them,” she told me. “But we keep ordering them to impress clients with our brainy décor. We have a huge budget for books. I can barely find enough to order.” She pointed to a top shelf. “See? I cheated and ordered two copies of Rem Koolhaas’s S, M, L, XL. Had to spend the money somehow.”
Her desk was located with a cluster of others in a open space near a corner window. Fluorescents burned overhead. “I wanted you to see my work space, but I think it’s too exposed to actually do anything here.”
I looked around. The room was the length of a city block. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want a guard to come in here while we’re . . . in flagrante.”
“Come on.” She took my hand and led me back down the way we had come. I followed her into one of the darkened empty offices. She shut the door. “Now, this is better, right? Like our own private office.”
“Yeah, this is much better,” I smiled. I stepped closer. We kissed, her mouth opening to mine. I took her shoulders and turned her, pushing her back toward the window. She scrambled to pull herself up to a ledge. “That’s good, that’s good,” I growled. “Now spread your legs.” I ran my hands under her dress as she did so, moving along her thighs to her bare pussy. “So wet,” I smiled into her kiss. “But let’s get it wetter.”
I grabbed the nape of her neck in my hand and pulled her forward. Her arms scrambled to break her fall. I grabbed a wrist in my free hand and pushed her to her knees. She got the message, righting herself and watching eagerly as I unzipped. She took my cock in her mouth. I looked over my shoulder, checking that the door was indeed closed, noting the glass wall that revealed the hallway beyond.
I put my hand back to her neck, forcing her head back and forth rapidly, listening to her gurgling gags. Saliva ran from her lips to her chin. “Good, good.” I pulled back and shoved three fingers into her throat. “Now, that’s the slick stuff, back here,” I said. I stroked my well-lubricated cock. “Here, follow me,” I said, tugging with the fingers inside her. She crawled forward, coughing on my fingers. I dropped my pants to my ankles and sat at the desk. “Now,” I said, releasing her. “Suck my cock.”
She groaned and crawled forward. Her eyes rolled in pleasure as she returned my cock to her throat. “That’s good, that’s good,” I said, stroking her hair. My eyes were drawn to the window, looking up at the offices across the way. I wondered at all the blowjobs that must happen in midtown offices. How many in a year? How many in a decade? Numbers ran though my mind as her drool gathered in the leather seat under me.
I leaned forward and reached under her dress. Wetness ran down her inner thighs. “Okay, you’re ready,” I said. “Get back on that ledge and give me something to fuck.” She hurried to comply. I bent to take a condom from my pocket, kicking off my shoes and pants as I opened the package.
I listened to her groans as I thrust into her, my eyes closed. She grabbed at my head and, instinctively, I opened my eyes. There, far below us, was Radio City Music Hall. I felt a wave of panic and looked up, focusing on the General Electric sign blazing at Rockefeller Center. That’s good, that’s good, I thought, letting my eyes drop again. My skin tingled. The only thing between us and our demise was the sheet of glass I now banged with her body.
“Thrill junky,” I murmured, pulling out.
She groaned, confused. What had I said, she wondered, trying to focus. Suddenly, two fingers were inside her. Another followed. Her eyes widened and captured mine as she realized what I was doing. “Oh, no, no, not that,” she said. Tears came to her eyes. She had taught me, long before, that “no, no” was not her safeword.
Her body rocked hard as I fisted her, her back pummeling against the glass. Her face was in full ecstasy, haloed by red neon against the sea-black sky. I felt her clench against my fist as warmth flooded from her body, splashing against the ledge.
I slowed, then stopped. Her body went limp as I pulled out, as if my fist had been the only thing holding her erect. Her sobs were audible now, lowering into the range of human hearing. I held her as she recovered. Far below, a solitary taxi sped up Sixth Avenue.
We kissed. “Come on,” I said quietly. “Let’s go home and fuck in bed.” She nodded, drying an eye with the back of her hand.
We dressed and gathered our things. I put the condom and its wrapper in my pocket. “Don’t want to leave any evidence,” I said.
She ran a finger over the puddle on the ledge. “Yes, well, other than my DNA.”
I fastened my belt. “Should we clean that?”
She grinned. “No, let’s not.”
We washed up in the ladies’ restroom and raided the kitchen. I made a cup of espresso to drink on the way to the subway.
The guard wished us a good night as we left. She leaned to my ear. “We forgot to bring out a package,” she whispered. I laughed at the dumb luck of pulling off sex in her office.
She wrapped an arm in mine as we waited to cross the street. I took my last sip of espresso and looked at the cup. Glancing up, I saw the same logo swirling across the screens on the building’s façade. “Lehman Brothers, Lehman Brothers, Lehman Brothers,” I mused aloud. “You come for the office sex, you stay for the coffee.”
She laughed as I tossed the cup into a wastebasket and stepped to the curb.
She had already caught a glimpse of my discomfort with heights one evening as we made our way through a crowded opening at the New Museum. We had collected glasses of absinthe and wedged ourselves into a place on the slender rooftop balcony. She was telling me a story when I suddenly grasped the wall behind me. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” I said, hurriedly gulping my drink. My eyes were focused over her shoulder.
“What?” she turned. “What are you looking at?”
“It’s nothing, really,” I said. She looked at me querulously. “Okay, look. You see that guy holding the toddler? Over by the railing?”
