Tuesday, August 16, 2005


Madeline's eyes were closed as we fucked.

I had hoped it might be like this.

I put kink and such aside for these few days, ready should she want them, but not on the front burner. We had discovered those shared passions in many online conversations, and established a compatibility within them on her previous trip.

This time, I wanted to focus on just being together, just us. To be more a part of what we had as--for lack of a better word--a connection.

That groundwork for that connection had been laid well before Madeline and I first made love in April. Through all the sex and conversation of those few days, with one another and with others, we found that it took hold. It didn't matter what we were doing, or with whom--it only added to the sense that we were building on terra firma.

During those last hours of our final day together last Spring, we were simultaneously at ease and anxious, between wanting more touch and sex and affection from one another, and sated by all that had transpired in short a time. We were at once full and empty, as we prepared for the inevitable longing of being apart.

We were at our closest even as we anticipated distance.

This time, we were just a few days into her visit, with several days ahead.

I wanted to revisit the intensity of that last moment now, well before we had to once again say goodbye.

As we made love that night, I was taking the lead, stubbornly. Frankly, I had an agenda. I wanted to overwhelm her with simplicity.

Her body under mine, my cock in her. Deep, shallow. Long, short. Fevered, easy. Just keep me inside you, I thought, looking at her closed eyes, and let me watch how you respond to what our bodies do.

I smiled when she looked up at me, caressing her cheeks, gentle, soft.

Later, I clenched my teeth as she turned aside, her hair tight in my fists, my hips pounding between her outstretched legs.

I focused on her breathing as she took my cock firm and centered on her g spot, as she drenched me.

I anticipated her needs and toyed with her expectations. At one point, she had given a torrent into my palm. Her body relaxed. I knew she would want a taste of her juices.

I licked my fingers in anticipation of giving them to her. Her eyes were on mine, waiting.

My fingers rested on her lips. Her tongue raced out to take them.

I traced a fingertip onto her tongue, then two, then three.

I soon forced four fingers into her mouth. Clenching her jaw in my palm, I was back in her, holding her face next to mine, holding her hostage as I fucked.

She gave in, surrendering her anticipation of respite. I reminded her that she was safe, she was here with me, and I was firmly in charge of the moment.

She eventually seemed exhausted.

I slowed. I was worn down as well.

"Pull me on top," she asked.

I did.

Her wet body caught the city lights outside my window.

I caressed her hips and waist, looking up. Her face was in silhouette; I couldn't tell if she saw me looking.

My hand cupped a breast. A finger and thumb plucked a nipple and drew it to my mouth.

She moaned and reached back, pulling up on her buttocks. This would tease out another orgasm.

She said something, laughing. I pulled back and smiled.

I didn't hear her well enough to distinguish words, but I got the gist. I wasn't going to ask her to repeat it.

I lay back, pushing her breasts together, squeezing her nipples.

She mumbled something about how good that felt, something about love, something else.

My body was so drained. I relaxed.

My feet fell to their sides.

My knees were slightly tucked, my calves and thighs splayed into bowlegs.

My back was flat, my shoulders back, my head propped on a pillow.

My remaining energies were focused onto her, entering her through my cock and fingertips as she rode me.

She pushed forward and back with her hips, her arms raised her head, or her hands pressed to my chest.

I was the constant, the anchor in her movements. I held secure, trying not to disrupt her, alert as a spotter working with a skilled acrobat. I was there to lend support to her agility and strength.

She continued to speak, her words far from my ears. I strained to identify words.

At best, I made out languages.

English gave way to French--something about les mains, something about la terre, a laugh. She laughed at something in another language I have never studied.

I listened, not comprehending but resolute, going nowhere, as she soaked me in sweat and juice.

In time, she let her body fall onto mine. Like a cyclist pressing forward to diminish resistance.

She pumped her way to a finish line only she could detect. My hands grabbed her ass with well-timed ferocity, only to find she had miles left to go. I let my fingers drift to her spine.

When, finally, she collapsed, I lay under her, just as breathless.

I tucked wet strands of hair behind an ear. "Where did you go, Madeline?" I whispered.

"Shh," she rested her forehead on my shoulder, sobbing quietly. Suddenly, she laughed. "Baby, that was fucking Pentecostal."

I laughed. "Testify!"

She sighed as I caressed her hair. "All that was missing was a box of snakes."

Thursday, August 11, 2005


We awoke just after dawn the next morning, already talking, already kissing. Hungry.

We made love all day.

And while I had initially given in to our hunger, simultaneously fisting and fucking Madeline's cunt within moments of our reunion, this day had passed with meat-and-potatoes sex. I was usually on top, she was usually below. My eyes were open to her. We kissed our lips raw. She came and sweated profusely under me.

Sex like that works up an appetite.

