I awoke to sunlight on my face.
It was the morning after the party. Theresa was asleep in the back room. Shelby had been driven to the couch by my snoring. I was alone in bed.
I pulled up the duvet and turned my back to the window, trying to avoid the sun, to avoid accepting that I was awake.
I had been dreaming.
In the dream, my face was between Shelby’s legs.
I was licking her smooth slit, resting my cheek against her left thigh. My eyes were open, looking up to the familiar curve of her belly.
Shelby’s hand caressed her skin as she shifted and moaned. My mouth dug in deeper.
Then, in her girlish lisp, Shelby begged me to suck her cock.
And in the dream, she had a cock.
It had materialized as I sucked her clit.
I drew back to look at it.
Shelby’s cock fit her body well. It was neither large nor small. It was pale, like her soft, clear skin, and shaved smooth, like her pussy.
Her cock rested to her right, nestled against her balls.
“Please suck it,” she begged. “Please!”
I held her cock in my hand, and took it into my mouth. I twirled my tongue under the head, feeling her grow hard inside me.
My hands grasped her waspish waist, drifting to her palm-sized breasts.
Her hips twisted under my lips.
At one point she pulled her cock from me. She fingered it.
“It feels so good when you lick me here,” she said, tracing a finger on the head.
“Like this?” I asked, following her finger with my tongue.
“Like that,” she winced, arching her back.
In our waking sex life, Shelby is good at saying what she likes. She masturbates to orgasm to demonstrate how she focuses her attention just to the right of her clit, explaining that touching her clit is just “too intense” when she rubs one off.
Now that she had a dream cock, she wanted me to focus on the most sensitive area. My cock couldn’t take the kind of tonguing she wanted, but this is her cock. It’s new to me, so I appreciate the tip.
I lick the tip of her cock, languidly, then with more vigor. I plunge her back into my throat.
She gasps.
My mouth wakes, though I am asleep, and takes over. My body is a vehicle for the mouth that devours her. My mouth exists only to take her into me.
My mouth is hers.
As I lay in bed, waking from the dream, trying to recall its particulars, I am hard.
I lift up my cock, holding in it two fingers at the base. The sun is full on my body.
I compare my cock to my memory of hers.
My cock is longer than the one my subconscious had crafted for Shelby, hers being closer to the size I have come to prefer for all-out cock sucking.
Hers was paler than mine, less pink, almost blue in its translucence.
I pushed my cock down, lifting my hips. I imagined myself with a woman’s body.
I began to miss Shelby’s cock.
Later, I told Shelby about my dream.
“God damn it,” she said. “If I had a cock for just a day, I’d wear it out fucking you.”
“Honey, if you had a cock, “ I laughed, “Farmers would have to lock up their daughters.”
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
dreams
oral sex
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transgender
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
Post Hangin'
“Am I early?” Reese kissed me at the door, looking past my shoulders. “I thought I was going to be late.”
Reese had come directly from the gym, still dressed in sweats.
“You’re fine. Everyone else is late. You remember Mitzi, Shelby and Theresa?”
“Of course,” she said, kissing them in turn. “In fact, I was hoping for one of Theresa’s back rubs. Could you?”
“Sure,” Theresa smiled, sitting erect. “Sit right here,” she patted the couch.
“Oh, lovely,” Reese smiled, her shoulders going slack. “I am just so sore. Here Jefferson, I brought a pizza to heat up later.”
She handed me a bag, and took off her shirt, then her sports bra. She sat in front of Theresa, moving her long hair to allow access for Theresa’s warm hands.
“Ummm, that’s just right.”
Theresa smiled.
I put the pizza in the kitchen, and returned to my seat on the floor. We picked up the conversation; my eyes tried not to rest on Reese’s breasts.
Mitzi leaned to my ear. “Looks like we achieved nudity early tonight.”
“Exposed breasts before nine pm,” I concurred. “And me the only boy.”
The only boy. And I was already feeling well sexed.
Shelby and I had logged a few hours as Theresa tidied. Shelby and Theresa had then worn out Thomas, who had done all he could do in the hours before the party.
After Thomas left, Theresa had sat contented on the couch, winding her long blonde hair into a ponytail. “That was a very nice warm up,” she remarked.
Now here we were, preparing for an orgy. And where were the men?
I preheated the oven for Reese’s pizza.
Todd arrived, and made his hellos.
The pizza was served and consumed. The second CD kicked in—the new Beck album was on the turntable.
“So, Jefferson,” Todd asked. “Just us two and these four lovely ladies?”
“Help is on the way,” I assured everyone.
Just in case, I made some calls. Reese and Todd worked their cells.
About that time, Mark arrived. I breathed a sigh of relief. Everything is okay when Mark is there.
Todd’s calls came up dry. Reese had hoped to bring in a cute bi boy she likes. Instead, she landed two girlfriends from Barnard, Nicole and Juniper. They would join us after class.
“They like girls too,” Reese shrugged.
“We welcome that,” I hedged.
“Sure was hoping for some cock though,” she said. Her eyes pushed me to the wall.
“Then let’s order more cock,” I replied.
Time to call up a backbencher.
When you run a mixed sex party, there is no real shortage of single male applicants. Sadly, too many are just drek. Straight boys are the worst.
Straight boys are just dirt on our shoes.
Our boys are bi, and the girls like their boys bi. If a guy wants to come to our party to fuck hot girls, and that’s about all he can do, then he’s dull as dishwater, really.
There is just no excuse for being straight at a sex party. If you can’t eat pussy one moment and suck cock the next, then pal, you may as well check your cool at the door.
Still, I did have a promising candidate on hold—a straight boy, yes, but good looking, bi curious and submissive.
Shelby has recently discovered her dom side (as you can read here, and here, and—oh my!— here). Since then, I have been keeping my eyes open for a good submissive we can share.
Wanted: Sub for dom man and woman. Gender and race not important. Must be easy on the eyes, a talented cocksucker and able to take a strong whupping. Sense of humor a plus.
This new boy seemed to have the right stuff, so I decided to bring him into the sex party for a trial run.
He arrived raring to go. I explained that he would be serving me tonight. He said he would not leave my side unless instructed to do so.
Good boy.
I introduced him to Shelby. She was still too sore from her car accident to contemplate beating him, but she gave him the once over.
Fresh meat, her eyes read. We’ll see.
More arrivals. John, Farahnaz, and the two Barnard girls. Nicole and Juniper were very attractive, and settled into the group easily as Reese introduced them around.
We started the sex.
Todd and Theresa paired off, and Reese grabbed Mark. The rest of us watched as they got things going.
I admired Mark’s ass as he licked Reese’s pussy. “I admire your ass, Mark.” I said.
“Well, thank you there, Jefferson.”
“Doesn’t he have an amazing ass?” I asked Mitzi. The submissive stood by my side.
“Stunning,” she concurred.
Still covered in boxer briefs, Mark’s ass tensed and relaxed as he worked Reese, rippling his toned muscles.
“I have to remove those briefs.” I tugged them down, and watched his bare ass in the candlelight. “Just superb.” I bent to lick it.
I returned to the submissive. “Let me see you undress.”
He looked shy, then unbuckled his pants. He was wearing stripped boxers.
“Those are cute,” Mitzi said. “Vertical stripes.”
“With one horizontal exception,” I noted, taking his erection in my hand.
“I think,” Mitzi said, looking around, “that I will go smoke a cigarette.”
“I think,” I said, “that I will join you.”
“Shall I come with you?” the submissive asked.
“Yes, you should.” I liked the idea of taking him away from eyeballing the sex so he could watch us smoke.
We moved to the terrace. Neither Mitzi nor I smoke, but it seemed a nice excuse to chat. We settled in.
The submissive stood to one side, in his boxers and a t-shirt.
His presence was not needed.
In time, I dismissed him.
I later found him nude, on a bed as Farahnaz nestled with Mark. He looked hungry to touch the alluring Farahnaz.
I had not directed him to do so.
How much training was this boy going to take? I was running a sex party that night. I could not dedicate very much time to this side project.
“Boy.” He looked up.
"Sir?"
“Bring me a bourbon. Two rocks, three fingers. You will find what you need in the kitchen.”
He jumped to his feet. I soon had my bourbon, precisely as ordered.
I thanked the boy.
By this time, Farahnaz was sucking my cock.
“Sir,” he asked. “May I touch her?”
“If she would care for that.”
Farahnaz looked up, taking in his athletic body and fat cock.
“This one can fuck me,” she allowed, returning my cock to her mouth.
“You heard her, boy,” I said, sipping my drink. “Fuck her.”
Farahnaz raised her ass. He quickly took a condom and entered her.
He seemed to be doing a good job. Steady and sure. Farahnaz sighed into my cock.
We had a good audience as we went at this. Mark, John and Shelby were watching from across the room.
Shelby had her eyes on the boy’s ass. It was meaty and firm as he fucked Farahnaz, glowing in the candlelight.
An irresistible target.
The gleam came to her eyes.
She crossed the room and smacked that ass. Hard.
“Unh!” The boy wasn’t expecting that. Her slap broke his rhythm.
“Who told you to stop fucking?” I asked. He refocused on the task.
Mother fuck. He can't take a spanking?
I took my cock from Farahnaz. I stood and joined Shelby.
“It’s a nice ass,” I said.
“Hit it,” she suggested.
I did. He flinched, again pausing his thrusts.
“No,” I said, slapping him again. “You are to fuck her.” Another. “Better.” Another.
He finally seemed to get a rhythm.
Okay, so he could fuck his way through a spanking. Was he good for anything other than fetching drinks and fucking hot women?
Later, as we relaxed in the living room, Farahnaz emerged wearing nothing but a strap on. She had a nice ten-inch dildo, long, narrow, and dark, well suited to her lithe frame.
“Okay,” she smiled. “Who wants to get fucked?”
I was intrigued by the thought. Farahnaz, who was born a boy and became a girl, was now sporting her cock and ready to use it.
“Farahnaz,” I said, “I would very much like to suck your cock.”
“Time you returned the favor,” she said, sashaying to where I sat. My boy crouched at my feet.
I took her cock in my mouth. My fingers moved across her slender hips, her belly, her breasts. I looked up to her dark eyes, swallowing deeper as she smiled.
“You are a good cocksucker.”
“I adore your cock,” I cooed. “May I offer it to the boy?”
“Of course.”
“Boy,” I turned. “Suck her cock.”
He rose to his haunches. He looked nervous as he first took it, then hungrily gobbled it deep. He gagged.
Jesus.
“Do you think you can take her up your ass, boy?”
“Uh, well, sir, I’ve never done that.”
“That wasn’t my question, boy.”
“I would be . . . afraid.”
Appalling.
“Thank you for your time, Farahnaz,” I said. “I enjoyed sucking your cock.”
She kissed me and was gone.
I looked at the boy. I really did not see much promise.
I dismissed him. He left.
Later I would check with Shelby. She was not interested in training this boy.
I also found that the boy had propositioned Mitzi—without my approval.
He will not be back.
I made my way to the back room, where a crowd had gathered. What could so arrest the attention of the sex crew, I wondered?
Then I saw.
On the bed, silhouetted against the blinds, warmed by the candles, a vision.
Farahnaz fucking Mitzi.
Farahnaz was on her knees, her hair back on her shoulders. Mitzi lay before her, her hair in waves around her head.
Mitzi’s face was in ecstasy. She reached up and pulled Farahnaz into her kiss.
The two embraced as they kissed, Farahnaz stroking Mitzi’s face, Mitzi’s fingers roaming Farahnaz’s body.
I knew how Mitzi wanted Farahnaz, how much she longed for that woman’s beauty.
Now I saw how Farahnaz wanted Mitzi.
“I hear wedding bells,” I whispered to Mark.
Juniper looked up, smiling. She was nude, her knees curled under her as she sat near my feet.
I smiled back at her.
I wasted too much time on the boy, and spent too little time getting to know Nicole and Juniper. They were in Reese’s capable hands, so I knew they were well tended. Still, I enjoyed their conversation, and they were certainly at their ease in this new environment.
And they are darned lovely.
As the party continued well past midnight, there was a motion to order dinner. Reese’s pizza had not been sufficient.
Nicole asked if she could change the music. By all means, I said, help yourself.
Juniper and I were talking when I heard it.
Leroy, boy, is that you?
I thought your post hangin’ days were through . . .
“Nicole, did you just put on Todd Rundgren?”
“I did.”
“And did you select ‘We Gotta Get You a Woman?’”
“Yes, Jefferson, I did.”
“Nicole, I want your phone number. Now.”
I handed her paper and pencil. She wrote down all the ways I can find her, then handed the paper to Juniper, who did the same.
All those CDs, and she picked Todd Rundgren.
You know, it’s just great when you meet attractive women at a sex party, and the conversation is fine and the mood is good.
But anytime you find a like-minded dork, you know it’s been a good night.
It would be the next morning before I realized:
All those fine folk, and I forget to get laid.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
ass
oral sex
group sex
discipline
BDSM
transgender
Beck
Todd Rundgren
Reese had come directly from the gym, still dressed in sweats.
“You’re fine. Everyone else is late. You remember Mitzi, Shelby and Theresa?”
“Of course,” she said, kissing them in turn. “In fact, I was hoping for one of Theresa’s back rubs. Could you?”
“Sure,” Theresa smiled, sitting erect. “Sit right here,” she patted the couch.
“Oh, lovely,” Reese smiled, her shoulders going slack. “I am just so sore. Here Jefferson, I brought a pizza to heat up later.”
She handed me a bag, and took off her shirt, then her sports bra. She sat in front of Theresa, moving her long hair to allow access for Theresa’s warm hands.
“Ummm, that’s just right.”
Theresa smiled.
I put the pizza in the kitchen, and returned to my seat on the floor. We picked up the conversation; my eyes tried not to rest on Reese’s breasts.
Mitzi leaned to my ear. “Looks like we achieved nudity early tonight.”
“Exposed breasts before nine pm,” I concurred. “And me the only boy.”
The only boy. And I was already feeling well sexed.
Shelby and I had logged a few hours as Theresa tidied. Shelby and Theresa had then worn out Thomas, who had done all he could do in the hours before the party.
After Thomas left, Theresa had sat contented on the couch, winding her long blonde hair into a ponytail. “That was a very nice warm up,” she remarked.
Now here we were, preparing for an orgy. And where were the men?
I preheated the oven for Reese’s pizza.
Todd arrived, and made his hellos.
The pizza was served and consumed. The second CD kicked in—the new Beck album was on the turntable.
“So, Jefferson,” Todd asked. “Just us two and these four lovely ladies?”
“Help is on the way,” I assured everyone.
Just in case, I made some calls. Reese and Todd worked their cells.
About that time, Mark arrived. I breathed a sigh of relief. Everything is okay when Mark is there.
Todd’s calls came up dry. Reese had hoped to bring in a cute bi boy she likes. Instead, she landed two girlfriends from Barnard, Nicole and Juniper. They would join us after class.
“They like girls too,” Reese shrugged.
“We welcome that,” I hedged.
“Sure was hoping for some cock though,” she said. Her eyes pushed me to the wall.
“Then let’s order more cock,” I replied.
Time to call up a backbencher.
When you run a mixed sex party, there is no real shortage of single male applicants. Sadly, too many are just drek. Straight boys are the worst.
Straight boys are just dirt on our shoes.
Our boys are bi, and the girls like their boys bi. If a guy wants to come to our party to fuck hot girls, and that’s about all he can do, then he’s dull as dishwater, really.
There is just no excuse for being straight at a sex party. If you can’t eat pussy one moment and suck cock the next, then pal, you may as well check your cool at the door.
Still, I did have a promising candidate on hold—a straight boy, yes, but good looking, bi curious and submissive.
Shelby has recently discovered her dom side (as you can read here, and here, and—oh my!— here). Since then, I have been keeping my eyes open for a good submissive we can share.
Wanted: Sub for dom man and woman. Gender and race not important. Must be easy on the eyes, a talented cocksucker and able to take a strong whupping. Sense of humor a plus.
This new boy seemed to have the right stuff, so I decided to bring him into the sex party for a trial run.
He arrived raring to go. I explained that he would be serving me tonight. He said he would not leave my side unless instructed to do so.
Good boy.
I introduced him to Shelby. She was still too sore from her car accident to contemplate beating him, but she gave him the once over.
Fresh meat, her eyes read. We’ll see.
More arrivals. John, Farahnaz, and the two Barnard girls. Nicole and Juniper were very attractive, and settled into the group easily as Reese introduced them around.
We started the sex.
Todd and Theresa paired off, and Reese grabbed Mark. The rest of us watched as they got things going.
I admired Mark’s ass as he licked Reese’s pussy. “I admire your ass, Mark.” I said.
“Well, thank you there, Jefferson.”
“Doesn’t he have an amazing ass?” I asked Mitzi. The submissive stood by my side.
“Stunning,” she concurred.
Still covered in boxer briefs, Mark’s ass tensed and relaxed as he worked Reese, rippling his toned muscles.
“I have to remove those briefs.” I tugged them down, and watched his bare ass in the candlelight. “Just superb.” I bent to lick it.
I returned to the submissive. “Let me see you undress.”
He looked shy, then unbuckled his pants. He was wearing stripped boxers.
“Those are cute,” Mitzi said. “Vertical stripes.”
“With one horizontal exception,” I noted, taking his erection in my hand.
“I think,” Mitzi said, looking around, “that I will go smoke a cigarette.”
“I think,” I said, “that I will join you.”
“Shall I come with you?” the submissive asked.
“Yes, you should.” I liked the idea of taking him away from eyeballing the sex so he could watch us smoke.
We moved to the terrace. Neither Mitzi nor I smoke, but it seemed a nice excuse to chat. We settled in.