She turned her head. “Sure. Cute kid.”
“Yeah, well, that cute kid is bored and squirming and the guy isn’t really paying attention. I can’t help imagining the kid going over the railing.”
She looked at me. “Seriously? He looks safe to me.”
“I know, it’s my thing.” I diverted my eyes from the child. “I get this vertiginous feeling at times and imagine heights exist primarily to provide places from which to fall.”
“Oh, I hate that feeling, too. Should we go inside?”
“No, let’s stay out here. Hang on.” I moved to the railing and peered over. The Bowery waited for me seven floors below. A wave of anxiety passed over me, causing my heart to race.
She came up behind me. “That’s brave of you.”
“Cheap thrills,” I admitted. “I always do this at the Guggenheim, too. The interior walls along the ramp tilt out at a slight angle. Now, that’s just death’s way of making life fun.”
We soon made a date for office sex. Eddie Izzard was playing Radio City Music Hall, which happened to be near her office building. She proposed that we take in the show and then repair to her office, which would presumably be empty at that hour. I agreed. Throughout the show, my mind flashed forward; I would soon be having sex with this lovely, kinky woman, I reassured myself, and the odds of getting arrested for it weren’t really all that great.
Afterward, we shuffled out among the crowd, laughing about the show. We hadn’t walked far when she took my arm. “Here it is,” she said. “Are you ready to do this?”
I looked up and drew a short breath. “Yes. Let’s fuck in your office.” I took her hand and followed into the lobby.
She stopped to flash her identification card to the security guard, explaining that I was a client stopping in to pick up a package. He looked me over. “That’s fine, but you’ll need to get a visitor’s pass for your guest. After hours, those are only issued at the main desk, other entrance.” She confirmed the location and thanked him.
I looked up as we approached the main entrance. The company’s logo moved across a series of animated screens. “That’s going to look so dated in a few years,” I said. “It’s a wonder they did something so . . . flashy.”
“If it gets old, they’ll just scrap it off and put up something else,” she replied, waving a hand as if to erase the facade. “This company is over a century old and they have more money than God.”
At the main desk, we faced five guards. One took my driver’s license, scribbled some notes and returned it to me with a plastic badge. “Keep that visible at all times,” he instructed me.
“Yes sir,” I said, attaching the badge to my shirt. I tried to look like someone who had business to conduct at this late hour and not like someone trespassing for sex.
Back at the original entrance, the guard looked at my badge, looked again at her identification and allowed us to pass. I admired the blue-chip art on the way to the elevator.
When the doors closed, she pushed the button to her office’s floor. “I’d suggest we get started in the elevator, but . . .” she raised her eyes. “Video cameras.”
“Oh, right,” I said, noting the glossy dark hemisphere in the ceiling. “Say, there aren’t cameras on your floor, are there?”
“No.” Her brow furrowed. “Well, not that I’m aware of.” My stomach dropped as the elevator halted.
I followed as she led me past long rows of empty workstations. I knocked on a desk as I passed, listening for the solid report of good wood. Identical offices banked the opposite wall, each with a fine southern view of midtown, none with any sign of occupancy. “Does anyone actually work on this floor?” I asked.
“Yes, we’re all grouped in the back. This area has been pretty empty since the last round of layoffs.” We passed a kitchen area stocked with drinks, snacks and two espresso machines. A glass wall revealed a library with shelves of oversized art books. “No one reads them,” she told me. “But we keep ordering them to impress clients with our brainy décor. We have a huge budget for books. I can barely find enough to order.” She pointed to a top shelf. “See? I cheated and ordered two copies of Rem Koolhaas’s S, M, L, XL. Had to spend the money somehow.”
Her desk was located with a cluster of others in a open space near a corner window. Fluorescents burned overhead. “I wanted you to see my work space, but I think it’s too exposed to actually do anything here.”
I looked around. The room was the length of a city block. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want a guard to come in here while we’re . . . in flagrante.”
“Come on.” She took my hand and led me back down the way we had come. I followed her into one of the darkened empty offices. She shut the door. “Now, this is better, right? Like our own private office.”
“Yeah, this is much better,” I smiled. I stepped closer. We kissed, her mouth opening to mine. I took her shoulders and turned her, pushing her back toward the window. She scrambled to pull herself up to a ledge. “That’s good, that’s good,” I growled. “Now spread your legs.” I ran my hands under her dress as she did so, moving along her thighs to her bare pussy. “So wet,” I smiled into her kiss. “But let’s get it wetter.”
I grabbed the nape of her neck in my hand and pulled her forward. Her arms scrambled to break her fall. I grabbed a wrist in my free hand and pushed her to her knees. She got the message, righting herself and watching eagerly as I unzipped. She took my cock in her mouth. I looked over my shoulder, checking that the door was indeed closed, noting the glass wall that revealed the hallway beyond.
I put my hand back to her neck, forcing her head back and forth rapidly, listening to her gurgling gags. Saliva ran from her lips to her chin. “Good, good.” I pulled back and shoved three fingers into her throat. “Now, that’s the slick stuff, back here,” I said. I stroked my well-lubricated cock. “Here, follow me,” I said, tugging with the fingers inside her. She crawled forward, coughing on my fingers. I dropped my pants to my ankles and sat at the desk. “Now,” I said, releasing her. “Suck my cock.”
