Marcus was nude on my sofa, typing on his laptop.
I was nude at my desk, typing on my computer.
We wanted to get laid.
Now, you may wonder: if two nude men want to have sex, why don’t they just get busy?
Of course, we considered that option.
Marcus and I love one another, and we’ve each got mad skills. The sex we have together is about as good as it gets.
A day and half of nudity and blowjobs with Shelby had left us keyed up for a full-throttle, no-holds-barred, separate-the-boys-from-the–men bout of man-on-man action.
We were geared up for sex of such intensity that, to be honest, we weren’t sure the two of us could pull it off without an assistant.
Or two.
Anyway, when you have sex this good, it just seems selfish not to share it with others.
I’m a firm believer in repeat business, so I suggested we contact the men we met at a previous party at my place. Marcus smiled at the memory. Alas, Carl was in Paris, Henry was unavailable, and Verdad, true to form, was missing in action.
We had to start from scratch. We retreated to our respective computers.
There was an unspoken competition to see who scored first.
It’s not that we are all that competitive. Either way, we both win. The competition arose because the winner got to choose the prize.
If Marcus scored, we’d be fucking someone more to his type. Our trick would likely be a versatile gay man in his thirties, with plenty of experience, moderate body hair, and a penchant for kink.
If I scored, we’d be fucking a cute twentysomething twink, probably dark haired and more “curious” than experienced.
I’m game for Marcus’s type, and he is game for mine. But of course, we would prefer our preferences.
As we worked, we each searched different URLs.
Marcus swears by Manhunt. This site allows you to chat with men in your immediate vicinity who are online because they want to hook up now. You can peruse profiles and search for areas of common interest.
If you want someone with set preferences in proximity to your zip code, it’s the way to go.
I’ve never used it, but Marcus says it’s great. He’s found really hot men.
Me, I rely on Craig’s List. I like the variety of posts, as each person writes his particular fantasy. Most are prosaic claptrap, but now and then you find a jewel.
That’s because Craig’s List allows for creativity beyond the usual “which of the following best describes you” multiple-choice buttons.
Say, for example, that you have a specific fantasy about seducing a pizza deliveryman.
That would take some work to arrange through a site such as Manhunt. But post it on Craig’s List, and chances are that somewhere in this big city you’ll find a man willing to put on a cap, pick up a pizza, and knock on your door.
Marcus and I typed away, interrupting one another to look at photos.
“He’s hot, right?” Marcus asked about a broad shouldered former Marine in Brooklyn.
“Yeah, he’s great. But check this out,” I countered, downloading a thug Latino skateboarder from the Bronx.
“Yeah, cute,” Marcus replied, returning to his monitor.
As we worked, I remembered someone.
“Hey Marcus,” I said over my shoulder.
“Huh?” he replied, scanning profiles, not looking up.
“Ben.”
“Ben?”
“The grad student, the one who read my blog and contacted you . . .”
“Oh, right, Ben! Yeah, what’s with Ben?”
“He’s in New York now. And guess who has his number?”
“I do, because you’re giving it to me. Let’s call him.”
Ben had initially contacted me to say he enjoyed reading this blog, particularly the stories involving Marcus and sex parties. His notes were clever and when I asked for a photo, I was sent a smile so warm it could be chopped up and used for firewood.
His email address indicated that he was enrolled at a college in Washington.
Good news, I told him. Marcus is starting sex parties near you. Shall I have him contact you?
Oh yes, Ben replied.
Marcus was also impressed by his correspondence with Ben, but alas, what with Marcus’s demanding schedule and Ben’s school load, they never managed to meet.
Now, he was in New York, enrolled in another program.
We called.
For once, timing worked in our favor. Ben had no plans for the day and was aching for some fine sex. He was soon on his way.
After so much correspondence, we were both eager to meet Ben.
As we wrapped up our email exchanges with other contenders, I called Marcus over.
“What do you think of this one?” I asked, showing him a photo. “Cute face, twenty seven, bottom . . . I figure that since you and Ben are versatile and I top, we can use a bottom.”
Marcus leaned over to look. “Yeah, and he’s Asian. Your type.”
I shrugged. “Nah, I just like fucking people who don’t look like me. What do you think? In or out?”
“Whatever, if you want him in, he’s in. I’m going to shower.”
Joseph was glad to be emailed an invitation. “There will be how many of us?” he asked.
“Four.”
“A novel experience,” he replied.
“’A novel experience,’” I thought. Nice. A man who isn’t stingy with the syllables.
I sent my address and followed Marcus to the shower.
Joseph was the first to arrival. He was a dapper fellow in white who spoke with a crisp British accent.
We enjoyed a pleasant exchange as Marcus returned calls. He allowed a few words and nods for Joseph, but I could see that he wasn’t really all that interested.
I turned to Joseph and suggested that we dispense with formalities and get directly to task.
He thought this was a splendid idea.
Marcus found us nude and cuddling on my bed.
“You look cozy,” he smiled.
“Yeah, pretty much,” I replied. “You want to join us?”
“No, I’ll wait for Ben to get here. I’m getting stuff done. I’ll catch you in a few.”
“Okay, baby.” Marcus left us alone.
“He’s very handsome,” Joseph said. “Do you think he likes me?”
“He warms up nicely.” I traced my fingers along his bare chest. “So, you want to suck my cock?”
“Oh, well, certainly.”
Joseph’s mouth left feathery kisses on my torso as he ventured down my body.
“I do hope Marcus warms up,” he said, interrupting his progress. “I’m excited to be with so many men at once. Very unusual. Perhaps I can experience bukkake.”