The submissive stood to one side, in his boxers and a t-shirt.
His presence was not needed.
In time, I dismissed him.
I later found him nude, on a bed as Farahnaz nestled with Mark. He looked hungry to touch the alluring Farahnaz.
I had not directed him to do so.
How much training was this boy going to take? I was running a sex party that night. I could not dedicate very much time to this side project.
“Boy.” He looked up.
"Sir?"
“Bring me a bourbon. Two rocks, three fingers. You will find what you need in the kitchen.”
He jumped to his feet. I soon had my bourbon, precisely as ordered.
I thanked the boy.
By this time, Farahnaz was sucking my cock.
“Sir,” he asked. “May I touch her?”
“If she would care for that.”
Farahnaz looked up, taking in his athletic body and fat cock.
“This one can fuck me,” she allowed, returning my cock to her mouth.
“You heard her, boy,” I said, sipping my drink. “Fuck her.”
Farahnaz raised her ass. He quickly took a condom and entered her.
He seemed to be doing a good job. Steady and sure. Farahnaz sighed into my cock.
We had a good audience as we went at this. Mark, John and Shelby were watching from across the room.
Shelby had her eyes on the boy’s ass. It was meaty and firm as he fucked Farahnaz, glowing in the candlelight.
An irresistible target.
The gleam came to her eyes.
She crossed the room and smacked that ass. Hard.
“Unh!” The boy wasn’t expecting that. Her slap broke his rhythm.
“Who told you to stop fucking?” I asked. He refocused on the task.
Mother fuck. He can't take a spanking?
I took my cock from Farahnaz. I stood and joined Shelby.
“It’s a nice ass,” I said.
“Hit it,” she suggested.
I did. He flinched, again pausing his thrusts.
“No,” I said, slapping him again. “You are to fuck her.” Another. “Better.” Another.
He finally seemed to get a rhythm.
Okay, so he could fuck his way through a spanking. Was he good for anything other than fetching drinks and fucking hot women?
Later, as we relaxed in the living room, Farahnaz emerged wearing nothing but a strap on. She had a nice ten-inch dildo, long, narrow, and dark, well suited to her lithe frame.
“Okay,” she smiled. “Who wants to get fucked?”
I was intrigued by the thought. Farahnaz, who was born a boy and became a girl, was now sporting her cock and ready to use it.
“Farahnaz,” I said, “I would very much like to suck your cock.”
“Time you returned the favor,” she said, sashaying to where I sat. My boy crouched at my feet.
I took her cock in my mouth. My fingers moved across her slender hips, her belly, her breasts. I looked up to her dark eyes, swallowing deeper as she smiled.
“You are a good cocksucker.”
“I adore your cock,” I cooed. “May I offer it to the boy?”
“Of course.”
“Boy,” I turned. “Suck her cock.”
He rose to his haunches. He looked nervous as he first took it, then hungrily gobbled it deep. He gagged.
Jesus.
“Do you think you can take her up your ass, boy?”
“Uh, well, sir, I’ve never done that.”
“That wasn’t my question, boy.”
“I would be . . . afraid.”
Appalling.
“Thank you for your time, Farahnaz,” I said. “I enjoyed sucking your cock.”
She kissed me and was gone.
I looked at the boy. I really did not see much promise.
I dismissed him. He left.
Later I would check with Shelby. She was not interested in training this boy.
I also found that the boy had propositioned Mitzi—without my approval.
He will not be back.
I made my way to the back room, where a crowd had gathered. What could so arrest the attention of the sex crew, I wondered?
Then I saw.
On the bed, silhouetted against the blinds, warmed by the candles, a vision.
Farahnaz fucking Mitzi.
Farahnaz was on her knees, her hair back on her shoulders. Mitzi lay before her, her hair in waves around her head.
Mitzi’s face was in ecstasy. She reached up and pulled Farahnaz into her kiss.
The two embraced as they kissed, Farahnaz stroking Mitzi’s face, Mitzi’s fingers roaming Farahnaz’s body.
I knew how Mitzi wanted Farahnaz, how much she longed for that woman’s beauty.
Now I saw how Farahnaz wanted Mitzi.
“I hear wedding bells,” I whispered to Mark.
Juniper looked up, smiling. She was nude, her knees curled under her as she sat near my feet.
I smiled back at her.
I wasted too much time on the boy, and spent too little time getting to know Nicole and Juniper. They were in Reese’s capable hands, so I knew they were well tended. Still, I enjoyed their conversation, and they were certainly at their ease in this new environment.
And they are darned lovely.
As the party continued well past midnight, there was a motion to order dinner. Reese’s pizza had not been sufficient.
Nicole asked if she could change the music. By all means, I said, help yourself.
Juniper and I were talking when I heard it.
Leroy, boy, is that you?
I thought your post hangin’ days were through . . .
“Nicole, did you just put on Todd Rundgren?”
“I did.”
“And did you select ‘We Gotta Get You a Woman?’”
“Yes, Jefferson, I did.”
“Nicole, I want your phone number. Now.”
I handed her paper and pencil. She wrote down all the ways I can find her, then handed the paper to Juniper, who did the same.
All those CDs, and she picked Todd Rundgren.
You know, it’s just great when you meet attractive women at a sex party, and the conversation is fine and the mood is good.
But anytime you find a like-minded dork, you know it’s been a good night.
It would be the next morning before I realized:
All those fine folk, and I forget to get laid.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
ass
oral sex
group sex
discipline
BDSM
transgender
Beck
Todd Rundgren
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Clean
“You’re early!”
I found Shelby and Theresa in the lobby of my building, half an hour sooner than I had expected them.
They were here to spend a few hours with me before the evening’s sex party.
I kissed Theresa on the check.
“Hey Jefferson,” she said, sweetly.
“You’re late!” Shelby scowled.
“Sorry, baby,” I bent to kiss her as she sat. “My meeting took longer than I thought. How is your foot? Can you walk?”
This was the first time I had seen her since a car accident a few days earlier. I had expected to see her still on crutches.
“No, I’m fine, just hobbling. Help me up.”
I offered an arm, and she stood. Her foot was tender, but she walked fine.
“I’m glad to see you walking so well,” I said. “And may I say, you’ve got it going on today.”
Shelby is a stylish thing. Her looks work my buttons.
In cold weather months, she is a Mod, with a cap and scarf that make you wonder where she parked the Vespa.
Now that the weather is warm, she veers to retro Seventies, with backless print blouses, hip-hugger Ali McGraw denims and wide Natalie Wood sunglasses.
I didn’t know I had a thing for that look. But it gets me going, sending my memory to mom’s Cosmopolitan magazines , the chief visual stimuli back in the sixth grade, when I was inventing masturbation.
You know, years before Shelby was born.
“Shelby, honey,” I said. “You are hotter than Rhoda Morgenstern.”
She stared at me blankly. I laughed.
“Rhoda? Mary’s best friend?”
Theresa joined in. “Oh come on, Shelby! Mary Tyler Moore! ‘Who can turn the world on with her smile . . .’”
“’ Who can take a nothing day . . . ” I tried.
Nothing. No television culture in this girl.
“Sorry, guys,” Shelby admitted. “Not much TV here.”
I shook my head, grimacing at Theresa. At least she, too, has worshipped at the Church of Mary Tyler Moore. She knows the liturgy.
She knows that Murray gets a kiss on his bald pate. She knows that Mr. Grant keeps a bottle of bourbon in his lower desk drawer.
Shelby fashioned her face into a Popeye squint, forgiving me her wait in the lobby.
“Yeah right, talked your way out of that one.”
The elevator took us to my floor.
“Theresa, honey, I have a surprise for you,” I said, unlocking my door.
“For me?” she beamed. “What?”
“Take a look! My kitchen is a mess. And it’s all yours!”
I had saved two days worth of dishes.
It was hard for me to endure the sight, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for her.
Theresa loves to please. Cleaning also comes high on her list of favorite activities.
I decided to let my kitchen grow filthy as a consolation prize for her recent sojourn at Todd’s apartment.
Theresa and Todd have hit it off lately.
I’m glad for that, as they are both deserving friends. I’ve also enjoyed the thought of the notoriously messy bachelor meeting his match with a woman who loves to clean.
She had been there for a couple of days last week when I called to check in on things.
“So, I assume you are cleaning like crazy, huh?” I asked.
“No,” she sighed. “He won’t let me.”
“He won’t?”
“No.”
“Not even the kitchen?”
“He says the dishes have been dirty too long for me to do them.”
“Have you alphabetized his movies?”
“He says he likes them as they are.”
“You must be suffering!”
“I am sitting on my hands,” she despaired.
“But,” she brightened, “he did let me clean his bathroom sink! Did you know it is black? I think its marble!”
Poor Theresa. To be in a place that so needed to be cleaned and organized, and to be unable to do anything about it . . .
The very least I could do was to offer her a mess in need of her tender care.
She immediately set to the task of washing my dishes.
“Enjoy,” I said, kissing the back of her neck, my arms encircling her waist. “And later,” I whispered, “I will let you clean my bathroom.”
She mewed.
I took her best friend by the hand, and retired to the bedroom.
Later, as Shelby and I fucked, I caught a glimpse through the open door as Theresa moved on to clean my bathroom. I noted the time.
She had been at it for about a half hour when I went to check on her. The bathroom door was closed. I knocked.
“Yes?”
“May I come in?” I was nude, concerned about propriety.
“Yes.”
Theresa was humming as she scoured the towel rack.
“Finding everything you need?”
“Oh yes. I am about to scrub the tub!”
“Excellent work. Carry on.”
I closed the door, and went back to the bedroom.
After she had been at it for about an hour, Theresa came to join Shelby and me in the bedroom.
“How is it?” I asked, my fingers tracing lines on Shelby’s breasts. “Very clean?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
“Just in time, too,” Shelby noted. “Thomas will be here soon.”
Thomas periodically goes through ambivalent phases about the gatherings.
He likes them very much, but now and then, he needs to take a break. Still, he likes Shelby and Theresa, so he was stopping by after work to visit.
We dressed when Thomas arrived.
As the three of them chatted, I went to investigate Theresa’s work in the bathroom.
The porcelain gleamed.
The tile walls were spotless.
The mirror shone.
Most impressively, she had accomplished an impossible feat.
Over the sink are two porcelain fixtures—one to hold a bar of soap, the other to hold toothbrushes. The soap tray was, of course, thoroughly cleaned. It doesn’t take a dedicated cleaner to pull that off.
The toothbrush rack, on the other hand, had presented a special challenge.
When my son Jason was a toddler, his first toothbrush had become jammed in one of the holders. I had wriggled and tugged at that toothbrush for nearly a decade, to no effect. It would not budge.
I was resigned to the sight of it, forever marring the possibility of a perfectly tidy bathroom.
Somehow, in the course of her hour or so shut inside my bathroom, Theresa had removed it.
My eyes were drawn to its absence the moment I opened the door to begin my inspection.
I was very pleased.
Perhaps that bravura accomplishment is what blinded me to Theresa’s failing.
Impressed after inspecting the bathroom, I signed off on Theresa’s hard work by sitting on the shining, glistening toilet.
I relieved myself of a satisfying bowel movement.
Then, as I finished up, I noticed it.
While the bathroom was undeniably spotless at eye level, the floor had not been thoroughly mopped—much less scrubbed.
There were dustballs
In the bathroom!
And grit in the grout. And the remnants of a gummy stain. And dust in the corners. And . . .
My mind reeled.
From my bedroom, I could hear laughter.
Shelby was taunting Theresa that her blowjob was far superior to that of her friend.
“I wouldn’t know,” Thomas demurred. “You’ve only ever blown me for, like, two seconds.”
“Confess it, though,” I said, suddenly standing in the doorway. “Those were easily the happiest two seconds of your young life.”
“Oh,” Thomas concurred. “Easily.”
“Shut up, then,” Shelby said, pushing him on the bed. “Give me the cock.”
Thomas unzipped. Shelby tugged off his pants, then his underwear.
Theresa joined them on the bed.
Shelby looked Thomas square in the eye, then consumed his cock.
“Jesus!” Thomas was stunned.
Theresa removed her shirt and bra, giving her breasts to his face.
As I watched their bodies shed clothes, their skin moving their nerve endings to one another, I was left to wonder:
What was I to do about my bathroom floor?
I could not reprimand Theresa at this moment.
She was so intent on pleasing Thomas.
This threesome unfolded on my bed, against the light coming through my blinds as the sun set, with such beauty.
I could not worry about my bathroom now. Still, I was not about to mop my own bathroom floor.
I busied myself with preparing my back room for the party.
This room was a mess. A mess I have thus far denied to Theresa. I wondered if I could I ever trust her with it.
Perhaps this is a mess that remains my own to clear.
As I cleaned, I made forays into my bedroom. I set up candles as Theresa and Shelby traded Thomas’s cock.
I put away clothes. Thomas fucked Theresa.
At one point, Thomas laughed about my comings and goings.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I dunno, Jefferson. I’m just not used to you passing by the hot sex.”
“I’ll get mine, Thomas. You get yours.” I said. “You having fun, Theresa?”
“Unh, yeah,” she moaned.
The next day, I would mop the bathroom floor myself.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
discipline
threesome
group sex
Ali McGraw
Natalie Wood
Mary Tyler Moore
Rhoda Morgenstern
I found Shelby and Theresa in the lobby of my building, half an hour sooner than I had expected them.
They were here to spend a few hours with me before the evening’s sex party.
I kissed Theresa on the check.
“Hey Jefferson,” she said, sweetly.
“You’re late!” Shelby scowled.
“Sorry, baby,” I bent to kiss her as she sat. “My meeting took longer than I thought. How is your foot? Can you walk?”
This was the first time I had seen her since a car accident a few days earlier. I had expected to see her still on crutches.
“No, I’m fine, just hobbling. Help me up.”
I offered an arm, and she stood. Her foot was tender, but she walked fine.
“I’m glad to see you walking so well,” I said. “And may I say, you’ve got it going on today.”
Shelby is a stylish thing. Her looks work my buttons.
In cold weather months, she is a Mod, with a cap and scarf that make you wonder where she parked the Vespa.
Now that the weather is warm, she veers to retro Seventies, with backless print blouses, hip-hugger Ali McGraw denims and wide Natalie Wood sunglasses.
I didn’t know I had a thing for that look. But it gets me going, sending my memory to mom’s Cosmopolitan magazines , the chief visual stimuli back in the sixth grade, when I was inventing masturbation.
You know, years before Shelby was born.
“Shelby, honey,” I said. “You are hotter than Rhoda Morgenstern.”
She stared at me blankly. I laughed.
“Rhoda? Mary’s best friend?”
Theresa joined in. “Oh come on, Shelby! Mary Tyler Moore! ‘Who can turn the world on with her smile . . .’”
“’ Who can take a nothing day . . . ” I tried.
Nothing. No television culture in this girl.
“Sorry, guys,” Shelby admitted. “Not much TV here.”
I shook my head, grimacing at Theresa. At least she, too, has worshipped at the Church of Mary Tyler Moore. She knows the liturgy.
She knows that Murray gets a kiss on his bald pate. She knows that Mr. Grant keeps a bottle of bourbon in his lower desk drawer.
Shelby fashioned her face into a Popeye squint, forgiving me her wait in the lobby.
“Yeah right, talked your way out of that one.”
The elevator took us to my floor.
“Theresa, honey, I have a surprise for you,” I said, unlocking my door.
“For me?” she beamed. “What?”
“Take a look! My kitchen is a mess. And it’s all yours!”
I had saved two days worth of dishes.
It was hard for me to endure the sight, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for her.
Theresa loves to please. Cleaning also comes high on her list of favorite activities.
I decided to let my kitchen grow filthy as a consolation prize for her recent sojourn at Todd’s apartment.
Theresa and Todd have hit it off lately.
I’m glad for that, as they are both deserving friends. I’ve also enjoyed the thought of the notoriously messy bachelor meeting his match with a woman who loves to clean.
She had been there for a couple of days last week when I called to check in on things.
“So, I assume you are cleaning like crazy, huh?” I asked.
“No,” she sighed. “He won’t let me.”
“He won’t?”
“No.”
“Not even the kitchen?”
“He says the dishes have been dirty too long for me to do them.”
“Have you alphabetized his movies?”
“He says he likes them as they are.”
“You must be suffering!”
“I am sitting on my hands,” she despaired.
“But,” she brightened, “he did let me clean his bathroom sink! Did you know it is black? I think its marble!”
Poor Theresa. To be in a place that so needed to be cleaned and organized, and to be unable to do anything about it . . .
The very least I could do was to offer her a mess in need of her tender care.
She immediately set to the task of washing my dishes.
“Enjoy,” I said, kissing the back of her neck, my arms encircling her waist. “And later,” I whispered, “I will let you clean my bathroom.”
She mewed.
I took her best friend by the hand, and retired to the bedroom.
Later, as Shelby and I fucked, I caught a glimpse through the open door as Theresa moved on to clean my bathroom. I noted the time.
She had been at it for about a half hour when I went to check on her. The bathroom door was closed. I knocked.
“Yes?”
“May I come in?” I was nude, concerned about propriety.
“Yes.”
Theresa was humming as she scoured the towel rack.
“Finding everything you need?”
“Oh yes. I am about to scrub the tub!”
“Excellent work. Carry on.”
I closed the door, and went back to the bedroom.
After she had been at it for about an hour, Theresa came to join Shelby and me in the bedroom.
“How is it?” I asked, my fingers tracing lines on Shelby’s breasts. “Very clean?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
“Just in time, too,” Shelby noted. “Thomas will be here soon.”
Thomas periodically goes through ambivalent phases about the gatherings.