She groaned and crawled forward. Her eyes rolled in pleasure as she returned my cock to her throat. “That’s good, that’s good,” I said, stroking her hair. My eyes were drawn to the window, looking up at the offices across the way. I wondered at all the blowjobs that must happen in midtown offices. How many in a year? How many in a decade? Numbers ran though my mind as her drool gathered in the leather seat under me.
I leaned forward and reached under her dress. Wetness ran down her inner thighs. “Okay, you’re ready,” I said. “Get back on that ledge and give me something to fuck.” She hurried to comply. I bent to take a condom from my pocket, kicking off my shoes and pants as I opened the package.
I listened to her groans as I thrust into her, my eyes closed. She grabbed at my head and, instinctively, I opened my eyes. There, far below us, was Radio City Music Hall. I felt a wave of panic and looked up, focusing on the General Electric sign blazing at Rockefeller Center. That’s good, that’s good, I thought, letting my eyes drop again. My skin tingled. The only thing between us and our demise was the sheet of glass I now banged with her body.
“Thrill junky,” I murmured, pulling out.
She groaned, confused. What had I said, she wondered, trying to focus. Suddenly, two fingers were inside her. Another followed. Her eyes widened and captured mine as she realized what I was doing. “Oh, no, no, not that,” she said. Tears came to her eyes. She had taught me, long before, that “no, no” was not her safeword.
Her body rocked hard as I fisted her, her back pummeling against the glass. Her face was in full ecstasy, haloed by red neon against the sea-black sky. I felt her clench against my fist as warmth flooded from her body, splashing against the ledge.
I slowed, then stopped. Her body went limp as I pulled out, as if my fist had been the only thing holding her erect. Her sobs were audible now, lowering into the range of human hearing. I held her as she recovered. Far below, a solitary taxi sped up Sixth Avenue.
We kissed. “Come on,” I said quietly. “Let’s go home and fuck in bed.” She nodded, drying an eye with the back of her hand.
We dressed and gathered our things. I put the condom and its wrapper in my pocket. “Don’t want to leave any evidence,” I said.
She ran a finger over the puddle on the ledge. “Yes, well, other than my DNA.”
I fastened my belt. “Should we clean that?”
She grinned. “No, let’s not.”
We washed up in the ladies’ restroom and raided the kitchen. I made a cup of espresso to drink on the way to the subway.
The guard wished us a good night as we left. She leaned to my ear. “We forgot to bring out a package,” she whispered. I laughed at the dumb luck of pulling off sex in her office.
She wrapped an arm in mine as we waited to cross the street. I took my last sip of espresso and looked at the cup. Glancing up, I saw the same logo swirling across the screens on the building’s façade. “Lehman Brothers, Lehman Brothers, Lehman Brothers,” I mused aloud. “You come for the office sex, you stay for the coffee.”
She laughed as I tossed the cup into a wastebasket and stepped to the curb.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Tweets
It was the shining affair of that dismal season, and it played exclusively on Twitter.
Lyle was a butch lesbian who identified as male. Susan was a straight woman with flowing blonde hair. Lyle lived in the Pacific Northwest. Susan lived in Southern California. They were each married to others and parents to small children. They were also sex bloggers.
At the time, I had closed my own blog in order to focus on a custody case. My ex wife had discovered my blog and was using it—and its stories of my sexuality—in her second bid to take my children from their father. The story of this custody case had caught the attention of other parents who blog about their sex lives. Many sent their sympathies. A few went so far as to close their own blogs for fear of similar consequences.
As it happened, sex blogging underwent a transformation during the time I was offline. Twitter had quickly emerged as a popular social media, allowing users to maintain an online presence in bite-sized nuggets of one hundred and forty characters. Bloggers naturally gravitated to it. The format was well suited to those who approached blogging as diarists. Rather than develop ideas and stories by crafting paragraphs, they could now narrate their lives in real time. For those who enjoyed the attention to be gained from maintaining online personae, Twitter provided the narcotic of immediate gratification. Tweets allowed constant reassurances of one’s own fabulousness.
Still, in most hands, Twitter seemed irretrievably banal. Followers of sex bloggers now found themselves enmeshed in the minutia of daily lives. From morning coffee through mid-morning paperwork to late afternoon ennui to television viewing to a final “goodnight, tweeps,” nothing seemed too minor or too personal for public consumption. I’m bored. I’m horny. I love these shoes. My stomach hurts. I’m crossing Third Avenue and I can’t find a cab. There were bloggers whose disclosures allowed the charting of every meal, every irritant, every bowel movement. Readers once entertained or informed by sex bloggers now found their eyes glazed at the evaporated boundaries of personal revelation and the apparent loss of meaningful texts.
Yet given a new print medium, worthy narratives will inevitably emerge. So it was with the romance of Lyle and Susan.
As the Pacific Coast woke each day, Lyle and Susan were among the sex bloggers who would pipe into a morning already underway for their cohorts to the east. Gradually they took note of one another, Lyle giving a gentlemanly nod to Susan, Susan replying with tongue-in-cheek flirtation. After some light banter, Lyle would head to his job with Susan’s affectionate peck on his cheek. Their interactions became a part of my own routine, like a radio talk show playing the background as I worked.