Madeline had eaten only a few crackers the day before. As the day progressed, I would offer meals, and she would accept, but we never got around to making them. That would have meant leaving bed, and neither of us had the stomach for that.

By dusk, we were famished. I craved a change of venue.

The sun was setting on a very overcast summer evening. The lamps remained dark, and the apartment slumbered in a dim velvet haze.

The phone rang. Marla called with an invitation. Her new boyfriend's friend is a disk jockey and painter, she said, with an opening that night at revered pizza restaurant in the Village. Was I in the mood to look at art, she asked? It meant free pizza and wine, she added, plus the chance to hang out and meet the new guy.

I looked at Madeline, who was slowly getting dressed, a little stoned from sex.

"That sounds fine," I said. "But get this: Madeline is here."

"What, the online girl?" Marla asked.

"The very one."

"You have to bring her! She's really here?"

Madeline was a little hesitant, allowing her good manners to wonder if she would be intruding, or if she was dressed well enough for the event.

Perhaps she was also reluctant to break the spell of our intimacy by meeting another of my lovers.

"It's an art show in a pizza parlor, dear, not the opera," I cajoled. "And it's Marla. She's very cool. Let's go."

She relented.

We arrived to find a long line of patrons waiting to be seated. Marla waved us past, ushering us into a small side room, humid with closely packed bodies.

I kissed her in greeting, indicating Madeline. They said hellos as we followed Marla to the back, where wine was being poured. Pizza was served nearby as it emerged fresh from an open brick oven.

I had only caught a glance of Marla, but enough to see that she was in top form. Her long hair was wavy--somewhere between her natural curls and the straightened version she prefers--and streaked with blonde and pink highlights. She was tan from days on the beach near her home. Her tight shirt and jeans suggested she had lost a little weight, with no ill effect to her voluptuous figure.

When Marla looks this good, she is putting the world on notice: she is sexy as hell, and she knows it. Feminine sensuality is not wasted on this broad.

"Vincent," Marla called to the bartender, her Brooklyn accent rising above the din. "These are my friends, right?"

"Yeah, Marla," Vincent nodded, smiling to us. "Nice to meet you guys."

"This must be the hottest place in New York," I apologized to Madeline as I passed red wine her way, taking another plastic cup for myself.

"Um hmmm," Madeline nodded, sipping, her bobbed hair already wet at the edges.

Marla took a white wine and smiled. "So you're Madeline," she said, rolling her brown eyes toward me. "You came all the way here to see this one?" She slipped an arm around my waist.

"Yes, I suppose so . . . "

"Ooh, looks like it was worth the trip," Marla said, lowering her eyes to the nape of Madeline's neck. My bite the night before had produced a hickey that Madeline was unable to disguise with anything she had packed.

Marla's face turned serious as she pushed aside Madeline's collar for a closer look.

"Damn, Jefferson," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You do good work."

"You should see my thigh," Madeline whispered back.

The two women laughed.

It was suddenly as if we three were in on a big secret.

With a few words, we had identified ourselves among the secret society of perverts.

Whatever reservations Madeline may have had about meeting Marla were gone in that moment. They bonded instantly over a hickey.

"Did Jefferson tell you about my new boy? I call him 'Morning Glory,' because I met him after spotting him on my walk to work."

"Of course! Is he here?"

"Over there, by the bar. He works here, he knows everyone." She waved to a slim young man with close cropped hair. He practically blushed as he nodded back.

"Fucking cute," I admired. Madeline had grabbed some slices on paper plates. I sank my teeth into scalding mozzarella.

"No shit," Madeline added, taking a bite. "I'd do him."

"Yeah, right? Isn't he hot?" Marla nodded."I'm tempted to bring him to your parties, Jefferson, but . . . "

" . . . that would reveal your secret life as a slut."

"Well, that, plus he's never done anything like it."

"That's not a problem, of course. But he's not bi?"

She shook her head, taking a bite of pizza. "You kidding?," she chewed. "Total straight boy"

"How unfortunate. Any threesomes?"

She shook her head.

"Ah, an innocent," I nodded, watching as he reached for a stack of plates. "For you to corrupt or to keep as your own."

"Yeah, tough call," she replied. "Oh, but get this Madeline: we were out dancing, and--did Jefferson tell you? It was so hot!--he fucking grabbed my throat and pushed me against a wall to kiss me. He's a choker!"

"Oh my dog!" Madeline covered her mouth with a hand,laughing as she chewed.

"Fuck yeah, I was so wet!" Marla laughed herself into a cough, a slice poised in her hand. "Though he does need work. You know, the other night he asked if, you know, I wouldn't mind maybe going down on him. When you know, what I wanted to hear was . . . "

"Suck my cock, bitch!" Marla and Madeline finished the sentence together, laughing. They were on a roll.

"Seems he can be trained," I smiled.