He likes them very much, but now and then, he needs to take a break. Still, he likes Shelby and Theresa, so he was stopping by after work to visit.
We dressed when Thomas arrived.
As the three of them chatted, I went to investigate Theresa’s work in the bathroom.
The porcelain gleamed.
The tile walls were spotless.
The mirror shone.
Most impressively, she had accomplished an impossible feat.
Over the sink are two porcelain fixtures—one to hold a bar of soap, the other to hold toothbrushes. The soap tray was, of course, thoroughly cleaned. It doesn’t take a dedicated cleaner to pull that off.
The toothbrush rack, on the other hand, had presented a special challenge.
When my son Jason was a toddler, his first toothbrush had become jammed in one of the holders. I had wriggled and tugged at that toothbrush for nearly a decade, to no effect. It would not budge.
I was resigned to the sight of it, forever marring the possibility of a perfectly tidy bathroom.
Somehow, in the course of her hour or so shut inside my bathroom, Theresa had removed it.
My eyes were drawn to its absence the moment I opened the door to begin my inspection.
I was very pleased.
Perhaps that bravura accomplishment is what blinded me to Theresa’s failing.
Impressed after inspecting the bathroom, I signed off on Theresa’s hard work by sitting on the shining, glistening toilet.
I relieved myself of a satisfying bowel movement.
Then, as I finished up, I noticed it.
While the bathroom was undeniably spotless at eye level, the floor had not been thoroughly mopped—much less scrubbed.
There were dustballs
In the bathroom!
And grit in the grout. And the remnants of a gummy stain. And dust in the corners. And . . .
My mind reeled.
From my bedroom, I could hear laughter.
Shelby was taunting Theresa that her blowjob was far superior to that of her friend.
“I wouldn’t know,” Thomas demurred. “You’ve only ever blown me for, like, two seconds.”
“Confess it, though,” I said, suddenly standing in the doorway. “Those were easily the happiest two seconds of your young life.”
“Oh,” Thomas concurred. “Easily.”
“Shut up, then,” Shelby said, pushing him on the bed. “Give me the cock.”
Thomas unzipped. Shelby tugged off his pants, then his underwear.
Theresa joined them on the bed.
Shelby looked Thomas square in the eye, then consumed his cock.
“Jesus!” Thomas was stunned.
Theresa removed her shirt and bra, giving her breasts to his face.
As I watched their bodies shed clothes, their skin moving their nerve endings to one another, I was left to wonder:
What was I to do about my bathroom floor?
I could not reprimand Theresa at this moment.
She was so intent on pleasing Thomas.
This threesome unfolded on my bed, against the light coming through my blinds as the sun set, with such beauty.
I could not worry about my bathroom now. Still, I was not about to mop my own bathroom floor.
I busied myself with preparing my back room for the party.
This room was a mess. A mess I have thus far denied to Theresa. I wondered if I could I ever trust her with it.
Perhaps this is a mess that remains my own to clear.
As I cleaned, I made forays into my bedroom. I set up candles as Theresa and Shelby traded Thomas’s cock.
I put away clothes. Thomas fucked Theresa.
At one point, Thomas laughed about my comings and goings.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I dunno, Jefferson. I’m just not used to you passing by the hot sex.”
“I’ll get mine, Thomas. You get yours.” I said. “You having fun, Theresa?”
“Unh, yeah,” she moaned.
The next day, I would mop the bathroom floor myself.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
discipline
threesome
group sex
Ali McGraw
Natalie Wood
Mary Tyler Moore
Rhoda Morgenstern
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Let Us Now Praise Famous Men
This is not a photograph of me.
It is a photograph of another Southerner known by a pseudonym, another parent caught in a love triangle.
In 1936, author James Agee and photographer Walker Evans toured rural Alabama, intending to write a magazine article about the lives of white sharecroppers.
The article grew to the proportions of a book, published in 1941 as Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.
Just as Jacob Riis’s How the Other Half Lives had used text and photographs to raise public awareness about urban poverty, so did Agee and Evans seek to put a human face on those scraping a living as tenant farmers during the Great Depression.
Agee was an empathetic and highly subjective writer. This helped readers to appreciate the textures of rural life. But some faulted Agee for speculating about the inner lives of those he encountered—particularly for ascribing sexual longings and frustrations to his subjects.
This photograph, by Walker Evans, portrays a thirty-one-year-old cropper identified as George Gudger, husband of Annie Mae and father of four.
He was also, as Agee saw it, smitten with longing for his wife’s eighteen-year-old sister, Emma, who shared a bed with the couple in their two-room shack.
Agee—who, along with Evans, stayed with the family—was a little smitten with Emma himself, as revealed in these passages:
I am fond of Emma, and very sorry for her, and I shall probably never see her again after a few hours from now. I want to tell you what I can about her.
She is a big girl, almost as big as her sister is wiry, though she is not at all fat; her build is rather that of a young queen of a child’s magic story who throughout has been coarsened by peasant and earth living and work, and that of her eyes and demeanor, too, kind, not fully formed, resolute, bewildered, and sad. Her soft abundant slightly curling brown hair is cut in a square bob which on her large fine head is particularly childish, and indeed Emma is rather a big child, sexual beyond propriety to its years, than a young woman; and this can be seen in a kind of dimness of definition in her features, her skin, and the shape of her body, which will be lost in a few more years. She wears a ten cent store necklace and a Sunday cotton print dress because she is visiting, and is from town, but she took off her slippers as soon as came, and worked with Annie Mae. According to her father she is the spitn image of her mother when her mother was young; Annie Mae favors her father and his people, who were all small and lightly built.
For the past two years, Emma has been married to a man who is moving her to Mississippi. Annie Mae does not approve of the union; Emma is none too thrilled with it either. But the sisters are resigned to it, as Emma prepares to return to her husband.
She doesn’t want to go at all, and during the past two days she has been withdrawing into rooms with her sister and crying a good deal, almost tearlessly and almost without voice, as if she knew no more how to cry that how to take care for her life; and Annie Mae is strong against her going, all that distance, to a man who leaves her behind and then just sends for her, saying, Come along now; and George too is as committal over it as he feels will appear any right of business of his to be, he a man, and married, to the wife of another man, who is not kin to him, but only the sister of his wife, and to whom he is himself conconcealably attracted: but she is going all the same, without at all understanding why. Annie Mae is sure she won’t stay out there long, not all alone in the country away from her kinfolks with that man; that is what she keeps saying, to Emma, and to George, and even to me; but actually she is surer than not that she may never see her young sister again, and she grieves for her, and for the loss of her to her own loneliness, for she lovers her, both for herself and her dependence and for hat softness of youth which already drawn so deep into the trap, and in which Annie Mae can perceive herself as she was ten years past; and she gives no appearance of noticing the clumsy and shamefaced would-be-subtle demeanors of flirtation which George is stupid enough to believe she does not understand for what they are: for George would only be shocked should she give him open permission, and Emma could not be too well trusted either. So this sad comedy has been going on without comment from anyone, which will come to nothing: and another sort has been going on with us, of a kind fully as helpless. Each of us is attractive to Emma, both in sexual immediacy and as symbols or embodiments of a life she wants and knows she will never have; and each of us is fond of her, and attracted toward her. We are only strangers to her, but we are strange, unexplainable, beyond what I can begin yet fully to realize. We have acted toward her with the greatest possible care and shyness, yet we have also been open or ‘clear’ as well, so that she knows we understand her and like her and care for her almost intimately. She is puzzled by this and yet not at all troubled, but excited; but there is nothing to do about it on either side. There is tenderness and sweetness and mutual pleasure in such a ‘flirtation’ with one would not for the world restrain or cancel, yet there is also an essential cruelty, about which nothing can be done, and strong possibility of cruelty through misunderstanding, and inhibition, and impossibility, which can be restrained, and which one would rather die than cause any of: but it is a cruel and ridiculous and restricted situation, and everyone to some extent realizes it. Everyone realizes it, I think. to such a degree even as this: supposing even that nothing can be helped about the marriage, supposing she is going away and on with it, which she shouldn’t, then only of Emma could spend her last few days alive having a gigantic good time in bed, with George, a kind of man she is used to, and with Walker and me, whom she is curious about and attracted to, and who are at the same moment tangible and friendly and not at all to be feared, and on the other hand have for her the mystery or glamour almost of mythological creatures. This has a good many times in the past couple of days come very clearly between all of us except the children, and without fear, in sudden and subtle but unmistakable expressions of the eyes, or ways of smiling: yet not one of us would be capable of trusting ourselves to it unless beyond any doubt each knew all the others to be thus capable: an even then how crazily the conditioned and inferior parts pf each of our beings would rush in, and take revenge. But this is just a minute specialization of a general brutal pity: almost any person, no matter how damaged and poisoned and blinded, is infinitely more capable of intelligence and of joy than he can let himself be or than he usually knows; and that are in others to fear, to assume and take care for, if he would not hurt both himself and that other person and the pure act itself beyond cure.
The orgy Agee imagines would not take place. On the morning of Emma’s departure, George, Annie Mae and Emma sat through a quiet breakfast.
Whether he would kiss Emma goodbye, as a sort of relative, was on everybody’s mind. He came clumsily near it: she half got from her chair, and their bodies were suddenly and sharply drawn toward each other a few inches: but he was much too shy, and did not even touch her with the hand he reached out to shake hers. Annie Mae drawled, smiling, What’s wrong with ye George; she aint’t agoin’ to bite ye; and everyone laughed, and Emma stood up and they embraced, laughing, and he kissed her on her suddenly turned cheek, a little the way a father and adolescent son kiss, and told her goodbye and wished her good luck, and I took him to work in the car, and came back.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
threesome
James Agee
Walker Evans
Let Us Now Praise Famous Men
Corrections
Mitzi has supplied this photo as evidence that her skirt is indeed closer to turquoise than Crayola green.
I submit it as evidence that she is indeed stubborn as a mule!
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Green
Mitzi arrived at my place wearing a white tank top, a denim jacket, and a knee-length green skirt.
We kissed.
“I love that green skirt,” I said, touching the fabric. The skirt is cotton, very full, with dozens of pleats.
“Thanks. It’s the most Fifties thing I own.”
It was very June Cleaver.
We sat, talking and kissing, studiously avoiding the subject that has most consumed recent conversations—our relationship.
We wanted this to be light.
I fingered her green skirt as we sat.
“Do me a favor, please,” I asked.
“What’s that, Jefferson?” she replied, in her soft, deliberate lilt.
“Take off your panties and let me spend time under that green skirt of yours.”
“Oh, Jefferson,” she smiled. “That does sound like a nice idea.” She stood and reached under her skirt, wriggling free of her underwear.
“And I was wearing such nice panties. See?” she held them aloft.
“Those are nice panties,” I said, reclining on a pillow. I pointed to my lips. “But here, now, please.”
Mitzi lifted her skirt and walked across the couch to stand over my head. Holding out her skirt like a parachute, she lowered herself to my waiting mouth.
My tongue licked into her. She moaned. I latched onto her clit and sucked.
Her thighs shook on my cheeks, moving as she shifted her weight from side to side.
My eyes were open, drinking in her visible flesh and the green light that came through her skirt.
My nostrils sought out her vanilla scent, her pussy and that fresh clean cotton.
Her hand reached back to feel my cock through my pants.
More tongue lapping. She knew I was settling in for a long haul.
She had other plans. She lifted her skirt to peer at me.
“I’m sure you are enjoying yourself,” she said. “But you promised me some rough sex.”
“Otay,” I agreed, allowing my tongue another taste. “. . . but with the skirt.”
We went to my bed.
She removed her tank top and bra. I dropped my clothes. She lay on the bed.
Her eyes locked on mine as she took my cock to her mouth. I stood beside the bed.
I was good and hard.
My fingers found her pussy very wet.
As I put on a condom, I asked her to move lower on the bed, near the corner.
She complied, eyes on me.
I pulled her hips to the bed’s edge, and spread her skirt back over her torso.
I stood over her and pushed her thighs back, resting her legs on my torso.
She knew what to expect.
I was in her, deep.
Her mouth opened, silent, her eyes always watching me, looking.
I closed my eyes. She could have them back later.
I took her thighs firmly in hand and fucked.
This was what she wanted. And I delivered it.
And then I opened my eyes.
I could do no more.
As we fucked, my mind raced toward its familiar places, but tripped, in each direction, over our conversations.
“I need to take a break.”
I lay next to her in bed, my arms around her head.
Our conversations have us in a muddle. They are long-winded and circuitous.
We chat in instant messages, we make phone calls, we talk in person. Nothing is satisfactorily resolved.
It’s all Mitzi’s fault.
She has feelings. And wouldn’t you know it—she insists on expressing them.
Basically, the problem is simple.
Mitzi is twenty-six, finished with school, and ready for the next thing in life. Her whole future is ready to happen.
She’s got her career to figure out, she’s got her intellectual life to sort out. And then there’s the whole relationship thing.
Mitzi has had her share of relationships with men, but none has really stuck. She is ready for someone to be the one to whom she can give her undivided attention.
And then I come along.
We get along great.
We have great conversations.
We have great sex.
She sees me dote on others, and she thinks: see, that’s what I want!
She watches me have sex with others, and she thinks: see, I want to have fun sex too!
She enjoys sharing me with other sex partners. No problem there.
But when I cuddle with another at the gatherings, or pine for a distant lover in my blog, which she reads, she can’t help it if . . . she can’t help it if . . . well, she can’t help it if she feels the stirrings of the green-eyed monster.
I listen, and I understand. I understand jealousy.
I understand it the way an ornithologist understands the mating rituals of birds. It doesn’t move me, but I understand that it is natural.
I decided, at an early age, to avoid jealousy as an ugly and useless diversion within relationships.
It never does anyone any good. Even as a kid, it seemed to be one of those bad things that adults should learn to control, like throwing food at the dinner table or belching in elevators.
I decided this after reading, when I was eleven or so, that “jealousy is not a sign of love—it’s a sickness.”
The name of the wise philosopher who so charted the course of my life is unknown to me.
She was a Playboy centerfold who listed jealousy as her number one “turn off.”
At the time, I was hungry for whatever information I could glean about sex. If a Playboy centerfold said jealousy was a "sickness," then I wanted no part of it.
I avoided jealousy during adolescence, stamping it down whenever my girlfriends and boyfriends fucked one another.
Lo and behold, we all survived adolescence as friends.
Then I married someone who didn’t flirt or fool around. Fifteen years of that, and the cast was set. I’m just not prone to jealousy.
I understand: it’s natural.
I just don’t know what to do with it.
So Mitzi and I are a little stuck.
One solution is that I pour all my affections onto Mitzi. But I am not eager to do that, as I am no friend to monogamy at the moment.
Another option is for her to dump me and look for someone who feels differently. But she’s not keen on that, as she likes me, and she isn’t necessarily looking for monogamy either.
We keep trying to fix this. We work at it, but we are both stubborn.
“You want to have your cake and eat it too,” she accused.
“Damn straight,” I rejoined. “I do love me some cake.”
“If having your cake, and eating it too, were a a caloric reality,” she said, “You'd be the fattest motherfucker on this island.”
“If not, I would want to meet the fat-ass slut who beat me out.”
To some measure, we each want our cake.
She lay in my arms. Her eyes rose to meet mine.
We kissed.
Moments later, I was spanking her with a short leather strap.
She yelped.
She pressed her clit against my thigh, harder with each slap, until she had rubbed one off.
I examined the red marks on her ass, thighs and arms.
As she dressed to leave, the marks were already vanished.
“Don’t forget,” she reminded me at the door. “About our dream date.”
Mitzi would like for us to dress up nice and meet Farahnaz for drinks. Then, we could go back to her place or mine for a nightcap and a night of hot sex.
“I won’t forget.”
Mitzi may not be sure what to do with me. But she is clear on one thing:
She likes the sex.
And she is damn hot for Farahnaz.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
panties
oral sex
spanking
jealousy
We kissed.
“I love that green skirt,” I said, touching the fabric. The skirt is cotton, very full, with dozens of pleats.
“Thanks. It’s the most Fifties thing I own.”
It was very June Cleaver.
We sat, talking and kissing, studiously avoiding the subject that has most consumed recent conversations—our relationship.
We wanted this to be light.
I fingered her green skirt as we sat.
“Do me a favor, please,” I asked.
“What’s that, Jefferson?” she replied, in her soft, deliberate lilt.
“Take off your panties and let me spend time under that green skirt of yours.”
“Oh, Jefferson,” she smiled. “That does sound like a nice idea.” She stood and reached under her skirt, wriggling free of her underwear.
“And I was wearing such nice panties. See?” she held them aloft.
“Those are nice panties,” I said, reclining on a pillow. I pointed to my lips. “But here, now, please.”
Mitzi lifted her skirt and walked across the couch to stand over my head. Holding out her skirt like a parachute, she lowered herself to my waiting mouth.
My tongue licked into her. She moaned. I latched onto her clit and sucked.
Her thighs shook on my cheeks, moving as she shifted her weight from side to side.
My eyes were open, drinking in her visible flesh and the green light that came through her skirt.
My nostrils sought out her vanilla scent, her pussy and that fresh clean cotton.
Her hand reached back to feel my cock through my pants.
More tongue lapping. She knew I was settling in for a long haul.
She had other plans. She lifted her skirt to peer at me.
“I’m sure you are enjoying yourself,” she said. “But you promised me some rough sex.”
“Otay,” I agreed, allowing my tongue another taste. “. . . but with the skirt.”
We went to my bed.
She removed her tank top and bra. I dropped my clothes. She lay on the bed.
Her eyes locked on mine as she took my cock to her mouth. I stood beside the bed.
I was good and hard.