Soon, things began to heat up between them. Susan would sign on, alluding to too little sleep following long conversations with Lyle. Lyle would sign on with ardent greetings to the woman he now referred to as his darling. Inquiring readers soon learned of late-night webcam sessions, exposed flesh and feverish desires. With the blessings of their respective spouses, Lyle and Susan began to plan a meeting in real life in which their long-distance online affair would be consummated in the flesh.
If Twitter was primarily devoted to documenting nothing, here it had fostered the creation of something real—Twitter had made lovers of two strangers. And in doing so before an enraptured audience, Twitter had provided optimism and excitement in the form of a real-life soap opera. People who would never meet Lyle or Susan came to care about them.
I was among the many who wished them well. I’m a sucker for romance and there was no question of genuine affection between my online friends. Certainly, I could relate to the passions they felt, as I had been in their situation. I had met friends and lovers, and even fallen in love, through instant messages and webcams. I knew the joy that online romances can bring to real life.
Several years ago, I received an email from a reader then in college in the Midwest. She was funny and engaging and, as it happened, we got along famously. In time, she came to visit me in New York. Anna Smash and I became lovers.
Anna started a blog in which she wrote about our friendship and romance, among other aspects of her life. I decided not to write about Anna in my own blog, preferring to keep our relationship private. She visited now and then and as I introduced her to my friends, many remarked on the bond between us. “Well, yeah,” Anna would say. “I’m totally smitten with Jefferson.”
“I’ve got an absolute Smash Crush,” I would sheepishly admit.
Over the years, Anna and I have had I-don’t-know-how-many threesomes. I arrange orgies for some of her visits and preserve intimacy for others. Our shared curiosity about BDSM grew together and we’ve established a great trust in that; so much so that when she became deeply involved with her boyfriend, she wanted him to learn to be her dominant by being together with us.
Anna and I keep in touch when we’re apart, as friends do, and we look after one another. She knew I was stressed about my custody case and she was going through a rough patch with her boyfriend. She came for a visit and for several days, we locked the doors to the rest of the world. We talked, laughed, made love and took care of each other. On the day she left, we both felt sated and content.
Later, she called me from the airport. “Everything is screwed up,” she said. “I’m not going to make my flight. I should’ve left earlier, maybe made a different flight, but as it is, baby, I’m stuck here for a few days.” I told her to come back home.
While I waited, I signed online. Everything in and out of New York was delayed due to weather. Checking Twitter, I saw a message from Susan. “New Yorkers, can you help? Lyle is trapped at the airport until tomorrow.”
I sent Susan a note. “Everything is socked in. Can I help?”
Susan was quick to reply. Lyle was stuck on a layover on his way to Florida and needed a place to stay overnight. “I’m running an orphanage for waylaid travelers,” I said. “If Lyle needs a roof overhead, send him my way.” Susan conveyed the message. I spoke with Lyle, explaining that my friend Anna was also delayed and heading back to my place. “I’m sorry you’re in a bind, but I’m glad to meet you no matter the circumstances,” I said. “Come on over. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Lyle was the first to arrive, about an hour later. He smiled when I opened the door, holding a wet hat in one hand and extending the other. “You just rescued me from Third World conditions,” he smiled.
“Glad to do it,” I replied, taking his hand. “Come in and let’s get you settled.” Lyle picked up his bag and I showed him to a room. He changed into dry clothes as I poured us two bourbons.
As we got acquainted, I told Lyle a bit about Anna, explaining that she was also a sex blogger and we had originally met online, like him and Susan. The mention of Susan lit up Lyle’s face. “Jefferson, it’s like nothing I’ve felt,” he said. “I love my wife, and I’ve talked with her about this. I love my wife and I would do anything for her. But this thing with Susan, it’s like . . .” he paused, searching for words.
“It’s lust, buddy,” I suggested. “It’s lust caught up in love and it’s for someone you know so well and you’ve never even met.”
Lyle laughed. “That’s exactly right. And that makes no sense, does it?”
“Maybe not.” I lifted my glass. “But cheers. I’ve been there myself.” We drank to love and continued talking until interrupted by Anna’s arrival.
She looked forlorn. “I’m so sorry, baby. I hate that I’m imposing.”
“No, no.” I kissed her forehead. “I’m glad we get more time together. Listen, my friend Lyle is also trapped in town tonight. Come in—let me introduce you and then I’ll set you up with a drink.”
I ushered Anna inside. Lyle stood to shake her hand. Anna was clearly impressed by the gentlemanly butch cowboy in my living room and sat to compare traveler’s tales of woe. I fixed Anna’s drink and refreshed our own. In no time, we were deep in conversation about love, online romance and sex blogs. Anna mentioned in passing that her socks were wet and began to take them off. “My pants are drenched from the knees down,” she added. “Do you guys mind if . . . ?”
“No, not at all,” Lyle grinned.
“No one’s going to stop you from taking off your pants, baby,” I assured her.
As Anna pulled down her jeans, Lyle noticed bruises on her thighs. “Whoa, what happened to you?” he asked.
“Oh, well, Jefferson happened to me,” she laughed. “That would be from the paddle.” Lyle looked at me. I shrugged. “And this,” Anna said, turning. “This would be from the caning.”
Lyle leaned forward to look more closely. He let out a slight whistle. “You’ve got a mean arm, Jefferson,” he said.