"Oh, I need to thank you for that," Madeline said, turning to Marla. "You trained Jefferson, but good."

"For selfish reasons," Marla said, raising her cup. "But glad it works for you!"

I had been with lovers who liked it rough before meeting Marla. But she sensed my raw talent and honed it, pulling my fingers to her throat, showing me how to apply pressure, nodding when my cock and my grip were in perfect synch.

Marla likes the rough trade. Bring her unlettered boys with muscles and tattoos and she is in hog heaven. Yet too few of her boys get that the machismo she craves in a man is not just an external pose.

I was surprised when she sought out the brute in me, a skinny fair-haired bookworm. "I don't know why," she told me, when I asked why she picked me as her tough guy. "I trust you. You want to please me, and really, this is what I want."

She said what I had to hear. Of course I wanted to give her what she wanted.

By the time Madeline asked me to slap her, I was prepared to give her what she needed.

The three of us talked and ate with gusto, fueling ourselves on free wine. In time, we moved away from the oven in search of cooler air by an open door.

Madeline was melting away.

Marla's girlfriend clock began to tick, as she cast her eyes about for the boy who was taking her home that night.

I picked up on the shift in tone and suggested that Madeline and I should be going.

Marla and Madeline kissed goodbye, already chums. Marla kissed me.

"Have fun tonight," I told her. "You look very happy."

"I am," she smiled. "You look happy too."

She raised her voice and looked at Madeline. "You two are going to go back to fuck now, huh?"

We shrugged.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

If, Revisited

Editor's note: Madeline's accounts of her trip to New York begin here.

When Madeline made her first visit to New York in April, I pulled out all the stops.

We had met online when she stumbled across my blog and dropped me a note. We had a lot in common, it seemed, in addition to the fact that we were both raising kids and going through divorces.

Of course, there were differences as well. She is in the plains states, adjusting to a new life in her hometown, surrounded by family and distant from the absent father of her children. I am in New York, far from my family and sharing custody with the mother of my children.

High on the list of differences between us was the quantity and variety of sex I now have in my life. She gets hers, mind you, but with kids home most nights and a more limited pool of local talent than that available to big-city sluts like me, she misses a few opportunities.

For my first flesh-and-blood encounter with Madeline, I offered to share some of those opportunities.

She was more than eager to have some adventure. We plotted and schemed, drawing up lists of things she enjoyed, and things she had never tried.

And over the course of her visit, we gave that list a thorough working over.

Marcus joined us for several days, and the three of us developed a warm and easy-going triad--we were the Mod Squad of Sex. Mitzi and Franz joined us for a fivesome, in which Madeline had her first lesbian sex and received the gay male seal of approval for her ass. There were spankings and ropes and sex toys and all manner of shenigans.

It was great fun, but with some unintended side effects.

Despite herself, Mitzi was jealous. Despite himself, Marcus fell for Madeline. Even my Shelby, who shares my love and our love of freedom, found herself looking in the other direction, waiting until it was over.

Things got a little messy.

In the midst of so many fireworks, Madleine and I had established that we like us some wild sex. We also concurred that we did not want to wrek havoc in one another's lives.

During that time, we made time to establish a physical extension of our online relationship, to explore the tenderness between us--just Madeline and Jefferson. When she was gone, that had left me pondering: what if . . . ?

What if I had made different choices earlier in life? What if I had not been resistant to being content with someone sweet and adoring, such as my girlfriend Pablo, in favor of someone so--to choose a kind word--challenging as my ex wife? What if I had resisted whatever I found so alluring about being controlled, and favored someone who took me as I am?

What if I made different choices about my present life? What if I was not so determiend to be single for now? What if I opened my heart a little more, and trusted that sharing my life with someone would not necessarily mean risking my fate, and that of my children, on another person's mercurial temperament?

What if I plotted a different future? What if I knitted together a new family? What if I was more receptive to meeting "the one," or even marrying again?

Pretty heady stuff for a first date.

Even for a first date preceded by so many hours of online dates.

For our second flesh-and-blood date, we were keeping it simple. Just Madeline and Jefferson.

Personally, I wanted to test drive a relationship. No money down, no commitments, no guarantees.

I'm sure to want a long-term relationship one day.

Could I close my eyes and try the steering wheel, imagining that this year's model could go some distance?

We would have more time together than the previous visit--six days as opposed to four--and I was not setting a sexual itinerary.

In fact, my erotic imagination went to other extremes. I fantasized about kisses, and dreamed of missionary positions.

Madeline and I knew we could burn down the barn.

This time around, we wanted a barn raising.

Madeline arrived my place moist from the sweltering streets.

She looked so . . . well, here is the thing about Madeline's physical beauty. It's a little distracting.

When we are talking via webcams or in person, I am sometimes struck by the noble thoughts of a good son: This is the girl your mama wanted you to bring home.