My fingers found her pussy very wet.
As I put on a condom, I asked her to move lower on the bed, near the corner.
She complied, eyes on me.
I pulled her hips to the bed’s edge, and spread her skirt back over her torso.
I stood over her and pushed her thighs back, resting her legs on my torso.
She knew what to expect.
I was in her, deep.
Her mouth opened, silent, her eyes always watching me, looking.
I closed my eyes. She could have them back later.
I took her thighs firmly in hand and fucked.
This was what she wanted. And I delivered it.
And then I opened my eyes.
I could do no more.
As we fucked, my mind raced toward its familiar places, but tripped, in each direction, over our conversations.
“I need to take a break.”
I lay next to her in bed, my arms around her head.
Our conversations have us in a muddle. They are long-winded and circuitous.
We chat in instant messages, we make phone calls, we talk in person. Nothing is satisfactorily resolved.
It’s all Mitzi’s fault.
She has feelings. And wouldn’t you know it—she insists on expressing them.
Basically, the problem is simple.
Mitzi is twenty-six, finished with school, and ready for the next thing in life. Her whole future is ready to happen.
She’s got her career to figure out, she’s got her intellectual life to sort out. And then there’s the whole relationship thing.
Mitzi has had her share of relationships with men, but none has really stuck. She is ready for someone to be the one to whom she can give her undivided attention.
And then I come along.
We get along great.
We have great conversations.
We have great sex.
She sees me dote on others, and she thinks: see, that’s what I want!
She watches me have sex with others, and she thinks: see, I want to have fun sex too!
She enjoys sharing me with other sex partners. No problem there.
But when I cuddle with another at the gatherings, or pine for a distant lover in my blog, which she reads, she can’t help it if . . . she can’t help it if . . . well, she can’t help it if she feels the stirrings of the green-eyed monster.
I listen, and I understand. I understand jealousy.
I understand it the way an ornithologist understands the mating rituals of birds. It doesn’t move me, but I understand that it is natural.
I decided, at an early age, to avoid jealousy as an ugly and useless diversion within relationships.
It never does anyone any good. Even as a kid, it seemed to be one of those bad things that adults should learn to control, like throwing food at the dinner table or belching in elevators.
I decided this after reading, when I was eleven or so, that “jealousy is not a sign of love—it’s a sickness.”
The name of the wise philosopher who so charted the course of my life is unknown to me.
She was a Playboy centerfold who listed jealousy as her number one “turn off.”
At the time, I was hungry for whatever information I could glean about sex. If a Playboy centerfold said jealousy was a "sickness," then I wanted no part of it.
I avoided jealousy during adolescence, stamping it down whenever my girlfriends and boyfriends fucked one another.
Lo and behold, we all survived adolescence as friends.
Then I married someone who didn’t flirt or fool around. Fifteen years of that, and the cast was set. I’m just not prone to jealousy.
I understand: it’s natural.
I just don’t know what to do with it.
So Mitzi and I are a little stuck.
One solution is that I pour all my affections onto Mitzi. But I am not eager to do that, as I am no friend to monogamy at the moment.
Another option is for her to dump me and look for someone who feels differently. But she’s not keen on that, as she likes me, and she isn’t necessarily looking for monogamy either.
We keep trying to fix this. We work at it, but we are both stubborn.
“You want to have your cake and eat it too,” she accused.
“Damn straight,” I rejoined. “I do love me some cake.”
“If having your cake, and eating it too, were a a caloric reality,” she said, “You'd be the fattest motherfucker on this island.”
“If not, I would want to meet the fat-ass slut who beat me out.”
To some measure, we each want our cake.
She lay in my arms. Her eyes rose to meet mine.
We kissed.
Moments later, I was spanking her with a short leather strap.
She yelped.
She pressed her clit against my thigh, harder with each slap, until she had rubbed one off.
I examined the red marks on her ass, thighs and arms.
As she dressed to leave, the marks were already vanished.
“Don’t forget,” she reminded me at the door. “About our dream date.”
Mitzi would like for us to dress up nice and meet Farahnaz for drinks. Then, we could go back to her place or mine for a nightcap and a night of hot sex.
“I won’t forget.”
Mitzi may not be sure what to do with me. But she is clear on one thing:
She likes the sex.
And she is damn hot for Farahnaz.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
panties
oral sex
spanking
jealousy
Friday, May 20, 2005
Bus Stop
Outside her window, the sun was shining. There was not a cloud in the sky.
Mitzi looked at her Chihuahua and said, “C’mon, monster, we’re going to the park!” But her sights were not set on the small park nearby. Oh no.
Mitzi wanted a long walk in Central Park.
Her monster was soon leashed for the ride uptown.
Around three, Mitzi and her monster were uptown and boarding a cross town bus. It was crowded; Mitzi stood a little more than halfway to the rear of the bus, nestling her quivering pup against her chest.
A boy with long hair and brown eyes made his way through the passengers, brushing past Mitzi on his way toward the back of the bus. He carried a trumpet case.
He was followed by a tow-headed boy holding hands with a red-haired girl. The girl held a stuffed black kitten.
Mitzi knew these faces. She had seen them many times in photographs, among the alphabet magnets on their father’s refrigerator door.
She instinctively averted her gaze, then realized: these kids did not know her. They would not recognize her on a bus.
But where, she wondered, was their father?
She looked around and saw him standing a few feet away, unable to move back to the children.
The kids were unconcerned. They knew that their size gave them an advantage over Dad in navigating a crowd.
They also knew that Dad can space out on the bus. He knew where his babies were. He retreated into his thoughts.
The bus crossed the park.
At the next stop, the bus emptied many of its passengers. Dad looked for the children.
He found Mitzi smiling at him.
She nodded through the crowd pushing toward the rear exit.
He looked confused for a moment, then smiled back. He shuffled toward her, looking over shoulders as he moved to the rear of the bus.
By the time he reached her, she was gone.
He looked out the window to see her drop her monster to the sidewalk. Mitzi shook out the leash and walked away, never looking back.
At home that evening, Mitzi got an instant message:
Jefferson: I think your monster is stalking me.
sex
sexblogs
parenting
Chihuahuas
Mitzi looked at her Chihuahua and said, “C’mon, monster, we’re going to the park!” But her sights were not set on the small park nearby. Oh no.
Mitzi wanted a long walk in Central Park.
Her monster was soon leashed for the ride uptown.
Around three, Mitzi and her monster were uptown and boarding a cross town bus. It was crowded; Mitzi stood a little more than halfway to the rear of the bus, nestling her quivering pup against her chest.
A boy with long hair and brown eyes made his way through the passengers, brushing past Mitzi on his way toward the back of the bus. He carried a trumpet case.
He was followed by a tow-headed boy holding hands with a red-haired girl. The girl held a stuffed black kitten.
Mitzi knew these faces. She had seen them many times in photographs, among the alphabet magnets on their father’s refrigerator door.
She instinctively averted her gaze, then realized: these kids did not know her. They would not recognize her on a bus.
But where, she wondered, was their father?
She looked around and saw him standing a few feet away, unable to move back to the children.
The kids were unconcerned. They knew that their size gave them an advantage over Dad in navigating a crowd.
They also knew that Dad can space out on the bus. He knew where his babies were. He retreated into his thoughts.
The bus crossed the park.
At the next stop, the bus emptied many of its passengers. Dad looked for the children.
He found Mitzi smiling at him.
She nodded through the crowd pushing toward the rear exit.
He looked confused for a moment, then smiled back. He shuffled toward her, looking over shoulders as he moved to the rear of the bus.
By the time he reached her, she was gone.
He looked out the window to see her drop her monster to the sidewalk. Mitzi shook out the leash and walked away, never looking back.
At home that evening, Mitzi got an instant message:
Jefferson: I think your monster is stalking me.
sex
sexblogs
parenting
Chihuahuas
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Wheels on the Bus
“Hang on to something, please, Lillie! I don’t want you to fall down.”
The cross town bus was crowded, as is typical after school.
Lillie put her hand lightly against her brother’s backpack.
“No Lillie, hold on to the pole! You have to be safe!”
She put a second hand on her brother’s backpack.
I hate it when she does this. Crowded buses are not the place for power plays. I lean down and whisper.
“Lillie, what you are doing is not safe. You can get hurt. You must hold on to the pole.”
She glowers in derision.
A young woman sitting next to the contested pole stood. “She can have my seat.” She was wearing a school uniform—short plaid skirt, white polo shirt.
“Thanks, you are kind, but . . .”
Lillie hopped into the seat.
“Oh, now that it’s a done deal, thanks again.”
“I don’t mind,” she blushed.
At the first stop after the bus crossed the park, about half the passengers exited, freeing more seats. The kids sat on one bench, and I sat on a single seat. Lillie wanted to sit next to me, but that seat was taken by the school girl.
“Oh, I can trade seats with her.”
“No really, you don’t have to . . .” But she had already stood. Lillie rushed to fill the seat.
“Well, thanks again!”
On city buses and subways, there is a protocol of anonymity. One is expected to avoid eye contact, and to retreat into a private inner space where neighboring conversations are not overheard.
That protocol sometimes evaporates when young children are involved.
People smile at things my kids say, or comment on how cute they are, or scowl because, I don’t know, the planet was crowded enough before I started breeding so prodigiously.
Lillie and I were talking about the earlier incident, and then goofing about her friend Constance.
The school girl was watching us, smiling.
We reached our stop. Jason collected his trumpet and backpack, Collie got his things, and I grabbed Lillie’s backpack.
The school girl stepped off ahead of us.
We all stood at the corner together, waiting to cross.
Collie was talking to me as Jason loudly hummed “America” into his mouthpiece—he often carries it around to practice.
“Cindy was mad at Maxwell, why I don’t know,” Collie went on, gesturing for added emphasis. “But get this: suddenly Maxwell looked like he was gong to be mad at me, and so I told him . . .”
“Excuse me a moment, please, Collie, “ I interrupted.
I turned to Jason. “Will you PLEASE shut up, PLEASE?!” I barked in a playful rant. He nearly jumped out of his skin. “What is this, a parade?”
The kids laughed.
The school girl burst into giggles.
“You think that’s funny?,” I asked her. “Check this out: you know who Howard Stern is, right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You are about to walk into him.”
Howard Stern was walking up the sidewalk. She moved to avoid him, nearly falling off the curb.
She turned on her heels. “That was Howard Stern!”
“Cool, huh? We often pass him on this same block, at this same time, on this same weekday. Like clockwork.”
“My friends don’t believe it,” Jason said.
“Where do you go to school?” the school girl asked. He told her.
“Some of my friends went there. I’m a senior at Brearly.” She tossed her shoulder length hair.
“Oh, congratulations, “ I said. “I suppose you are going to graduate soon.”
“Three weeks! And then, I suppose I am just going to hang around the city next year.”
Lillie was watching closely.
“Daddy has a girl friend, Daddy has a girl friend!”
“Lillie, please.”
“Daddy has a girl friend, Daddy has a girl friend!”
There was no way to stop this chant, so better to be good-natured now and discuss it with her later. “Yes, Lillie, I would like you to meet my new girl friend.”
Lillie stopped in her tracks.
“No Lillie, not my girl friend. Kidding!”
The school girl laughed, covering her mouth.
“Sorry. The kids get silly.”
“They take after their dad, obviously.” Her smiles began when she scrunched her freckled nose.
“Guilty as charged. These little acorns did not fall far from the tree."
We chatted as we walked a little further. Then she stopped. “Well, this is where I turn.” She looked down, then at me. “Do you mind if I give you my phone number?”
“Oh, uh . . .”
It was clear from the look in her eyes that she wanted me.
She wanted me to call her, to see if she was free on a Saturday night.
She wanted to come to my apartment, and stay up late.
She wanted me to call her at all hours, to say I would be coming to her after I was finished with whatever I was doing.
She wanted to tell me, stay out as long as you like. I will be here when you get home.
She made it plain: she wanted to be my very own . . .
Babysitter.
“Your kids are so cool! They are like my brothers and sisters. I’d love to take care of them.”
“Well, thanks, I do need a sitter sometimes.” I looked at the paper she had handed me. “Thanks, uh . . .”
“Gillian.”
“Thanks, Gillian. See you.”
“Bye!” She crossed west, the kids and I crossed south.
We walked quietly for a moment.
“Daddy has a girl friend, Daddy has a girl friend!”
I put my hand on Lillie’s shoulders.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
parenting
sexblogs
school girl
Howard Stern
The cross town bus was crowded, as is typical after school.
Lillie put her hand lightly against her brother’s backpack.
“No Lillie, hold on to the pole! You have to be safe!”
She put a second hand on her brother’s backpack.
I hate it when she does this. Crowded buses are not the place for power plays. I lean down and whisper.
“Lillie, what you are doing is not safe. You can get hurt. You must hold on to the pole.”
She glowers in derision.
A young woman sitting next to the contested pole stood. “She can have my seat.” She was wearing a school uniform—short plaid skirt, white polo shirt.
“Thanks, you are kind, but . . .”
Lillie hopped into the seat.
“Oh, now that it’s a done deal, thanks again.”
“I don’t mind,” she blushed.
At the first stop after the bus crossed the park, about half the passengers exited, freeing more seats. The kids sat on one bench, and I sat on a single seat. Lillie wanted to sit next to me, but that seat was taken by the school girl.
“Oh, I can trade seats with her.”
“No really, you don’t have to . . .” But she had already stood. Lillie rushed to fill the seat.
“Well, thanks again!”
On city buses and subways, there is a protocol of anonymity. One is expected to avoid eye contact, and to retreat into a private inner space where neighboring conversations are not overheard.
That protocol sometimes evaporates when young children are involved.
People smile at things my kids say, or comment on how cute they are, or scowl because, I don’t know, the planet was crowded enough before I started breeding so prodigiously.
Lillie and I were talking about the earlier incident, and then goofing about her friend Constance.
The school girl was watching us, smiling.
We reached our stop. Jason collected his trumpet and backpack, Collie got his things, and I grabbed Lillie’s backpack.
The school girl stepped off ahead of us.
We all stood at the corner together, waiting to cross.
Collie was talking to me as Jason loudly hummed “America” into his mouthpiece—he often carries it around to practice.
“Cindy was mad at Maxwell, why I don’t know,” Collie went on, gesturing for added emphasis. “But get this: suddenly Maxwell looked like he was gong to be mad at me, and so I told him . . .”
“Excuse me a moment, please, Collie, “ I interrupted.
I turned to Jason. “Will you PLEASE shut up, PLEASE?!” I barked in a playful rant. He nearly jumped out of his skin. “What is this, a parade?”
The kids laughed.
The school girl burst into giggles.
“You think that’s funny?,” I asked her. “Check this out: you know who Howard Stern is, right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You are about to walk into him.”
Howard Stern was walking up the sidewalk. She moved to avoid him, nearly falling off the curb.
She turned on her heels. “That was Howard Stern!”
“Cool, huh? We often pass him on this same block, at this same time, on this same weekday. Like clockwork.”
“My friends don’t believe it,” Jason said.
“Where do you go to school?” the school girl asked. He told her.
“Some of my friends went there. I’m a senior at Brearly.” She tossed her shoulder length hair.
“Oh, congratulations, “ I said. “I suppose you are going to graduate soon.”
“Three weeks! And then, I suppose I am just going to hang around the city next year.”
Lillie was watching closely.
“Daddy has a girl friend, Daddy has a girl friend!”
“Lillie, please.”
“Daddy has a girl friend, Daddy has a girl friend!”
There was no way to stop this chant, so better to be good-natured now and discuss it with her later. “Yes, Lillie, I would like you to meet my new girl friend.”
Lillie stopped in her tracks.
“No Lillie, not my girl friend. Kidding!”
The school girl laughed, covering her mouth.
“Sorry. The kids get silly.”
“They take after their dad, obviously.” Her smiles began when she scrunched her freckled nose.
“Guilty as charged. These little acorns did not fall far from the tree."
We chatted as we walked a little further. Then she stopped. “Well, this is where I turn.” She looked down, then at me. “Do you mind if I give you my phone number?”
“Oh, uh . . .”
It was clear from the look in her eyes that she wanted me.
She wanted me to call her, to see if she was free on a Saturday night.
She wanted to come to my apartment, and stay up late.
She wanted me to call her at all hours, to say I would be coming to her after I was finished with whatever I was doing.
She wanted to tell me, stay out as long as you like. I will be here when you get home.
She made it plain: she wanted to be my very own . . .
Babysitter.
“Your kids are so cool! They are like my brothers and sisters. I’d love to take care of them.”
“Well, thanks, I do need a sitter sometimes.” I looked at the paper she had handed me. “Thanks, uh . . .”
“Gillian.”
“Thanks, Gillian. See you.”
“Bye!” She crossed west, the kids and I crossed south.
We walked quietly for a moment.
“Daddy has a girl friend, Daddy has a girl friend!”
I put my hand on Lillie’s shoulders.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
parenting
sexblogs
school girl
Howard Stern
Us
This song is in heavy rotation in my ears—Regina Spektor’s “Us.”
I am giddy with the way she sings It’s con-taaaa-gee-uh-us, uh oh.
They made a statue of us
And put it on a mountaintop
Now tourists come and stare at us
Blow bubbles with their gum, take photgraphs of fun
Have fun
They'll name a city after us
And later say it's all our fault
Then they'll give us a talking to
Then they'll give us a talking to
‘Cause they've got years of experience
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
We wear our scarves just like a noose
But not cause we want eternal sleep
And though our parts are slightly used
New ones are slave labor you can keep
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
They made a statue of us
They made a statue of us
The tourists come and stare and us
The sculptor's momma sends regards
They made a statue of us
They made a statue of us
Our noses have begun to rust
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
Regina Spektor
I am giddy with the way she sings It’s con-taaaa-gee-uh-us, uh oh.