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’ve got a fierce Smash Crush.” I motioned for Anna. “Come here, honey, and sit on my lap.” Anna smiled and sat on my lap. She wrapped an arm around my neck and extended her legs toward Lyle. Soon, Lyle was massaging her feet.
Another round of drinks later and I was searching for my strap-on cock. “I don’t really need this all that often,” I apologized, rooting in a cabinet.
“I didn’t know I’d be needing mine,” Lyle apologized, stepping out of his jeans.
Anna reclined nude on the bed, propped on her elbows. Her eyes moved from Lyle to me and back again. “I think I must be the luckiest girl in the world,” she smiled.
I found the harness and handed it to Lyle. “Okay, I can make this work,” he said, adjusting straps. He raised a leg to step into the rig. “It takes some getting used to . . . I do favor my own equipment . . .”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” I encouraged, putting out lube and condoms. “Here, how about I warm her up while you’re getting ready.” I leaned forward to kiss Anna, unzipping my jeans as our lips met. We had been making love all day, after days of making love. Her trip to the airport was just a blip in our routine.
When Lyle was prepared, I pulled back. “You ready for the next up?” I asked.
Anna nodded. “Oh yeah.”
Lyle gave Anna a light kiss as he entered her.
Lyle and I passed Anna back and forth until I needed a rest. I sat back on a pillow, my eyes closing as Lyle fucked Anna to yet another orgasm.
The next morning, there was a knock on my bedroom door. “Good morning,” Lyle smiled, peeking around the door. His breast revealed he was nude. “Breakfast is almost ready. But where do you keep the coffee?”
I raised my head. “Now, that’s sweet, but you don’t have to . . .”
“Don’t get up,” Lyle said. “I’ve got this taken care of. I just need to know where you keep your coffee.”
I dropped my head. “So sweet. It’s in the freezer . . .” I buried my face in Anna’s hair and returned to sleep. She snuggled back against me. The scent of bacon wafted from the kitchen.
Lyle called when breakfast was ready. Anna and I stumbled out and took our places. We woke slowly, eating breakfast nude as Lyle poured our coffee. In time, we were capable of conversation. We sat talking and drinking coffee until it was time for Lyle to leave. We hugged him goodbye. “Thanks so much for letting me stay over, Jefferson,” he said. “That was pretty memorable.”
“Yeah, what I remember of it,” I yawned, sitting back on my bed.
Anna leaned up to kiss Lyle. “Don’t worry, baby. I remember it all.”
Lyle blushed slightly. I offered to show Lyle to the door, but he said he could take care of it. “Good,” I said, tugging Anna’s arm. “Then I’ll take care of this.” I pulled Anna back into bed with me. We were kissing as the front door closed.
Lyle dropped a line to let me know he was safely arrived in Florida. He thanked me again for the hospitality. I repeated that it was a pleasure to meet him. Susan wrote later to reiterate her thanks. I told her I was glad to oblige.
A few days later, Lyle sent me a link to his blog. There was a hot story of a threesome, “inspired,” he wrote, “by our fun night.” Anna had returned home by then, so I forwarded the link to her. It didn’t mention us by name but it was clearly about us. She replied that it was great and said she really liked Lyle.
When Lyle returned home, we traded a few tweets. We didn’t say anything explicit about our night together, but it was evident that we had met in New York. Anyone reading us on Twitter may have followed our exchange.
A few days later, I checked in on the romance of Susan and Lyle. I realized that I could read Susan’s tweets, but not Lyle’s. Assuming that my Twitter feed was messed up, I tried to sign on to Lyle again. It didn’t work. Lyle had blocked me.
I wondered if something had happened. My blog had been discovered—what if something bad had happened to Lyle as well? I checked his blog. It was still in place, though the references to meeting me and Anna had been expunged. Now I was thoroughly confused. I wrote to ask Lyle if he was all right. I had no response.
A month or so later, I got an email from a mutual friend. “I feel like I’ve heard this story from everyone but you,” she wrote. “What happened with you and Lyle?”
Nothing much, I replied. He was stuck at the airport and he stayed at my place. I liked meeting him.
“Wasn’t there a girl there?”
Yes, Anna Smash was here, I replied. Why?
“I heard that you both had sex with her, and that she was a less than willing participant. Is that what happened?”
Anna Smash? Did Lyle think she was less than willing?
“It’s not Lyle. There’s someone else who is telling this story.”
The friend told me who was behind the story. A former girlfriend of mine, a married woman with whom I had a brief affair, had been spreading malicious gossip about me since the end of our relationship. As she has been married for a very long time, ours was her first break up since the nineteen-seventies. She didn’t have much experience in ending things gracefully, so she reverted to the rules of the playground: if you don’t hate him, you can’t be my friend.
Her playground happened to be the Internet. While I was busy in real life, fighting my custody case, she was busy online, dividing sex bloggers into two camps—hers and mine.
At first, she went after bloggers I had long known as friends. Sex blogs were all new to her, as my blog was the first she had read mere months before and, among sex bloggers, she knew only my friends. A complete stranger complaining about your friends will meet with limited success, she found, so she moved on to bloggers I had not met, focusing on those outside New York. Here, she found eager ears, as everyone loves gossip. Even better, not only were these bloggers less likely to know me personally, no one knew her at all. It was virgin turf. She could attack me with impunity.