I am also struck by more superficial thoughts: This girl never pays full price for an oil change. This girl gets her sidewalks shoveled for free. This is the girl that other husbands think about when they screw their wives.

I take great pride that I liked her before I laid eyes on her.

We kissed hello near my door, nice and slow, exactly where we had last kissed goodbye.

"I love you, Jefferson."

"I love you, Madeline."

We did that. We expressed love.

It's no big deal. We're cool. We're grown ups. We can love each other without making life crazy.We know how to be passionate We know how to exercise restraint.

I offered water. She accepted. I poured two glasses.

We talked. Our talk moved to my bed.

We kept our clothes on. I had, in fact, dressed in anticipation of her arrival. No nude greeting at the door, no rush of passions, no rending of garments.

Our restraint lasted several minutes. Maybe even so long as eight minutes.

I was naked first. She was fast behind.

Still we talked, slowly and casually.

Her flesh was so wet. She tasted salty.

Our mouths locked.

Her hands sought out my skin.

I gave into my hunger for hers.

Over an hour later, she asked for a break.

Her body was drenched in sweat.

I sat back. I kept my eyes on her turned face, her closed lids.

I pulled my cock from her cunt.

Finger by finger, my hand slowly followed.

"How many fingers?" she whispered.

"My fist," I said, caressing her cheek. "And my cock."

"Fuck," she sighed. "Your fist and your cock? All that time?"

"Yes, for a very long time."

I kissed her belly, welcoming her back to reality.

While she was out, I was her caretaker. She handed me the key and she was gone.

I surveyed her body. Had I been a good caretaker?

Her face was red from my palm. She requested those slaps. They would fade.

Her clit was swollen. It would subside.

One hickey on her shoulder. Exactly the spot she asked me to bite her in April, revisted in an inspired moment.

Such restraint we exercise.

"You want more water?" I asked.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Fuck House

Editor’s note: Much as I hate to break the narrative thread by posting out of sequence, I have to report on breaking news. The next post will be back to the story, cross my heart.

Last night was our biweekly sex party.

I awoke this morning in bed with Meg.

Her green eyes were open, looking at me.

I closed my eyes, and pulled her head to my shoulder. I stroked her red hair, brushing it with my cheek.

Pretty girl, morning wood—a sure fire cocktail for a lazy dom to want to get his rocks off.

I grabbed her hair.

“Suck my cock,” I ordered, pushing her head down, my eyes still closed.

She adjusted her body to comply. I stretched back to enjoy her mouth.

She took my cock in her hand, and put her lips to it.


I opened my eyes and looked down at Meg’s face. She grinned and lowered her eyes.

That’s when I saw it.

Written on my cock, in bold black ink, was the word “SLUT.”

Like an old-time advertisement on a farm silo.


“That rat bastard.”

“He told me I had to be sure you saw it.”

I grimaced, rubbing the word.

Sharpie marker. Permanent ink.

“Very funny. Now suck that dick, comedian.”

Meg took me in her mouth.

I watched as she worked the “S.”

I wanted her to swallow the “T.”

When will I learn that I shouldn’t sleep until Marcus is out cold?

And after all I do for him . . .

The evening before, after so much arm twisting, Marcus had finally relented and started his own blog.

Viviane raced over to offer technical support.

Madeline had cranked up her cam to lend moral support.

Meg helped too, until Jake showed up early for the party.

Jake knew enough to know at a glance that we had the situation under control.

So he took Meg to the next room to give her some righteous orgasms—and a few memorable bruises.

We talked over their sex as we launched his sex blog.

“Is Meg always this noisy?” Viviane asked, typing as Marcus contemplated templates.

“She’s keeping it quiet as we work,” I said.

“This one looks too much like a china pattern,” Marcus said, clicking the mouse, focused on his task.

Madeline: Let me know when you are ready for comments!

We did it.

We launched Marcus’s blog.

The Fuck House.

We tinkered as Jake and Meg came back in towels to see our work and to say howdy to Madeline.

Madline showed her tits to Jake.

In return, she got a gander at what lurks under his towel.

There was so much good feeling. Such joy at Marcus joining the bloggers.

Then, ten hours and a sex party later, I woke to the receiving end of his more sophomoric scribes.

Meg got the receiving end of my critique of his efforts.

A good firm blowjob, and I was merely a “LUT.”

I fucked myself down to “UT” before shooting on her belly.

A shower scrubbed his cleverness to oblivion.

Did Marcus care? That fucker?

Fuck no.

He was breakfasting with the boys he had picked up online after Meg and I dozed off at five in the morning.

He was still out as I signed on after my shower.

Viviane: Nice pic!

Madeline: You ARE a slut!

Shelby: I miss all the fun!

That rat bastard takes pictures.

And he spreads them around.

My dick was the morning's headline news.