They made a statue of us
And put it on a mountaintop
Now tourists come and stare at us
Blow bubbles with their gum, take photgraphs of fun
Have fun
They'll name a city after us
And later say it's all our fault
Then they'll give us a talking to
Then they'll give us a talking to
‘Cause they've got years of experience
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
We wear our scarves just like a noose
But not cause we want eternal sleep
And though our parts are slightly used
New ones are slave labor you can keep
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
They made a statue of us
They made a statue of us
The tourists come and stare and us
The sculptor's momma sends regards
They made a statue of us
They made a statue of us
Our noses have begun to rust
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
Regina Spektor
Feelings
The weekend ended on Monday morning.
In Newark, Belle boarded a plane to head South.
Twelve hundred miles to the west, Marcus boarded a plane to head East.
Later that day, Madeline and I spoke.
She had broken one of our agreements.
We had agreed that Marcus would not meet her children on his trip to see her.
But over the weekend, her two-year-old son Jack had been hospitalized suddenly with an infected knee.
In all that ensued, Marcus not only met the children, but her parents as well.
He stayed with the family at the hospital on Sunday night until he departed on a pre-dawn flight.
In truth, this was not simply a rule that I imposed. As all of us are parents, the three of us agreed that it would be too complicated for the boys to meet Marcus on this outing. He was there to take a step forward in his relationship with her, not to initiate a relationship with them.
But as parents, we also knew that in moments of crisis, all other considerations are discounted.
She asked if that bothered me. Heck no, I said. I’m glad Marcus was there. He is great in a crisis—cool headed and very comforting.
We talked about how this weekend might affect our relationship.
At the time, Madeline had yet to post her experiences with Marcus, which begin here. I didn’t ask about specifics; I knew I would hear—or read—those in time. (In truth, you read them as I did, gentle reader.)
The night he left, she told me, they had had The Talk—where is this going, what do we want, all that.
Seems too soon for resolutions, I ventured.
It is, she agreed. But I wanted to be clear. I have feelings for you, Jefferson, and he needs to understand that. And while it is still so new with him, it’s really good. I could come to have strong feelings for him too.
Are you confused by all that?
Yes, she said. It’s confusing, but it seems . . . right. But are you okay?
I’ve thought a lot about this, I said. And I am truly fine with this. I’m glad we all seem to be making each other happy. I am in no rush for anything, so I am happy if we give this time to see what comes of it.
Me too, she said. Good.
Later, I spoke with Marcus.
It was really amazing, Jefferson. I mean, we really connected. Maddie and I were . . . I mean, I knew I had feelings for her when I went there. What I was surprised to learn was how deeply she feels for me. There is really something there.
He asked, now, are you okay?
I’m okay, I said. As long as we are honest and take this slowly, I’m very good.
Good. I love you, Jefferson.
I love you Marcus. Glad you are home safe.
I put down the phone.
Well, I thought. I hope this doesn’t get complicated.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
polyamory
In Newark, Belle boarded a plane to head South.
Twelve hundred miles to the west, Marcus boarded a plane to head East.
Later that day, Madeline and I spoke.
She had broken one of our agreements.
We had agreed that Marcus would not meet her children on his trip to see her.
But over the weekend, her two-year-old son Jack had been hospitalized suddenly with an infected knee.
In all that ensued, Marcus not only met the children, but her parents as well.
He stayed with the family at the hospital on Sunday night until he departed on a pre-dawn flight.
In truth, this was not simply a rule that I imposed. As all of us are parents, the three of us agreed that it would be too complicated for the boys to meet Marcus on this outing. He was there to take a step forward in his relationship with her, not to initiate a relationship with them.
But as parents, we also knew that in moments of crisis, all other considerations are discounted.
She asked if that bothered me. Heck no, I said. I’m glad Marcus was there. He is great in a crisis—cool headed and very comforting.
We talked about how this weekend might affect our relationship.
At the time, Madeline had yet to post her experiences with Marcus, which begin here. I didn’t ask about specifics; I knew I would hear—or read—those in time. (In truth, you read them as I did, gentle reader.)
The night he left, she told me, they had had The Talk—where is this going, what do we want, all that.
Seems too soon for resolutions, I ventured.
It is, she agreed. But I wanted to be clear. I have feelings for you, Jefferson, and he needs to understand that. And while it is still so new with him, it’s really good. I could come to have strong feelings for him too.
Are you confused by all that?
Yes, she said. It’s confusing, but it seems . . . right. But are you okay?
I’ve thought a lot about this, I said. And I am truly fine with this. I’m glad we all seem to be making each other happy. I am in no rush for anything, so I am happy if we give this time to see what comes of it.
Me too, she said. Good.
Later, I spoke with Marcus.
It was really amazing, Jefferson. I mean, we really connected. Maddie and I were . . . I mean, I knew I had feelings for her when I went there. What I was surprised to learn was how deeply she feels for me. There is really something there.
He asked, now, are you okay?
I’m okay, I said. As long as we are honest and take this slowly, I’m very good.
Good. I love you, Jefferson.
I love you Marcus. Glad you are home safe.
I put down the phone.
Well, I thought. I hope this doesn’t get complicated.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
polyamory
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Thirteen
As we hit the streets, Belle confessed to feeling a bit done in.
“Jefferson, I’m not sure I can go another round.”
“Eyes bigger than your stomach?”
“Something.”
“Maybe if you eat a bite?” suggested Todd, who joined us for a stroll.
“That may help,” she agreed. “I hate to disappoint him . . . who is it, again?”
“Mark,” I said. “No worries. He’s cool. Let’s cancel.”
“Will he be disappointed?”
“One day, you will meet him, and then you will be disappointed we cancelled tonight. But seriously, don’t push yourself. He will be fine.”
I called Mark. “Looks like I will get beer with friends tonight,” he said. “No problem. Send my best—see you at the next party.”
We walked a bit further, until we were at the subway station. I was heading home;my work was done. Todd offered to escort Belle to meet Dacia.
“All done, Belle,” I kissed her. “Let’s talk when you get home. Thanks for the lovely weekend.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be back for more!”
“We’ll keep it warm for you.”
When Belle returned to her hometown, she dumped the local talent who bitched about her blowjobs.
She also logged Lucky Number Thirteen, all on her own.
The sex, she tells me, is righteous.
And they play board games.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
oral sex
“Jefferson, I’m not sure I can go another round.”
“Eyes bigger than your stomach?”
“Something.”
“Maybe if you eat a bite?” suggested Todd, who joined us for a stroll.
“That may help,” she agreed. “I hate to disappoint him . . . who is it, again?”
“Mark,” I said. “No worries. He’s cool. Let’s cancel.”
“Will he be disappointed?”
“One day, you will meet him, and then you will be disappointed we cancelled tonight. But seriously, don’t push yourself. He will be fine.”
I called Mark. “Looks like I will get beer with friends tonight,” he said. “No problem. Send my best—see you at the next party.”
We walked a bit further, until we were at the subway station. I was heading home;my work was done. Todd offered to escort Belle to meet Dacia.
“All done, Belle,” I kissed her. “Let’s talk when you get home. Thanks for the lovely weekend.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be back for more!”
“We’ll keep it warm for you.”
When Belle returned to her hometown, she dumped the local talent who bitched about her blowjobs.
She also logged Lucky Number Thirteen, all on her own.
The sex, she tells me, is righteous.
And they play board games.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
oral sex
Twelve
It was a lovely late afternoon as we left Thomas in the East Village, so I proposed we walk to Chelsea.
There, Belle would clock Number Twelve.
As we strolled, Belle asked, “Say, what was the name of that boy I fucked yesterday?”
“Congratulations!” I laughed. “If you can’t remember the name of someone you fucked yesterday, you are now officially a slut.”
“I appreciate the honor. But really, what was his name?”
“Do you really want to know, or would you prefer to have fucked a boy whose name you can’t recall?”
“I really want to know.”
“Starts with a ‘D’ . . .”
“Come on!”
“Driti.”
“Right. Driti. He was cute. Kind of full of himself.”
“That’s Driti. Now you know his name. But you are still a slut, because you forgot it.”
“I can live with that.”
We were nearing the corner of Todd’s street.
“Now, I have to warn you,” I told her. “I’ve never been to Todd’s place, but it is legendary for its mess.”
“Dacia has warned me.”
“You are prepared for the worst?”
“Oh yes. Nocturnal bachelor living alone? I’m ready.”
Todd rang us up from the entry.
“Belle! It’s so great to see you again.” Todd kissed her, then me. “I’m really glad you are finally visiting my apartment, Jefferson.”
“It’s . . . very nice,” I commented. “Prewar?”
“Yes. Excuse the mess.”
“Oh . . .,” Belle demurred, taking it in. “It’s not so bad . . .”
“Of course it is! But it’s just me and the kitties, and we don’t mind.”
At thirty-one, Todd is young yet, but well on his way to becoming an eccentric old man who may yet rival the legendary Collyer brothers.
The Collyers were packrats who collected pianos and saved heaps of newspapers, books, maps, and pretty much anything one can imagine in their Manhattan mansion. No one was allowed inside.
The elder brother, Homer, was blind. His younger brother, Langley, saved each day’s newspapers in the event that Homer would one day regain his sight and want to read up on what he had missed.
So it went for decades.
They died in 1947, when Langley was crushed by a fallen pile of newspapers. Left to his own devices, Homer died of starvation a few days later.
The authorities eventually excavated Langley’s body—well after it had been discovered by rats.
A cautionary tale for Todd? Perhaps.
For now, like the Collyers, Todd has created an environment that is very much like the man who lives within.
Standing on the landing of his studio apartment, one can see carefully selected furnishings—comfortable leather chairs, vintage side tables, book cases and an entertainment center—that reveal his peculiar erudition.
All of that, though, is buried under avalanches of books, DVDs, CDs, magazines, and the accumulated cat toys of an indulgent papa.
The kitchen is kept dark, and perhaps that is best. It was long ago retired from use, reassigned as a repository for unwashed dishes, heaps of papers, and other disused items escaping easy classification.
In stark contrast to his home, Todd is most fastidious in his personal appearance. His short black hair is well coiffed, his skin clear, and his clothes stylish.
His clothes . . . well, truth to tell, I more often see him without them, so I can attest that his tall, lean body is also kept smooth and neatly trimmed.
“What do you think of my Moroccan lamps?” Todd asked. The room was dimly lit by elegant lamps, whose designs cast shadowy finials over the room.
“They are really lovely,” I admired, in full honesty. “And they work here.”
As Todd finished a late lunch—or an early dinner, I’m not sure of his schedule—Belle and I sat in chairs rescued from an old movie theatre, watching a few moments of House of Flying Daggers. Todd keeps movies playing on his flat screen television as background.
The colors of this film transformed the space the way a painting might.
He played a selection in which the blind heroine is pursued by horsemen in woods. The horses tumble in impossible acrobatics. We wince, eyes full of lush cinematography.
“So, I suppose we should get at it,” he said, putting aside his meal and standing.
We moved to his bed.
I was undressed quickly. I planned to watch and lend support.
Belle found a clear space to stand, and shed her clothes, leaning an arm on a bookcase. Once again, she wore striped hot pant panties.
“You have chosen a style of panties that really suits you,” I admired.
“Thanks,” she said. She hesitated, then removed them.
Todd adjusted lights as he stripped to his underwear.
They met on the bed.
I cleared a chair at the foot of the bed and sat to observe, propping my feet on the mattress.
They knelt before one another, caressing. Todd learned how Belle loves to kiss.
His cock grew between them. She tugged down the band of his underwear to release it.
“You have a gorgeous cock,” she admired, bending to take it in her mouth. He moaned loudly.
I grew hard, stroking my cock as I watched her tug his underwear down to his knees.
He took her fingers to his mouth.
She crouched to get a better angle on his cock. He leaned back, running his long fingers through her short hair.
Her back was arched, lifting her ass. His hands ran along her back, finding the soft skin of her hips.
“I want to taste you,” he said.
“We can arrange that,” she replied, sitting up, and then laying back.
Todd stood and kicked his underwear to the floor. He bent to suck each of toes, affording me a full view of his ass, and his mouth on her.
She spread her legs wide as his mouth made a circular and unhurried journey up her legs, finally plunging into her cunt.
He licked with a strong tongue, gradually slipping two fingers to her g spot.
She took as much of that as she could. “You know, you need to fuck me now.”
I was hard, hearing her repeat those words again. She smiled to see me looking at her eyes.
“I was just thinking that, yes,” Todd agreed. He retrieved a condom.
He entered her slowly, deeply, his moans drowning her own. They kissed as they fucked, holding one another close.
“You are gorgeous,” he beamed at her.
“You aren’t so bad yourself.”
The build up to this had been intense. After a time, they stopped for a breather. Todd rolled onto his back.
They talked. I listened, watching, quiet.
“Jefferson? You want to join us?” Todd asked.
Belle slide to one side, making room between them.
“Sure!” I crawled across the bed to lie between them. It was a tight fit. I snuggled in, holding Belle’s hand in mine.
Todd caressed my arm and chest as the three of us talked, feeling our skin on one another.
I grew hard.
“Jefferson, you want a hand with that?” Todd asked.
“Huh, well, would you look at that?” I said, holding my cock. “Yes please, that would be mighty neighborly of you.”
Todd rolled off the bed and knelt. He patted the mattress before him.
“Park your ass right here,” he directed. I shifted my body, dropping my legs to the floor, resting my head on Belle’s thighs.
“Oh, I get to watch some hot boy-on-boy action!” Belle exclaimed.
“Enjoy the show . . . ooh!” I jolted as Todd’s mouth plunged to my cock.
He took me deep, swirling his tongue up and down my shaft as he swallowed me.
My body lurched involuntarily as that boy went zero to sixty on my gear.
He alternated his powerful mouth with strong hands, greased with a tasteless lube.
When I was still, I touch his hair. He has soft hair, I realized.
His mouth put my body in convulsions.
I reached back to touch Belle. My mouth ached for her breast. I looked back and up—her mouth was wide as she watched him blow me.
I found the nipple I wanted, sucking, my mouth longing for flesh.
Belle shifted, putting a pillow under my head in place of her thighs. She crouched next to me. My fingers traveled up her thigh.
She was dripping. I plunged two fingers to her g spot.
She pushed her body down to my fingers, groaning, her eyes never leaving Todd’s mouth on my cock.
I wanted my mouth on her cunt. Soon her mouth was on my cock, sharing it with Todd.
“Please,” I said, “Stop. You’re going to make me cum.”
I wasn’t ready for that.
They released me. My skin was tingling, alive, tender, my lungs heaving.
“You okay there, Jefferson?” Belle asked.
“Yes . . . fine . . .,” I panted.
Once I caught my breath, Todd proposed that we massage Belle. A fine proposal. We worked her over with four hands and sweet musky oil.
Todd brought out a pinwheel, a small spiky metal disk on a handle. It reminded me of a tool my grandmother uses to cut patterns.
“I want you to feel this,” he told Belle. He rolled it gently along her spine. Her buttocks lifted under my hands.
“Unnh,” she squirmed. “That is so nice!”
After a few moments, he handed it to me. “Let the weight of it guide you,” he instructed. “Gentle, like a watercolor brush.”
I could visualize that. I rolled the pinwheel along her back, down her legs, to her feet, my ears drinking in her responses.
Todd slipped on a fur mitt, and followed the tingling of my traces with a soft rub.
“I died and went to heaven.”
“Don’t die yet,” I laughed, as Todd buried his face in her ass. “You’ll want to be alive for Lucky Number Thirteen.”
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
threesome
voyeurism
oral sex
Collyer brothers
House of Flying Daggers
massage
There, Belle would clock Number Twelve.
As we strolled, Belle asked, “Say, what was the name of that boy I fucked yesterday?”
“Congratulations!” I laughed. “If you can’t remember the name of someone you fucked yesterday, you are now officially a slut.”
“I appreciate the honor. But really, what was his name?”
“Do you really want to know, or would you prefer to have fucked a boy whose name you can’t recall?”
“I really want to know.”
“Starts with a ‘D’ . . .”
“Come on!”
“Driti.”
“Right. Driti. He was cute. Kind of full of himself.”
“That’s Driti. Now you know his name. But you are still a slut, because you forgot it.”
“I can live with that.”
We were nearing the corner of Todd’s street.
“Now, I have to warn you,” I told her. “I’ve never been to Todd’s place, but it is legendary for its mess.”
“Dacia has warned me.”
“You are prepared for the worst?”
“Oh yes. Nocturnal bachelor living alone? I’m ready.”
Todd rang us up from the entry.
“Belle! It’s so great to see you again.” Todd kissed her, then me. “I’m really glad you are finally visiting my apartment, Jefferson.”
“It’s . . . very nice,” I commented. “Prewar?”
“Yes. Excuse the mess.”
“Oh . . .,” Belle demurred, taking it in. “It’s not so bad . . .”
“Of course it is! But it’s just me and the kitties, and we don’t mind.”
At thirty-one, Todd is young yet, but well on his way to becoming an eccentric old man who may yet rival the legendary Collyer brothers.
The Collyers were packrats who collected pianos and saved heaps of newspapers, books, maps, and pretty much anything one can imagine in their Manhattan mansion. No one was allowed inside.
The elder brother, Homer, was blind. His younger brother, Langley, saved each day’s newspapers in the event that Homer would one day regain his sight and want to read up on what he had missed.
So it went for decades.
They died in 1947, when Langley was crushed by a fallen pile of newspapers. Left to his own devices, Homer died of starvation a few days later.