Lyle found himself in an awkward position. He didn’t know me well. As my ex girlfriend grilled him for information, she turned Lyle’s experience to new conclusions. The girl was bruised? That’s evidence that she was coerced. She was young? She’s been duped. He was probably paying her. He probably brainwashed her. He uses girls like that, girls with no self-esteem. You have to stay away from Jefferson, Lyle. You don’t know how evil he is. Hearing this, Lyle began to wonder: what if his experience was mistaken and my ex girlfriend's assertions were correct?
I told Anna what I had heard. “If Lyle thought I was coerced,” she asked, “Then why did he keep fucking me after you were asleep?” The whole thing got under her skin. Anna wrote Lyle to make it plain. She and I have been friends and lovers for years. Everything that transpires between us is consensual. She is nobody’s dupe. She is very capable of making decisions and she was entirely comfortable having sex with us that night.
Lyle thanked Anna for her note. It really put his mind at ease, he said. After my ex girlfriend learned of our night together, she had been very upset with him. “I thought you were my friend,” she had messaged Lyle. “You can’t be my friend and be friends with that dickhead.” Ever the gentleman, Lyle acquiesced to keep the peace.
Anna told me what Lyle had said. “You know, that’s pretty fucked up,” she added. “He met us in person and he still bought into that online bullshit.”
“People do odd things online,” I replied. “One day, maybe Lyle can talk this out with my ex girlfriend. You know, assuming they ever meet in person.”
Lyle was a butch lesbian who identified as male. Susan was a straight woman with flowing blonde hair. Lyle lived in the Pacific Northwest. Susan lived in Southern California. They were each married to others and parents to small children. They were also sex bloggers.
At the time, I had closed my own blog in order to focus on a custody case. My ex wife had discovered my blog and was using it—and its stories of my sexuality—in her second bid to take my children from their father. The story of this custody case had caught the attention of other parents who blog about their sex lives. Many sent their sympathies. A few went so far as to close their own blogs for fear of similar consequences.
As it happened, sex blogging underwent a transformation during the time I was offline. Twitter had quickly emerged as a popular social media, allowing users to maintain an online presence in bite-sized nuggets of one hundred and forty characters. Bloggers naturally gravitated to it. The format was well suited to those who approached blogging as diarists. Rather than develop ideas and stories by crafting paragraphs, they could now narrate their lives in real time. For those who enjoyed the attention to be gained from maintaining online personae, Twitter provided the narcotic of immediate gratification. Tweets allowed constant reassurances of one’s own fabulousness.
Still, in most hands, Twitter seemed irretrievably banal. Followers of sex bloggers now found themselves enmeshed in the minutia of daily lives. From morning coffee through mid-morning paperwork to late afternoon ennui to television viewing to a final “goodnight, tweeps,” nothing seemed too minor or too personal for public consumption. I’m bored. I’m horny. I love these shoes. My stomach hurts. I’m crossing Third Avenue and I can’t find a cab. There were bloggers whose disclosures allowed the charting of every meal, every irritant, every bowel movement. Readers once entertained or informed by sex bloggers now found their eyes glazed at the evaporated boundaries of personal revelation and the apparent loss of meaningful texts.
Yet given a new print medium, worthy narratives will inevitably emerge. So it was with the romance of Lyle and Susan.
As the Pacific Coast woke each day, Lyle and Susan were among the sex bloggers who would pipe into a morning already underway for their cohorts to the east. Gradually they took note of one another, Lyle giving a gentlemanly nod to Susan, Susan replying with tongue-in-cheek flirtation. After some light banter, Lyle would head to his job with Susan’s affectionate peck on his cheek. Their interactions became a part of my own routine, like a radio talk show playing the background as I worked.
Soon, things began to heat up between them. Susan would sign on, alluding to too little sleep following long conversations with Lyle. Lyle would sign on with ardent greetings to the woman he now referred to as his darling. Inquiring readers soon learned of late-night webcam sessions, exposed flesh and feverish desires. With the blessings of their respective spouses, Lyle and Susan began to plan a meeting in real life in which their long-distance online affair would be consummated in the flesh.
If Twitter was primarily devoted to documenting nothing, here it had fostered the creation of something real—Twitter had made lovers of two strangers. And in doing so before an enraptured audience, Twitter had provided optimism and excitement in the form of a real-life soap opera. People who would never meet Lyle or Susan came to care about them.
I was among the many who wished them well. I’m a sucker for romance and there was no question of genuine affection between my online friends. Certainly, I could relate to the passions they felt, as I had been in their situation. I had met friends and lovers, and even fallen in love, through instant messages and webcams. I knew the joy that online romances can bring to real life.
Several years ago, I received an email from a reader then in college in the Midwest. She was funny and engaging and, as it happened, we got along famously. In time, she came to visit me in New York. Anna Smash and I became lovers.
Anna started a blog in which she wrote about our friendship and romance, among other aspects of her life. I decided not to write about Anna in my own blog, preferring to keep our relationship private. She visited now and then and as I introduced her to my friends, many remarked on the bond between us. “Well, yeah,” Anna would say. “I’m totally smitten with Jefferson.”
“I’ve got an absolute Smash Crush,” I would sheepishly admit.