The authorities eventually excavated Langley’s body—well after it had been discovered by rats.
A cautionary tale for Todd? Perhaps.
For now, like the Collyers, Todd has created an environment that is very much like the man who lives within.
Standing on the landing of his studio apartment, one can see carefully selected furnishings—comfortable leather chairs, vintage side tables, book cases and an entertainment center—that reveal his peculiar erudition.
All of that, though, is buried under avalanches of books, DVDs, CDs, magazines, and the accumulated cat toys of an indulgent papa.
The kitchen is kept dark, and perhaps that is best. It was long ago retired from use, reassigned as a repository for unwashed dishes, heaps of papers, and other disused items escaping easy classification.
In stark contrast to his home, Todd is most fastidious in his personal appearance. His short black hair is well coiffed, his skin clear, and his clothes stylish.
His clothes . . . well, truth to tell, I more often see him without them, so I can attest that his tall, lean body is also kept smooth and neatly trimmed.
“What do you think of my Moroccan lamps?” Todd asked. The room was dimly lit by elegant lamps, whose designs cast shadowy finials over the room.
“They are really lovely,” I admired, in full honesty. “And they work here.”
As Todd finished a late lunch—or an early dinner, I’m not sure of his schedule—Belle and I sat in chairs rescued from an old movie theatre, watching a few moments of House of Flying Daggers. Todd keeps movies playing on his flat screen television as background.
The colors of this film transformed the space the way a painting might.
He played a selection in which the blind heroine is pursued by horsemen in woods. The horses tumble in impossible acrobatics. We wince, eyes full of lush cinematography.
“So, I suppose we should get at it,” he said, putting aside his meal and standing.
We moved to his bed.
I was undressed quickly. I planned to watch and lend support.
Belle found a clear space to stand, and shed her clothes, leaning an arm on a bookcase. Once again, she wore striped hot pant panties.
“You have chosen a style of panties that really suits you,” I admired.
“Thanks,” she said. She hesitated, then removed them.
Todd adjusted lights as he stripped to his underwear.
They met on the bed.
I cleared a chair at the foot of the bed and sat to observe, propping my feet on the mattress.
They knelt before one another, caressing. Todd learned how Belle loves to kiss.
His cock grew between them. She tugged down the band of his underwear to release it.
“You have a gorgeous cock,” she admired, bending to take it in her mouth. He moaned loudly.
I grew hard, stroking my cock as I watched her tug his underwear down to his knees.
He took her fingers to his mouth.
She crouched to get a better angle on his cock. He leaned back, running his long fingers through her short hair.
Her back was arched, lifting her ass. His hands ran along her back, finding the soft skin of her hips.
“I want to taste you,” he said.
“We can arrange that,” she replied, sitting up, and then laying back.
Todd stood and kicked his underwear to the floor. He bent to suck each of toes, affording me a full view of his ass, and his mouth on her.
She spread her legs wide as his mouth made a circular and unhurried journey up her legs, finally plunging into her cunt.
He licked with a strong tongue, gradually slipping two fingers to her g spot.
She took as much of that as she could. “You know, you need to fuck me now.”
I was hard, hearing her repeat those words again. She smiled to see me looking at her eyes.
“I was just thinking that, yes,” Todd agreed. He retrieved a condom.
He entered her slowly, deeply, his moans drowning her own. They kissed as they fucked, holding one another close.
“You are gorgeous,” he beamed at her.
“You aren’t so bad yourself.”
The build up to this had been intense. After a time, they stopped for a breather. Todd rolled onto his back.
They talked. I listened, watching, quiet.
“Jefferson? You want to join us?” Todd asked.
Belle slide to one side, making room between them.
“Sure!” I crawled across the bed to lie between them. It was a tight fit. I snuggled in, holding Belle’s hand in mine.
Todd caressed my arm and chest as the three of us talked, feeling our skin on one another.
I grew hard.
“Jefferson, you want a hand with that?” Todd asked.
“Huh, well, would you look at that?” I said, holding my cock. “Yes please, that would be mighty neighborly of you.”
Todd rolled off the bed and knelt. He patted the mattress before him.
“Park your ass right here,” he directed. I shifted my body, dropping my legs to the floor, resting my head on Belle’s thighs.
“Oh, I get to watch some hot boy-on-boy action!” Belle exclaimed.
“Enjoy the show . . . ooh!” I jolted as Todd’s mouth plunged to my cock.
He took me deep, swirling his tongue up and down my shaft as he swallowed me.
My body lurched involuntarily as that boy went zero to sixty on my gear.
He alternated his powerful mouth with strong hands, greased with a tasteless lube.
When I was still, I touch his hair. He has soft hair, I realized.
His mouth put my body in convulsions.
I reached back to touch Belle. My mouth ached for her breast. I looked back and up—her mouth was wide as she watched him blow me.
I found the nipple I wanted, sucking, my mouth longing for flesh.
Belle shifted, putting a pillow under my head in place of her thighs. She crouched next to me. My fingers traveled up her thigh.
She was dripping. I plunged two fingers to her g spot.
She pushed her body down to my fingers, groaning, her eyes never leaving Todd’s mouth on my cock.
I wanted my mouth on her cunt. Soon her mouth was on my cock, sharing it with Todd.
“Please,” I said, “Stop. You’re going to make me cum.”
I wasn’t ready for that.
They released me. My skin was tingling, alive, tender, my lungs heaving.
“You okay there, Jefferson?” Belle asked.
“Yes . . . fine . . .,” I panted.
Once I caught my breath, Todd proposed that we massage Belle. A fine proposal. We worked her over with four hands and sweet musky oil.
Todd brought out a pinwheel, a small spiky metal disk on a handle. It reminded me of a tool my grandmother uses to cut patterns.
“I want you to feel this,” he told Belle. He rolled it gently along her spine. Her buttocks lifted under my hands.
“Unnh,” she squirmed. “That is so nice!”
After a few moments, he handed it to me. “Let the weight of it guide you,” he instructed. “Gentle, like a watercolor brush.”
I could visualize that. I rolled the pinwheel along her back, down her legs, to her feet, my ears drinking in her responses.
Todd slipped on a fur mitt, and followed the tingling of my traces with a soft rub.
“I died and went to heaven.”
“Don’t die yet,” I laughed, as Todd buried his face in her ass. “You’ll want to be alive for Lucky Number Thirteen.”
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
threesome
voyeurism
oral sex
Collyer brothers
House of Flying Daggers
massage
Monday, May 16, 2005
Hard Candy Hangover
You wake up late on November 1.
Ooh, what did I do last night, you wonder. Your bleary eyes open and squint, bringng into focus all the candy wrappers.
Oh yeah. Halloween. Candy orgy.
Candy hangovers are the worst. Forget the physiological effects of coming down from a sugar high. What hurts worse is getting back to reality after the indulgence of getting what you want.
Jen’s final task in the Hard Candy Rule was to blog the experience today in any way she saw fit.
She did so at her blog. With her kind permission, I reprint it below.
As you can read, she did so with the sweetest aphrodisiac I know—honesty.
A few of you may have been following the Hard Candy posts over on Jefferson's blog. Jefferson and I have been playing a little bit of an online game of sorts. It started when I read his post "Rules."
In it, he describes a few rules that he imposes on his online girlfriend Madeline. I am intrigued and make a few comments to the post saying so. I am surprised to read this comment a couple of hours later:
Jefferson's Comment:
Not so fast, J. If you want rules, you must earn them.
You have read my blog. I want you to write something that you think will make me hot.
Write it as a haiku.
Email this to me. If it's good, I will post it and grant you one rule.
"Wow", I think. This could be very interesting. I decide to accept his challenge. It took me three tries to get it right. My awkward attempts at writing a haiku that pleased Jefferson are posted here - along with the rule that I had earned.
And the final report of my two day challenge can be found here. It took me two tries to get it right - but this time it was Madeline who was not pleased.
I have had a few days to think about our game . I had a lot of fun with it - that is for sure. It was a huge turn on for me - even more than I expected it to be. I was very grateful to Jefferson for taking the time and putting so much creativity and thought into creating this little game for me.
That being said, I am not entirely sure that I would do something like this again. When I was in the middle of the game I loved it. But when it was over, I found that along with all of the good feelings—I also felt a little bit disappointed.
The reality in my "real life" is that I have yet to find that dominant lover that I crave—someone with the confidence and dominant sexual personality that I am looking for. And while Jefferson was an amazing "online" dom and executed his part of the game to perfection, I ended up with a lot of sexual feelings, that I had no outlet for (except for my trusty vibrator, of course)
And I think that if I did something like this again—it could end up being more frustrating than rewarding for me in the end.
sex
sexblogs
discipline
hard candy
online sex
masturbation
Ooh, what did I do last night, you wonder. Your bleary eyes open and squint, bringng into focus all the candy wrappers.
Oh yeah. Halloween. Candy orgy.
Candy hangovers are the worst. Forget the physiological effects of coming down from a sugar high. What hurts worse is getting back to reality after the indulgence of getting what you want.
Jen’s final task in the Hard Candy Rule was to blog the experience today in any way she saw fit.
She did so at her blog. With her kind permission, I reprint it below.
As you can read, she did so with the sweetest aphrodisiac I know—honesty.
A few of you may have been following the Hard Candy posts over on Jefferson's blog. Jefferson and I have been playing a little bit of an online game of sorts. It started when I read his post "Rules."
In it, he describes a few rules that he imposes on his online girlfriend Madeline. I am intrigued and make a few comments to the post saying so. I am surprised to read this comment a couple of hours later:
Jefferson's Comment:
Not so fast, J. If you want rules, you must earn them.
You have read my blog. I want you to write something that you think will make me hot.
Write it as a haiku.
Email this to me. If it's good, I will post it and grant you one rule.
"Wow", I think. This could be very interesting. I decide to accept his challenge. It took me three tries to get it right. My awkward attempts at writing a haiku that pleased Jefferson are posted here - along with the rule that I had earned.
And the final report of my two day challenge can be found here. It took me two tries to get it right - but this time it was Madeline who was not pleased.
I have had a few days to think about our game . I had a lot of fun with it - that is for sure. It was a huge turn on for me - even more than I expected it to be. I was very grateful to Jefferson for taking the time and putting so much creativity and thought into creating this little game for me.
That being said, I am not entirely sure that I would do something like this again. When I was in the middle of the game I loved it. But when it was over, I found that along with all of the good feelings—I also felt a little bit disappointed.
The reality in my "real life" is that I have yet to find that dominant lover that I crave—someone with the confidence and dominant sexual personality that I am looking for. And while Jefferson was an amazing "online" dom and executed his part of the game to perfection, I ended up with a lot of sexual feelings, that I had no outlet for (except for my trusty vibrator, of course)
And I think that if I did something like this again—it could end up being more frustrating than rewarding for me in the end.
sex
sexblogs
discipline
hard candy
online sex
masturbation
Eleven
On Sunday, Belle and I had to take our show on the road. I had a family member staying with me, which curtailed on-site goings-on.
As I got to know Belle while planning this weekend, I looked forward to introducing her to Thomas. Their senses of humor are so complementary.
Physically, too, they proved to be a stunning match. Both are lean and pale, with translucent skin, fair hair and clear eyes.
They would be lovely in bed together.
Sadly, I would not be there to see it.
Thomas had moved into his apartment on the preceding day, taking the second bedroom of his new roommate’s digs. He was wary of having a girl over so soon.
Bad enough if his roommate heard him with a woman in his bedroom. Very awkward indeed if he were discovered with a woman and a man!
Remember now: Thomas is not really bisexual. Not really.
We were to meet for lunch, and then I would send them off to have fun. Since I wasn’t there, Belle has agreed to fill you in on her Number Eleven. You can read her account below.
When we parted company, I went off for a sauna and schvitz at the Tenth Street Baths. I paid extra to have a man beat me with leaves.
One way or another, I was going to look at sweaty naked bodies.
As for Belle and Thomas, well, they were generating some radiant heat of their own.
I awoke Sunday morning at around 10:30, feeling thoroughly rested (especially after being on only three and a half hours of sleep the day before). I lounged around for another half hour or so before getting in the shower. I finally got in touch with Jefferson around 12:30 (I think) and we laid out the plans for the day.
Thomas had just moved into his new apartment, so we thought it would be convenient to visit him first and help him christen his new place. We planned to meet at a cafe for lunch at 2:00.
I got there right at 2:00 and checked inside for signs of Jefferson or Thomas (although, I didn't know what Thomas looked like). Didn't see anyone so I waited outside.
A few minutes later a guy walked up, peered into the cafe, then looked around the sidewalk and walked away—I didn't think much of it until I realized ten minutes later that he was sitting right behind me on the tree thing (whatever you call it . . . a concrete planter or whatever).
I wondered if this was the fabled Thomas, but being the shy introvert I am, didn't say anything . . . I thought I might look like an asshole if I said, "So, hey, are you Thomas?" and it wasn't him.
I waited some more . . . called Cari at some point and we chatted for awhile.
When I got off the phone with Cari it was almost 2:30, and I decided to suck it up and just ask this guy. So I said, "Are you Thomas?" And he said, "Yes, I am." He said he'd thought I was me too, but like me, didn't want to look stupid by asking.
Then I asked, "I'm not the nerd you were talking about, am I?" (referring to something I'd said on the phone with Cari about some weird guy she'd been talking with). "No, of course not!" I said, and promised to explain.
Already I was struck with how endearing he was.
We decided to get a table, figuring that Jefferson, being a smart man, would be able to find us.
In fact, Jefferson showed up right after we'd been seated. The three of us had a very pleasant, enjoyable lunch. There was no awkwardness whatsoever, and even though I was eager to make with some fucking, I was perfectly happy to just take our time and enjoy lunch.
Thomas and I got along great; I was pleased to find that he has the same kind of wry sense of humor as me. Plus he was exactly my type on a more superficial level as well—you know how I like the cute, skinny, quirky guys. I felt very comfortable and at ease (redundant?) with him.
After lunch, we proceeded over to Thomas's building, which was basically right across the street. Jefferson would leave the two of us to our own devices (so to speak) this time. His cell phone being on the fritz, I gave him mine with the plan that Thomas or I would call him after we, er, finished.
We went upstairs and Thomas took a long time figuring out how to unlock his own door—new apartment, you understand—and it was pretty damn amusing and cute.
I love shit like that.
The apartment was really nice, and of course the bedroom was the prototypical small Manhattan bedroom—but hey, it's cozy, and there was plenty of room for the bed, so that's what matters!
I noticed an iBook on his desk and remarked on how it seems like everyone I've been having sex with lately is a Mac user. Hey, good taste seeks out good taste! ;)
We chatted for a bit but basically I was ready to get down to business.
I wish I could remmeber the exact order of events. I guess it all became kind of a sex-induced fog. One thing, we discovered that we're both Scorpios - hell yes, motherfuckers!
As I yanked off his boxer briefs (another good decision on his part; and a recurring theme, in addition to the Macs), I told him about my renewed blowjob paranoia, then got to work.
After a few minutes he said, "I don't know what they're talking about, because you give great head." Score!
I couldn't keep my mouth off that boy. Damn he has a nice cock. It was just the right size for me to have my way with however I pleased.
First I was sucking him with him lying down, then later with him up on his knees and me down in front. That was when he said, "You look really cute doing that."
”Oh, honey, don't make me blush!”
He went down on me, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I don't remember if I just thought it or said out loud, "You look really cute doing that!"
Gah, it's hard to type all this because I'm remembering everything and wishing I could have myself a quickie (or two, or ten) with him now!
Soon we were fucking, and damn, that was good too.
First I was on top, and I came after not too long. We had some good ol' missionary position after that, and then (I hate this term, it's so silly) doggy style—though the latter may have been during round 2.
One thing I particularly liked about sex with Thomas: he smiles a lot. He just looks like he's having a good time, you know? Actually at one point he said something similar to me . . . "You look like you're having a really good time."
To which I enthusiastically replied, "Well, I am!" Yes, I was a smitten kitten.
After two rounds of seriously hot sex, we were both pretty tired; Thomas's new apartment had been duly broken in. "It's only my first full day here and already my bedroom smells like sex!" he announced triumphantly.
I would've loved to stay for more, but alas, I had another appointment to keep, so I figured I'd better call Jefferson to retrieve me.
We met Jefferson out in front of the building. I left Thomas with a kiss and couldn't stop smiling.
As we walked away, Jefferson said, "So, do I know how to pick 'em or what?"
"Yeah, you know how to pick 'em!" I replied.
He asked how it went.
"What do you think?” I said. “I can't wipe this smile off my face!"
sex
sexblogs
Mac
oral sex
As I got to know Belle while planning this weekend, I looked forward to introducing her to Thomas. Their senses of humor are so complementary.
Physically, too, they proved to be a stunning match. Both are lean and pale, with translucent skin, fair hair and clear eyes.
They would be lovely in bed together.
Sadly, I would not be there to see it.
Thomas had moved into his apartment on the preceding day, taking the second bedroom of his new roommate’s digs. He was wary of having a girl over so soon.
Bad enough if his roommate heard him with a woman in his bedroom. Very awkward indeed if he were discovered with a woman and a man!
Remember now: Thomas is not really bisexual. Not really.
We were to meet for lunch, and then I would send them off to have fun. Since I wasn’t there, Belle has agreed to fill you in on her Number Eleven. You can read her account below.
When we parted company, I went off for a sauna and schvitz at the Tenth Street Baths. I paid extra to have a man beat me with leaves.
One way or another, I was going to look at sweaty naked bodies.
As for Belle and Thomas, well, they were generating some radiant heat of their own.