Over the years, Anna and I have had I-don’t-know-how-many threesomes. I arrange orgies for some of her visits and preserve intimacy for others. Our shared curiosity about BDSM grew together and we’ve established a great trust in that; so much so that when she became deeply involved with her boyfriend, she wanted him to learn to be her dominant by being together with us.
Anna and I keep in touch when we’re apart, as friends do, and we look after one another. She knew I was stressed about my custody case and she was going through a rough patch with her boyfriend. She came for a visit and for several days, we locked the doors to the rest of the world. We talked, laughed, made love and took care of each other. On the day she left, we both felt sated and content.
Later, she called me from the airport. “Everything is screwed up,” she said. “I’m not going to make my flight. I should’ve left earlier, maybe made a different flight, but as it is, baby, I’m stuck here for a few days.” I told her to come back home.
While I waited, I signed online. Everything in and out of New York was delayed due to weather. Checking Twitter, I saw a message from Susan. “New Yorkers, can you help? Lyle is trapped at the airport until tomorrow.”
I sent Susan a note. “Everything is socked in. Can I help?”
Susan was quick to reply. Lyle was stuck on a layover on his way to Florida and needed a place to stay overnight. “I’m running an orphanage for waylaid travelers,” I said. “If Lyle needs a roof overhead, send him my way.” Susan conveyed the message. I spoke with Lyle, explaining that my friend Anna was also delayed and heading back to my place. “I’m sorry you’re in a bind, but I’m glad to meet you no matter the circumstances,” I said. “Come on over. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Lyle was the first to arrive, about an hour later. He smiled when I opened the door, holding a wet hat in one hand and extending the other. “You just rescued me from Third World conditions,” he smiled.
“Glad to do it,” I replied, taking his hand. “Come in and let’s get you settled.” Lyle picked up his bag and I showed him to a room. He changed into dry clothes as I poured us two bourbons.
As we got acquainted, I told Lyle a bit about Anna, explaining that she was also a sex blogger and we had originally met online, like him and Susan. The mention of Susan lit up Lyle’s face. “Jefferson, it’s like nothing I’ve felt,” he said. “I love my wife, and I’ve talked with her about this. I love my wife and I would do anything for her. But this thing with Susan, it’s like . . .” he paused, searching for words.
“It’s lust, buddy,” I suggested. “It’s lust caught up in love and it’s for someone you know so well and you’ve never even met.”
Lyle laughed. “That’s exactly right. And that makes no sense, does it?”
“Maybe not.” I lifted my glass. “But cheers. I’ve been there myself.” We drank to love and continued talking until interrupted by Anna’s arrival.
She looked forlorn. “I’m so sorry, baby. I hate that I’m imposing.”
“No, no.” I kissed her forehead. “I’m glad we get more time together. Listen, my friend Lyle is also trapped in town tonight. Come in—let me introduce you and then I’ll set you up with a drink.”
I ushered Anna inside. Lyle stood to shake her hand. Anna was clearly impressed by the gentlemanly butch cowboy in my living room and sat to compare traveler’s tales of woe. I fixed Anna’s drink and refreshed our own. In no time, we were deep in conversation about love, online romance and sex blogs. Anna mentioned in passing that her socks were wet and began to take them off. “My pants are drenched from the knees down,” she added. “Do you guys mind if . . . ?”
“No, not at all,” Lyle grinned.
“No one’s going to stop you from taking off your pants, baby,” I assured her.
As Anna pulled down her jeans, Lyle noticed bruises on her thighs. “Whoa, what happened to you?” he asked.
“Oh, well, Jefferson happened to me,” she laughed. “That would be from the paddle.” Lyle looked at me. I shrugged. “And this,” Anna said, turning. “This would be from the caning.”
Lyle leaned forward to look more closely. He let out a slight whistle. “You’ve got a mean arm, Jefferson,” he said.
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’ve got a fierce Smash Crush.” I motioned for Anna. “Come here, honey, and sit on my lap.” Anna smiled and sat on my lap. She wrapped an arm around my neck and extended her legs toward Lyle. Soon, Lyle was massaging her feet.
Another round of drinks later and I was searching for my strap-on cock. “I don’t really need this all that often,” I apologized, rooting in a cabinet.
“I didn’t know I’d be needing mine,” Lyle apologized, stepping out of his jeans.
Anna reclined nude on the bed, propped on her elbows. Her eyes moved from Lyle to me and back again. “I think I must be the luckiest girl in the world,” she smiled.
I found the harness and handed it to Lyle. “Okay, I can make this work,” he said, adjusting straps. He raised a leg to step into the rig. “It takes some getting used to . . . I do favor my own equipment . . .”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” I encouraged, putting out lube and condoms. “Here, how about I warm her up while you’re getting ready.” I leaned forward to kiss Anna, unzipping my jeans as our lips met. We had been making love all day, after days of making love. Her trip to the airport was just a blip in our routine.
When Lyle was prepared, I pulled back. “You ready for the next up?” I asked.
Anna nodded. “Oh yeah.”
Lyle gave Anna a light kiss as he entered her.
Lyle and I passed Anna back and forth until I needed a rest. I sat back on a pillow, my eyes closing as Lyle fucked Anna to yet another orgasm.
The next morning, there was a knock on my bedroom door. “Good morning,” Lyle smiled, peeking around the door. His breast revealed he was nude. “Breakfast is almost ready. But where do you keep the coffee?”
I raised my head. “Now, that’s sweet, but you don’t have to . . .”