I awoke Sunday morning at around 10:30, feeling thoroughly rested (especially after being on only three and a half hours of sleep the day before). I lounged around for another half hour or so before getting in the shower. I finally got in touch with Jefferson around 12:30 (I think) and we laid out the plans for the day.
Thomas had just moved into his new apartment, so we thought it would be convenient to visit him first and help him christen his new place. We planned to meet at a cafe for lunch at 2:00.
I got there right at 2:00 and checked inside for signs of Jefferson or Thomas (although, I didn't know what Thomas looked like). Didn't see anyone so I waited outside.
A few minutes later a guy walked up, peered into the cafe, then looked around the sidewalk and walked away—I didn't think much of it until I realized ten minutes later that he was sitting right behind me on the tree thing (whatever you call it . . . a concrete planter or whatever).
I wondered if this was the fabled Thomas, but being the shy introvert I am, didn't say anything . . . I thought I might look like an asshole if I said, "So, hey, are you Thomas?" and it wasn't him.
I waited some more . . . called Cari at some point and we chatted for awhile.
When I got off the phone with Cari it was almost 2:30, and I decided to suck it up and just ask this guy. So I said, "Are you Thomas?" And he said, "Yes, I am." He said he'd thought I was me too, but like me, didn't want to look stupid by asking.
Then I asked, "I'm not the nerd you were talking about, am I?" (referring to something I'd said on the phone with Cari about some weird guy she'd been talking with). "No, of course not!" I said, and promised to explain.
Already I was struck with how endearing he was.
We decided to get a table, figuring that Jefferson, being a smart man, would be able to find us.
In fact, Jefferson showed up right after we'd been seated. The three of us had a very pleasant, enjoyable lunch. There was no awkwardness whatsoever, and even though I was eager to make with some fucking, I was perfectly happy to just take our time and enjoy lunch.
Thomas and I got along great; I was pleased to find that he has the same kind of wry sense of humor as me. Plus he was exactly my type on a more superficial level as well—you know how I like the cute, skinny, quirky guys. I felt very comfortable and at ease (redundant?) with him.
After lunch, we proceeded over to Thomas's building, which was basically right across the street. Jefferson would leave the two of us to our own devices (so to speak) this time. His cell phone being on the fritz, I gave him mine with the plan that Thomas or I would call him after we, er, finished.
We went upstairs and Thomas took a long time figuring out how to unlock his own door—new apartment, you understand—and it was pretty damn amusing and cute.
I love shit like that.
The apartment was really nice, and of course the bedroom was the prototypical small Manhattan bedroom—but hey, it's cozy, and there was plenty of room for the bed, so that's what matters!
I noticed an iBook on his desk and remarked on how it seems like everyone I've been having sex with lately is a Mac user. Hey, good taste seeks out good taste! ;)
We chatted for a bit but basically I was ready to get down to business.
I wish I could remmeber the exact order of events. I guess it all became kind of a sex-induced fog. One thing, we discovered that we're both Scorpios - hell yes, motherfuckers!
As I yanked off his boxer briefs (another good decision on his part; and a recurring theme, in addition to the Macs), I told him about my renewed blowjob paranoia, then got to work.
After a few minutes he said, "I don't know what they're talking about, because you give great head." Score!
I couldn't keep my mouth off that boy. Damn he has a nice cock. It was just the right size for me to have my way with however I pleased.
First I was sucking him with him lying down, then later with him up on his knees and me down in front. That was when he said, "You look really cute doing that."
He went down on me, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I don't remember if I just thought it or said out loud, "You look really cute doing that!"
Gah, it's hard to type all this because I'm remembering everything and wishing I could have myself a quickie (or two, or ten) with him now!
Soon we were fucking, and damn, that was good too.
First I was on top, and I came after not too long. We had some good ol' missionary position after that, and then (I hate this term, it's so silly) doggy style—though the latter may have been during round 2.
One thing I particularly liked about sex with Thomas: he smiles a lot. He just looks like he's having a good time, you know? Actually at one point he said something similar to me . . . "You look like you're having a really good time."
To which I enthusiastically replied, "Well, I am!" Yes, I was a smitten kitten.
After two rounds of seriously hot sex, we were both pretty tired; Thomas's new apartment had been duly broken in. "It's only my first full day here and already my bedroom smells like sex!" he announced triumphantly.
I would've loved to stay for more, but alas, I had another appointment to keep, so I figured I'd better call Jefferson to retrieve me.
We met Jefferson out in front of the building. I left Thomas with a kiss and couldn't stop smiling.
As we walked away, Jefferson said, "So, do I know how to pick 'em or what?"
"Yeah, you know how to pick 'em!" I replied.
He asked how it went.
"What do you think?” I said. “I can't wipe this smile off my face!"
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Seven
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
Jake kissed me full on the mouth. I gave him my tongue.
“Good day so far?” he asked, removing his size fifteen sneakers.
“Very much so. Belle seems to be enjoying herself. Take your jacket?”
“Thanks. That’s great to hear. Is she . . .?”
“. . . in the bedroom, yes.”
Jake leaned over the bed to kiss her hello, then reclined next to her. He was fully dressed. She sat up in bed, nude and spent from sex.
Driti returned from his call and smoke. I introduced him to Jake.
“You are his neighbor?” Driti asked.
“No. A friend.”
Driti retrieved his pants from the floor. “Jefferson is a good friend to have.”
“Indeed.”
With Driti dressed and out the door, I went back to Belle and Jake. She was starvedand hankering for scrambled eggs. The two of them talked as I cooked.
Belle’s trip to New York was largely influenced by her interest in seeing Jake again.Since he broke her long spell without sex—becoming Number Seven in the lineup of men she had bedded—the two have kept in touch, chatting about life, music and computers.
They are both geeks.
It’s just as well thatI was in the kitchen as they lay in my bed dissecting the ins and outs ofinternet radio and the background gossip on Mac’s new OS X 10.4, the “Tiger.”
What I caught of their conversation only made my blonde head dizzy.
Belle ate her early evening breakfast in bed, from a tray. I sat in a nearby chair, sipping cabernet.
As Belle finished her meal, she mused, “I wonder if I should follow the swimming rule and wait thirty minutes before resuming physical activity.”
Physical activity was resumed within five minutes.
As Jake undressed, she warned that he may need to be gentle, as she had been fucking since noon.
“I don’t really ‘do’ gentle,” Jake shrugged. “But I’ll do my best.”
Belle climbed onto Jake, kissing him deeply.
As I watched, I observed initiatives she had made with me, now being made with Jake. I saw how she approached a new lover, and how his responses led her from one approach to another.
I have watched Jake have sex countless times. I know he enjoys kissing the way she does, the way I do. When encounteringa lover who wants to kiss, he also gives over to it.
She enjoys getting head, but feels it primarily as a warm up to the main event. He sucks clit with relish, and still, once he hits third base, he’s on his feet and building steam for the charge to home plate.
They are well matched in this regard.
Asfor me, I run the risk of frustrating many a third base coach—wave your armsin as many windmills as you like, but once I hit third, I want to examinethe fabric and weave of that tender base, lovingly sweeping it clear of clayand cleat prints, raising the bill of my cap to get as close as possible, to run my tongue along its stitching to find that central button . . .
I took a sip of cabernet.
I watched the couple round the bases.
Jakesat back on his haunches as Belle applied her blowjob skills to his ten-inch slugger. Her mouth focused on his head; I wondered if she fretted about going deeper on so large a cock.
His moans offered encouragement from the bullpen. And then:
“Okay.”
He wanted to move on.
He asked her to lay back. She spread her legs, and he was face down on her cunt, licking open her labia.
“Oh, you know what you are doing,” she sighed, stretching back.
“Unnnffff,” Jake acknowledged.
Jake’s head was steady as his jaw worked her, his hands firm and gripping her thighs.
I sipped my wine, adjusting slightly in my seat. My cock was recovering nicely from my orgasm.
“That’s very nice,” Belle told Jake, “But you really need to fuck me now.”
“Yes, I do.”
Jake opened a package of Magnums and rolled one on his cock.
Belle raised her hips as he entered her. “Oh yes,” she laughed. “That’s what I remember.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he said. “At first.”
Jake cradled her shoulders in his arms, undulating his large frame into her.
Watching Jake’s body move, as he fucks, is like watching a thoroughbred at its peak.
Every muscle moving under his skin in a way that sends my memory back to anatomy lessons, remembering illustrations of how the body should look in motion.
His hips thrust more rapidly. Her hands clung to his latissimus dorsi.
Her gastrocnemius extended. Her toes distended.
He was at full gallop.
Looking ahead to this moment, I had not anticipated a threesome. Jake is big as a house, hung like a horse and fucks like a locomotive.
With all those analogies, there’s not much room for a second man.
I was content to watch. I sipped my wine.
She hollered “Whoa!,” slowing to a trot. Jake dismounted.
Poor Belle—to fuck Jake after a day of sex was quite an undertaking.
They nestled and talked as he jerked off.
“Talk dirty to me,” he asked.
“Um . . .”
“I love watching you stroke your cock,” I prompted.
“I love watching you stroke your cock,” she laughed.
“Thanks for your enthusiasm,” he smiled.
His hand worked harder as she caressed his chest.
“Are you going to cum on me?” she asked offering her belly.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice untroubled by his efforts. “But I can’t promise much—Iwas jerking off last night to the thought of you.”
“That’s sweet . . . “ she said, as he began to unload on her flesh. Her hand went to his cock.
“Unh!” he twitched as she milked him.
They kissed as he recovered.
I brought a warm washcloth, and cleaned them.
I rinsed the cloth then found things to do, leaving them time alone.
Soon Belle had to shower, in advance of her evening’s plans with Dacia.
I reclined next to Jake. We chatted as Belle dressed.
With that, the first day of Belle’s itinerary was concluded. I was off duty until the next day at noon. I kissed goodbye to Belle and Jake, and prepared for that great rarity in my life.
A Saturday night alone at home.
Why would I go out after such a day?
Online during the evening, I traded instant messages with Mitzi, as we tried to get a handle on our relationship.
Later, concerned about that and a little in my cups. I would call Madeline and Marcus.
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Mac OS X
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voyeurism
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extended sports analogies
“Hello.”
Jake kissed me full on the mouth. I gave him my tongue.
“Good day so far?” he asked, removing his size fifteen sneakers.
“Very much so. Belle seems to be enjoying herself. Take your jacket?”
“Thanks. That’s great to hear. Is she . . .?”
“. . . in the bedroom, yes.”
Jake leaned over the bed to kiss her hello, then reclined next to her. He was fully dressed. She sat up in bed, nude and spent from sex.
Driti returned from his call and smoke. I introduced him to Jake.
“You are his neighbor?” Driti asked.
“No. A friend.”
Driti retrieved his pants from the floor. “Jefferson is a good friend to have.”
“Indeed.”
With Driti dressed and out the door, I went back to Belle and Jake. She was starvedand hankering for scrambled eggs. The two of them talked as I cooked.
Belle’s trip to New York was largely influenced by her interest in seeing Jake again.Since he broke her long spell without sex—becoming Number Seven in the lineup of men she had bedded—the two have kept in touch, chatting about life, music and computers.
They are both geeks.
It’s just as well thatI was in the kitchen as they lay in my bed dissecting the ins and outs ofinternet radio and the background gossip on Mac’s new OS X 10.4, the “Tiger.”
What I caught of their conversation only made my blonde head dizzy.
Belle ate her early evening breakfast in bed, from a tray. I sat in a nearby chair, sipping cabernet.
As Belle finished her meal, she mused, “I wonder if I should follow the swimming rule and wait thirty minutes before resuming physical activity.”
Physical activity was resumed within five minutes.
As Jake undressed, she warned that he may need to be gentle, as she had been fucking since noon.
“I don’t really ‘do’ gentle,” Jake shrugged. “But I’ll do my best.”
Belle climbed onto Jake, kissing him deeply.
As I watched, I observed initiatives she had made with me, now being made with Jake. I saw how she approached a new lover, and how his responses led her from one approach to another.
I have watched Jake have sex countless times. I know he enjoys kissing the way she does, the way I do. When encounteringa lover who wants to kiss, he also gives over to it.
She enjoys getting head, but feels it primarily as a warm up to the main event. He sucks clit with relish, and still, once he hits third base, he’s on his feet and building steam for the charge to home plate.
They are well matched in this regard.
Asfor me, I run the risk of frustrating many a third base coach—wave your armsin as many windmills as you like, but once I hit third, I want to examinethe fabric and weave of that tender base, lovingly sweeping it clear of clayand cleat prints, raising the bill of my cap to get as close as possible, to run my tongue along its stitching to find that central button . . .
I took a sip of cabernet.
I watched the couple round the bases.
Jakesat back on his haunches as Belle applied her blowjob skills to his ten-inch slugger. Her mouth focused on his head; I wondered if she fretted about going deeper on so large a cock.
His moans offered encouragement from the bullpen. And then:
“Okay.”
He wanted to move on.
He asked her to lay back. She spread her legs, and he was face down on her cunt, licking open her labia.
“Oh, you know what you are doing,” she sighed, stretching back.
“Unnnffff,” Jake acknowledged.
Jake’s head was steady as his jaw worked her, his hands firm and gripping her thighs.
I sipped my wine, adjusting slightly in my seat. My cock was recovering nicely from my orgasm.
“That’s very nice,” Belle told Jake, “But you really need to fuck me now.”
“Yes, I do.”
Jake opened a package of Magnums and rolled one on his cock.
Belle raised her hips as he entered her. “Oh yes,” she laughed. “That’s what I remember.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he said. “At first.”
Jake cradled her shoulders in his arms, undulating his large frame into her.
Watching Jake’s body move, as he fucks, is like watching a thoroughbred at its peak.
Every muscle moving under his skin in a way that sends my memory back to anatomy lessons, remembering illustrations of how the body should look in motion.
His hips thrust more rapidly. Her hands clung to his latissimus dorsi.
Her gastrocnemius extended. Her toes distended.
He was at full gallop.
Looking ahead to this moment, I had not anticipated a threesome. Jake is big as a house, hung like a horse and fucks like a locomotive.
With all those analogies, there’s not much room for a second man.
I was content to watch. I sipped my wine.
She hollered “Whoa!,” slowing to a trot. Jake dismounted.
Poor Belle—to fuck Jake after a day of sex was quite an undertaking.
They nestled and talked as he jerked off.
“Talk dirty to me,” he asked.
“Um . . .”
“I love watching you stroke your cock,” I prompted.
“I love watching you stroke your cock,” she laughed.
“Thanks for your enthusiasm,” he smiled.
His hand worked harder as she caressed his chest.
“Are you going to cum on me?” she asked offering her belly.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice untroubled by his efforts. “But I can’t promise much—Iwas jerking off last night to the thought of you.”
“That’s sweet . . . “ she said, as he began to unload on her flesh. Her hand went to his cock.
“Unh!” he twitched as she milked him.
They kissed as he recovered.
I brought a warm washcloth, and cleaned them.
I rinsed the cloth then found things to do, leaving them time alone.
Soon Belle had to shower, in advance of her evening’s plans with Dacia.
I reclined next to Jake. We chatted as Belle dressed.
With that, the first day of Belle’s itinerary was concluded. I was off duty until the next day at noon. I kissed goodbye to Belle and Jake, and prepared for that great rarity in my life.
A Saturday night alone at home.
Why would I go out after such a day?
Online during the evening, I traded instant messages with Mitzi, as we tried to get a handle on our relationship.
Later, concerned about that and a little in my cups. I would call Madeline and Marcus.
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extended sports analogies
Friday, May 13, 2005
Ten
As Belle napped, I signed on to check email.
Madeline was online.
I had wondered whether or not I wanted to be in touch with her and Marcus during their weekend together. Maybe it was better, I thought, to just let them have their time alone.
But at that particular moment, well rested and freshly fucked, I thought, what the heck? I typed howdy, and got a warm how-do-you-do in response.
I ventured the web cam.
Up popped the image of Madeline in a slip, getting a massage from Marcus.
Marcus was nude.
We chatted for a few minutes. I asked Marcus to take my daughter Rachel shopping for shoes when he returned home—she needed something nice for her prom. Then we signed out. They had plans for barbeque.
I had plans for Belle.
“Belle, honey . . .”
“I’m up,” she croaked.
I sat beside her. “Driti will be here shortly.”
“Okay. Do you think I should put on clothes to meet him?”
“Probably would be polite.”
“Okay.” She pulled back the covers, and swung her long legs over the bed. I caressed her flesh as she stood. We kissed.
“Go. Let me get dressed.”
“Get dressed. I’m gone. One thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“You will like Driti. He is very handsome, very polite. But don’t be surprised if he tries to come on suave—he’s young, he’s European, that’s just his way.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for that.”
We were chatting on the couch when Driti arrived. “S’up, bro,’ Jefferson, how have you been?” He put an arm around my neck and pulled me close.
“Very well, thanks. Please, come in and meet Belle.”
He removed his shoes, then stepped to her.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “So, where are you from?”
A conversation of pleasantries passed pleasantly. Driti was, as promised, polite and tad smooth.
“So,” I interjected after a suitable interval. “Shall we get naked?”
“Let’s,” said Belle, standing.
“You lead the way, Jefferson,” said Driti.
“Please. Right this way.”
We entered the bedroom. Belle was getting the hang of this no-nonsense approach—she set to removing the clothes she had been wearing for only a few minutes. I stripped and we met in bed.
We kissed as Driti stood watching, wearing only underwear stretched by the curve of his erection.
“Why don’t you join us?” asked Belle.
“Okay, I will,” he said, slipping off his underwear. “So, you are ready for two men?”
“Bring it.”
I have known Driti for almost two years, since May and I first picked him up online for a threesome. Since then, we’ve had many threesomes.
Driti is 21, lean and well muscled, with dark hair and handsome features. He’s straight and rather caught up in a Baltic machismo that, thankfully, he relaxes around me.
Belle liked what she saw.
He slid into bed next to her. She turned and climbed his body to kiss him.
“I like to kiss,” she explained.
“That’s nice,” he smiled, his cock lurching in spasms against her flesh.
They kissed more, until Belle pulled her face back.
“I think you need to fuck me with that thing banging on my ass.”
“You mean, in your ass?”
“No, take my pussy. Got a condom, Jefferson?”
“One step ahead of you.” I took a freshly unwrapped condom and slowly rolled it down his cock.
“Hot,” Belle said. “Now give it to me.”
She eased her body onto him. His body tensed and relaxed into her.
“Damn!” he said, looking at her, then to me.
“Yeah, she’s pretty tight.”
“It’s okay?” Belle asked.
“Oh yeah, it’s okay!” He pushed up into her. She pushed up and down. They found a rhythm, He took a breast in his mouth.
This is Driti’s favorite position. He got to it fast.
I watched them go at it, rubbing her skin, sucking a breast, kissing her. I stroked his cock and balls as she fucked him.
“Mind if I join in?” I asked, once they were hot and heavy.
“Please,” Belle panted.
I stood on the bed and stepped over Driti, standing so that my cock was in Belle’s face. She took it into her mouth.
I fucked her face, looking down to see Driti watching as he pumped her cunt.
“Okay, lockjaw!” she gasped.
“Good job,” I kissed her. “Now you’ve had two cocks in you. That’s another item checked off your itinerary. Ready for the next?”
“You mean . . .”
“That’s right. Double pussy penetration.”
“Oh my!”
Belle and I had been over many sexual shenanigans she wanted to try. This was high on her list.
Driti and I do this very well.
“Okay Driti, you anchor her,” I said crouching behind her as I put a condom in place. I reassembled the configuration of their legs to make room for my knees.
I reached down to stop his cock. “Hold on a second, Driti.”
“Okay, master.”
I fucking love it when he calls me that. He initiated the use of that honorific, referring to himself as “the master’s son.”
He was one hot protégé. He learned fast.
I pressed my cock against the base of his, fingering lube and Belle juice on us all. I slid my cock up the shaft of his, and slowly into her.
“Fuck!”
“You okay?”
“That may be too much,” she gasped. I pulled out. “Sorry, I really want to do that, but I’m just too tight.”
“There’s always another time,” I kissed her. “For now, fuck the boy.”
She pulled off and pulled Driti on top of her. I sat on a chair, enjoying the view as he mounted her.
She showed him what got her off. He performed well, to her moans.
He followed with a slow fucking until he shifted to his preferred tempo—jackrabbit rapid.
His ass tensed and pushed, the muscles forming and reshaping.
He came in arching lurches.
“Damn!” he said, pulling out of her. “Look at that condom. So many little Dtritis.”
So much for suave.
He left to wash up.
“He’ll be ready for another round in, like, five minutes,” I stage whispered.
Belle smiled. “Super!”
He came back with an ashtray and sat in a chair next to the window.
“It’s okay I smoke?” he asked, pulling on his underwear.
“Sure,” said Belle.
No one smokes in my apartment. No one, that is, except Driti. I make an exception for him because he looks so good doing it.
He exhaled, his profile in silhouette against the closed blinds. The smoke circled and was drawn out the window by the cool afternoon air. He was quiet and still, absorbed in his cigarette and his body’s post-coital relaxation.
I could see that Belle enjoyed watching him too.
“You want to fuck until he’s ready for more?” I asked.
“Sure.”
Driti smoked as he watched us. His slender cock was pushing up on his underwear.
Not even a cigarette later, he was ready to go again.
I pulled my lips from Belle’s. “You want to practice your blowjobs?” I asked.
“I do.”
“Driti, please bring your cock to her mouth.”
“Okay master,” he stood, stamping out his cigarette. He pulled down his underwear and crouched on the bed next to us.
He gave his cock to Belle’s mouth. She swallowed it well, to a point.
“Can you try deeper?” I asked, keeping my cock far into her. I wanted the pressure of my pubis on her clit—the trigger of her orgasm—subtly moving in and out.
“I can’t seem too.”
“Here,” I took Driti’s cock from her mouth. “Try relaxing here,” I massaged her esophagus. “And then leaving your throat open. Like this.”
I took his cock whole into my mouth, deep. I swallowed to the base, rolling my tongue under the head.
Driti moaned.
“Shit, that’s hot,” she exclaimed.
I sucked up and down, fucking her harder as I blew him.
I had to be careful here. This is so taboo for my straight boy.
It gets him off every time.
But I selfishly wanted a few moments of this pleasure for myself. His cock in me, mine in her.
I ran my hand along his tight abdomen.
I wanted him to cum. But that was not my task that day.
“See?” I came up for air. “Like that. Want to try?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Okay, But you are going to practice by sucking us both.”
“How?”
“Hang on.” I pulled out and tossed the condom. I maneuvered Driti to face me, sitting on the bed.
My right leg went over his left; my left went under his right. I took his hips in my hand and slid my ass closer to his.
Our balls were pressed together. I held our cocks in my grip.
“Try sucking both, just the heads.”
She took us in her mouth.
“Now more.”
She took a little more.
“Now swirl your tongue between the heads, on that sensitive spot.”
She did. Driti groaned.
“Okay, now that’s good. Very good.”
She sat back.
“Should I keep doing that?”
“You have two cocks at your disposal. Do what you enjoy.”
She took us both, then alternated from one to the other. I was settling back into this, watching Driti’s face.
He winced.
“Damn, you are killing me with your teeth.”
She stopped. “I am?”
“I’m feeling it too,” I agreed. “But it’s not teeth—it’s one tooth, on your upper left. Open your mouth please.”
She did. I fingered the inside of her gums. Nothing—no snaggle tooth or sharp molar. Perfect teeth.
She wanted to work on her blowjobs in part because the local talent had complained about her teeth. And yet her blowjob was fine to me, but for this instance.
“You know what: it’s the angle. You are coming in from our sides. I didn’t feel anything when you sucked me straight on. So focus on your approach.”
“Right. “ She twisted to suck Driti.
“Yessss.” It worked, apparently.
To get a better angle on him, she lifted her leg to climb on me. She propped her pussy on my mouth.
I licked her as she sucked him, getting harder.
I wanted my favorite position.
“Driti, please come here. Put on a condom on your way.”
“Okay, master.”
With his cock removed from her mouth, Belle went to work on mine.
“Driti,” I looked at him from under her ass. “I want you to fuck Belle’s pussy.”
“Okay, master.”
I pushed her ass back to him as he pushed into her.
I licked up into her clit, sucking it, My tongue slid across her pussy to his cock, feeling him fucking her across my mouth.
She pushed forward and back, taking my cock fast and wet. I pumped up into her.
My hands roamed her ass, his hips, his ass. His eyes were on my face, his cock.
I took his smooth balls in my mouth. I licked down his cock to her pussy, and latched on her clit.
She moaned.
Okay, that’s it.
I pulled back from her mouth.
I came.
In long spurts, deep waves.
Wish I had seen that, but my eyes full of sex. Belle says it was quite a show.
I was tingling, still convulsing.
“Okay, get off me.” I stood, weakly. “You. Him. Fuck.”
I left to wash. I was drenched.
I returned and sat at the end of the bed, massaging Belle’s feet. I watched them go at it until both were spent.
They reclined into my pillows.
“Well, I made the double digits,” Belle smiled. She turned to Driti. “You’re the tenth boy I’ve fucked.”
“You mean, today?”
“No, ever.”
“That’s good news,” he said. “Right?”
She nodded.
Driti pulled on his underwear and went to the terrace to smoke and make a telephone call.
While he did so, there was knock at the door.
Number Seven had arrived.
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foot fetish
Madeline was online.
I had wondered whether or not I wanted to be in touch with her and Marcus during their weekend together. Maybe it was better, I thought, to just let them have their time alone.
But at that particular moment, well rested and freshly fucked, I thought, what the heck? I typed howdy, and got a warm how-do-you-do in response.
I ventured the web cam.
Up popped the image of Madeline in a slip, getting a massage from Marcus.
Marcus was nude.
We chatted for a few minutes. I asked Marcus to take my daughter Rachel shopping for shoes when he returned home—she needed something nice for her prom. Then we signed out. They had plans for barbeque.
I had plans for Belle.
“Belle, honey . . .”
“I’m up,” she croaked.
I sat beside her. “Driti will be here shortly.”
“Okay. Do you think I should put on clothes to meet him?”
“Probably would be polite.”
“Okay.” She pulled back the covers, and swung her long legs over the bed. I caressed her flesh as she stood. We kissed.
“Go. Let me get dressed.”
“Get dressed. I’m gone. One thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“You will like Driti. He is very handsome, very polite. But don’t be surprised if he tries to come on suave—he’s young, he’s European, that’s just his way.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for that.”
We were chatting on the couch when Driti arrived. “S’up, bro,’ Jefferson, how have you been?” He put an arm around my neck and pulled me close.
“Very well, thanks. Please, come in and meet Belle.”
He removed his shoes, then stepped to her.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “So, where are you from?”
A conversation of pleasantries passed pleasantly. Driti was, as promised, polite and tad smooth.
“So,” I interjected after a suitable interval. “Shall we get naked?”
“Let’s,” said Belle, standing.
“You lead the way, Jefferson,” said Driti.
“Please. Right this way.”
We entered the bedroom. Belle was getting the hang of this no-nonsense approach—she set to removing the clothes she had been wearing for only a few minutes. I stripped and we met in bed.
We kissed as Driti stood watching, wearing only underwear stretched by the curve of his erection.
“Why don’t you join us?” asked Belle.
“Okay, I will,” he said, slipping off his underwear. “So, you are ready for two men?”
“Bring it.”
I have known Driti for almost two years, since May and I first picked him up online for a threesome. Since then, we’ve had many threesomes.
Driti is 21, lean and well muscled, with dark hair and handsome features. He’s straight and rather caught up in a Baltic machismo that, thankfully, he relaxes around me.
Belle liked what she saw.
He slid into bed next to her. She turned and climbed his body to kiss him.
“I like to kiss,” she explained.
“That’s nice,” he smiled, his cock lurching in spasms against her flesh.
They kissed more, until Belle pulled her face back.
“I think you need to fuck me with that thing banging on my ass.”
“You mean, in your ass?”
“No, take my pussy. Got a condom, Jefferson?”
“One step ahead of you.” I took a freshly unwrapped condom and slowly rolled it down his cock.
“Hot,” Belle said. “Now give it to me.”
She eased her body onto him. His body tensed and relaxed into her.
“Damn!” he said, looking at her, then to me.
“Yeah, she’s pretty tight.”
“It’s okay?” Belle asked.
“Oh yeah, it’s okay!” He pushed up into her. She pushed up and down. They found a rhythm, He took a breast in his mouth.
This is Driti’s favorite position. He got to it fast.
I watched them go at it, rubbing her skin, sucking a breast, kissing her. I stroked his cock and balls as she fucked him.
“Mind if I join in?” I asked, once they were hot and heavy.
“Please,” Belle panted.
I stood on the bed and stepped over Driti, standing so that my cock was in Belle’s face. She took it into her mouth.
I fucked her face, looking down to see Driti watching as he pumped her cunt.
“Okay, lockjaw!” she gasped.
“Good job,” I kissed her. “Now you’ve had two cocks in you. That’s another item checked off your itinerary. Ready for the next?”
“You mean . . .”
“That’s right. Double pussy penetration.”
“Oh my!”
Belle and I had been over many sexual shenanigans she wanted to try. This was high on her list.
Driti and I do this very well.
“Okay Driti, you anchor her,” I said crouching behind her as I put a condom in place. I reassembled the configuration of their legs to make room for my knees.
I reached down to stop his cock. “Hold on a second, Driti.”
“Okay, master.”
I fucking love it when he calls me that. He initiated the use of that honorific, referring to himself as “the master’s son.”
He was one hot protégé. He learned fast.
I pressed my cock against the base of his, fingering lube and Belle juice on us all. I slid my cock up the shaft of his, and slowly into her.
“Fuck!”
“You okay?”
“That may be too much,” she gasped. I pulled out. “Sorry, I really want to do that, but I’m just too tight.”
“There’s always another time,” I kissed her. “For now, fuck the boy.”
She pulled off and pulled Driti on top of her. I sat on a chair, enjoying the view as he mounted her.
She showed him what got her off. He performed well, to her moans.
He followed with a slow fucking until he shifted to his preferred tempo—jackrabbit rapid.
His ass tensed and pushed, the muscles forming and reshaping.
He came in arching lurches.
“Damn!” he said, pulling out of her. “Look at that condom. So many little Dtritis.”
So much for suave.
He left to wash up.
“He’ll be ready for another round in, like, five minutes,” I stage whispered.
Belle smiled. “Super!”
He came back with an ashtray and sat in a chair next to the window.
“It’s okay I smoke?” he asked, pulling on his underwear.
“Sure,” said Belle.
No one smokes in my apartment. No one, that is, except Driti. I make an exception for him because he looks so good doing it.
He exhaled, his profile in silhouette against the closed blinds. The smoke circled and was drawn out the window by the cool afternoon air. He was quiet and still, absorbed in his cigarette and his body’s post-coital relaxation.
I could see that Belle enjoyed watching him too.
“You want to fuck until he’s ready for more?” I asked.
“Sure.”
Driti smoked as he watched us. His slender cock was pushing up on his underwear.
Not even a cigarette later, he was ready to go again.
I pulled my lips from Belle’s. “You want to practice your blowjobs?” I asked.
“I do.”
“Driti, please bring your cock to her mouth.”
“Okay master,” he stood, stamping out his cigarette. He pulled down his underwear and crouched on the bed next to us.
He gave his cock to Belle’s mouth. She swallowed it well, to a point.
“Can you try deeper?” I asked, keeping my cock far into her. I wanted the pressure of my pubis on her clit—the trigger of her orgasm—subtly moving in and out.
“I can’t seem too.”
“Here,” I took Driti’s cock from her mouth. “Try relaxing here,” I massaged her esophagus. “And then leaving your throat open. Like this.”
I took his cock whole into my mouth, deep. I swallowed to the base, rolling my tongue under the head.
Driti moaned.
“Shit, that’s hot,” she exclaimed.
I sucked up and down, fucking her harder as I blew him.
I had to be careful here. This is so taboo for my straight boy.
It gets him off every time.
But I selfishly wanted a few moments of this pleasure for myself. His cock in me, mine in her.
I ran my hand along his tight abdomen.
I wanted him to cum. But that was not my task that day.
“See?” I came up for air. “Like that. Want to try?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Okay, But you are going to practice by sucking us both.”
“How?”
“Hang on.” I pulled out and tossed the condom. I maneuvered Driti to face me, sitting on the bed.
My right leg went over his left; my left went under his right. I took his hips in my hand and slid my ass closer to his.
Our balls were pressed together. I held our cocks in my grip.
“Try sucking both, just the heads.”
She took us in her mouth.
“Now more.”
She took a little more.
“Now swirl your tongue between the heads, on that sensitive spot.”
She did. Driti groaned.
“Okay, now that’s good. Very good.”
She sat back.
“Should I keep doing that?”
“You have two cocks at your disposal. Do what you enjoy.”
She took us both, then alternated from one to the other. I was settling back into this, watching Driti’s face.
He winced.
“Damn, you are killing me with your teeth.”
She stopped. “I am?”
“I’m feeling it too,” I agreed. “But it’s not teeth—it’s one tooth, on your upper left. Open your mouth please.”
She did. I fingered the inside of her gums. Nothing—no snaggle tooth or sharp molar. Perfect teeth.
She wanted to work on her blowjobs in part because the local talent had complained about her teeth. And yet her blowjob was fine to me, but for this instance.
“You know what: it’s the angle. You are coming in from our sides. I didn’t feel anything when you sucked me straight on. So focus on your approach.”
“Right. “ She twisted to suck Driti.
“Yessss.” It worked, apparently.
To get a better angle on him, she lifted her leg to climb on me. She propped her pussy on my mouth.
I licked her as she sucked him, getting harder.
I wanted my favorite position.
“Driti, please come here. Put on a condom on your way.”
“Okay, master.”
With his cock removed from her mouth, Belle went to work on mine.
“Driti,” I looked at him from under her ass. “I want you to fuck Belle’s pussy.”
“Okay, master.”
I pushed her ass back to him as he pushed into her.
I licked up into her clit, sucking it, My tongue slid across her pussy to his cock, feeling him fucking her across my mouth.
She pushed forward and back, taking my cock fast and wet. I pumped up into her.
My hands roamed her ass, his hips, his ass. His eyes were on my face, his cock.
I took his smooth balls in my mouth. I licked down his cock to her pussy, and latched on her clit.
She moaned.
Okay, that’s it.
I pulled back from her mouth.
I came.
In long spurts, deep waves.
Wish I had seen that, but my eyes full of sex. Belle says it was quite a show.
I was tingling, still convulsing.
“Okay, get off me.” I stood, weakly. “You. Him. Fuck.”
I left to wash. I was drenched.
I returned and sat at the end of the bed, massaging Belle’s feet. I watched them go at it until both were spent.
They reclined into my pillows.
“Well, I made the double digits,” Belle smiled. She turned to Driti. “You’re the tenth boy I’ve fucked.”
“You mean, today?”
“No, ever.”
“That’s good news,” he said. “Right?”
She nodded.
Driti pulled on his underwear and went to the terrace to smoke and make a telephone call.
While he did so, there was knock at the door.
Number Seven had arrived.
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