“Don’t get up,” Lyle said. “I’ve got this taken care of. I just need to know where you keep your coffee.”
I dropped my head. “So sweet. It’s in the freezer . . .” I buried my face in Anna’s hair and returned to sleep. She snuggled back against me. The scent of bacon wafted from the kitchen.
Lyle called when breakfast was ready. Anna and I stumbled out and took our places. We woke slowly, eating breakfast nude as Lyle poured our coffee. In time, we were capable of conversation. We sat talking and drinking coffee until it was time for Lyle to leave. We hugged him goodbye. “Thanks so much for letting me stay over, Jefferson,” he said. “That was pretty memorable.”
“Yeah, what I remember of it,” I yawned, sitting back on my bed.
Anna leaned up to kiss Lyle. “Don’t worry, baby. I remember it all.”
Lyle blushed slightly. I offered to show Lyle to the door, but he said he could take care of it. “Good,” I said, tugging Anna’s arm. “Then I’ll take care of this.” I pulled Anna back into bed with me. We were kissing as the front door closed.
Lyle dropped a line to let me know he was safely arrived in Florida. He thanked me again for the hospitality. I repeated that it was a pleasure to meet him. Susan wrote later to reiterate her thanks. I told her I was glad to oblige.
A few days later, Lyle sent me a link to his blog. There was a hot story of a threesome, “inspired,” he wrote, “by our fun night.” Anna had returned home by then, so I forwarded the link to her. It didn’t mention us by name but it was clearly about us. She replied that it was great and said she really liked Lyle.
When Lyle returned home, we traded a few tweets. We didn’t say anything explicit about our night together, but it was evident that we had met in New York. Anyone reading us on Twitter may have followed our exchange.
A few days later, I checked in on the romance of Susan and Lyle. I realized that I could read Susan’s tweets, but not Lyle’s. Assuming that my Twitter feed was messed up, I tried to sign on to Lyle again. It didn’t work. Lyle had blocked me.
I wondered if something had happened. My blog had been discovered—what if something bad had happened to Lyle as well? I checked his blog. It was still in place, though the references to meeting me and Anna had been expunged. Now I was thoroughly confused. I wrote to ask Lyle if he was all right. I had no response.
A month or so later, I got an email from a mutual friend. “I feel like I’ve heard this story from everyone but you,” she wrote. “What happened with you and Lyle?”
Nothing much, I replied. He was stuck at the airport and he stayed at my place. I liked meeting him.
“Wasn’t there a girl there?”
Yes, Anna Smash was here, I replied. Why?
“I heard that you both had sex with her, and that she was a less than willing participant. Is that what happened?”
Anna Smash? Did Lyle think she was less than willing?
“It’s not Lyle. There’s someone else who is telling this story.”
The friend told me who was behind the story. A former girlfriend of mine, a married woman with whom I had a brief affair, had been spreading malicious gossip about me since the end of our relationship. As she has been married for a very long time, ours was her first break up since the nineteen-seventies. She didn’t have much experience in ending things gracefully, so she reverted to the rules of the playground: if you don’t hate him, you can’t be my friend.
Her playground happened to be the Internet. While I was busy in real life, fighting my custody case, she was busy online, dividing sex bloggers into two camps—hers and mine.
At first, she went after bloggers I had long known as friends. Sex blogs were all new to her, as my blog was the first she had read mere months before and, among sex bloggers, she knew only my friends. A complete stranger complaining about your friends will meet with limited success, she found, so she moved on to bloggers I had not met, focusing on those outside New York. Here, she found eager ears, as everyone loves gossip. Even better, not only were these bloggers less likely to know me personally, no one knew her at all. It was virgin turf. She could attack me with impunity.
Lyle found himself in an awkward position. He didn’t know me well. As my ex girlfriend grilled him for information, she turned Lyle’s experience to new conclusions. The girl was bruised? That’s evidence that she was coerced. She was young? She’s been duped. He was probably paying her. He probably brainwashed her. He uses girls like that, girls with no self-esteem. You have to stay away from Jefferson, Lyle. You don’t know how evil he is. Hearing this, Lyle began to wonder: what if his experience was mistaken and my ex girlfriend's assertions were correct?
I told Anna what I had heard. “If Lyle thought I was coerced,” she asked, “Then why did he keep fucking me after you were asleep?” The whole thing got under her skin. Anna wrote Lyle to make it plain. She and I have been friends and lovers for years. Everything that transpires between us is consensual. She is nobody’s dupe. She is very capable of making decisions and she was entirely comfortable having sex with us that night.
Lyle thanked Anna for her note. It really put his mind at ease, he said. After my ex girlfriend learned of our night together, she had been very upset with him. “I thought you were my friend,” she had messaged Lyle. “You can’t be my friend and be friends with that dickhead.” Ever the gentleman, Lyle acquiesced to keep the peace.
Anna told me what Lyle had said. “You know, that’s pretty fucked up,” she added. “He met us in person and he still bought into that online bullshit.”
“People do odd things online,” I replied. “One day, maybe Lyle can talk this out with my ex girlfriend. You know, assuming they ever meet in person.”
Friday, July 03, 2009
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 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.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Everything Butt
Bend over and spread the news: Everything Butt is now live. Enjoy; tell 'em Jefferson sent you.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
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
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