“You’d like us to cum on you?” I said, caressing his hair.
“Yes, very much,” he replied, tonguing the head of my cock. “Though I’m really too shy to request it.”
“I’ll mention it to the boys. You just worry about that cock.”
“Thank you. Of course, your cock.”
Joseph’s tongue gingerly navigated my cock, occasionally leading me into his mouth. It was a delicate performance, tender and girlish.
This was not the blowjob of a bukkake pig, I thought. He’s going to need to heat things up to interest Marcus.
“That’s very sweet,” I said, caressing his face. “And just look how hard you have me. Want to get fucked?”
He looked up. “Why yes, sure. But take care, as it’s been a while.”
“Oh, I will take great care.”
Brother.
He bent over. I took him slowly, with ample lube and foreplay. And what do you know? He could take a good fucking.
I found Joseph’s forte.
I amped it up.
“Jefferson,” Marcus said from the door. “Ben’s here.”
Ben emerged behind Marcus. He was tall and as handsome as we thought, with short-cropped sandy hair that was, at age twenty-eight, already salted with flecks of white.
“Well, hey Ben,” I said, wiping my lubed fingers on my hip. I extended a hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”
He took my hand and laughed, nodding at Joseph. “Yes, and no surprise about the circumstances.”
“Right. This is Joseph.” I tapped his ass. “Joseph, say hi to Ben.”
Joseph turned on his pillow. “Nice to meet you, Ben.”
“This one wants a face full of cum, by the way,” I added.
“Nice to meet you, Joseph.” Ben replied. He put his hands on his hips. “Well, so what do we do now?”
“Now?” Marcus smiled, stepping forward. “Now I kiss you.”
“Hot.” Ben took Marcus into a deep kiss. They grabbed each other faces, roughly.
I resumed my task at hand.
Ben and Marcus tugged at one another’s clothes, undressing as they kissed. Ben was sexy and passionate, very much to Marcus’s liking. By contrast, Joseph was something of a cold fish.
If this was going to be a good foursome, I needed to heat up Joseph.
Ben was blowing Marcus.
Marcus sighed loudly.
“Turn over,” I told Joseph, pulling out. “I want to look at you when we fuck.”
“Oh, okay.” He turned, and I guided my cock back into him. I ran my hands over his smooth torso.
“Do you like this, Joseph?”
“Yes, I do.”
I pinched a nipple, lightly.
“Ow!” he said, flinching. “Not that, though.”
“Okay, Joseph, I’ll be gentle.” I smiled, pushed deep and stayed there.
Marcus took Ben’s shoulders and raised him. Ben was hard, his cock thick as a beer can.
Marcus popped the top and took it, shotgun.
Ben guided Marcus to sit on the bed, and fucked his face.
“Joseph, I’m going to go wash up. When I come back, we’ll trade blowjobs.”
“Oh, okay, fine.”
When I returned, Ben was fucking Marcus. Ben stood beside the bed as Marcus rested his elbows on the mattress.
Joseph sat, watching.
I put my cock in Joseph’s mouth. He held it tight at the base, so it wouldn’t go too deep.
“Joseph,” Marcus said. “I want to try something.”
Joseph looked back.
“Bend over here. Ben, let me go for a sec.”
Ben looked down and stepped back. “Okay, I’m out.”
“Jefferson, can you pass me a condom and the lube?”
I did as Marcus asked.
“Turn this way,” Marcus instructed, moving Joseph’s hips to the edge of the bed. “I’m going to fuck you.”
“Okay . . .” Joseph said, crawling backwards to Marcus.
“And you,” Marcus said to Ben, opening the condom. “You are going to fuck me.”
“Hot.” Ben took another kiss as Marcus expertly put on a condom and lubed Joseph, his eyes never leaving Ben.
“Okay now,” Marcus said, taking Joseph’s hips. “You ready?”
“Yes, ready.” Marcus entered him deeply. Joseph fell forward on his shoulders, his body surrendering to Marcus’s grip and cock.
“You ready for me now?” Ben asked, stroking his thick cock.
Marcus leaned over Joseph. “Yeah.”
Marcus groaned as he took Ben.
Ben threw back his head, ecstatic.
I watched as one man fucked another as that man fucked another.
I lifted Joseph’s face. He looked up at me.
I didn’t say a word.
He knew what to do.
He lifted himself on his arms and wordlessly took my cock in his mouth.
His weight rested on his hands. They could not interfere with his mouth.
I took his cheeks in my palms and looked in his dark eyes.
I fed him a throat full of cock. Deep and lingering.
His face reddened.
I withdrew a little.
“Good boy, Joseph. Now I can fuck you.”
Marcus and Ben worked in concert, thrusting hard into Joseph.
I pushed back just as hard from his face, my eyes rarely leaving his.
“Joseph . . . you want that facial now?”
His eyes replied in the affirmative.
I pulled out and jerked twice, maybe three times. He gasped, watching.
I came for him, on his hair, his ear, his cheek.
Marcus groaned at the sight.
Joseph fell forward on his elbows as he came. The orgasm shivered back through his body, pulsing onto Marcus’s cock.
Marcus quaked.
He pushed the boy off his dick, forcefully, as if discarding a used memory, and plunged forward on the bed.
“Yes, fuck yeah,” Ben called, pressing forward.
Joseph looked back, his leg caught under Marcus.
I rustled the cum into his hair. “You may as well chew that leg off, Joseph.”
I left to wash up. My face and chest were flushed in the mirror.
I returned with a bourbon and settled into a chair. Marcus was tucking his balls into Ben’s ass.
“Man, I wanted to see this,” Ben said.
Sweat dripped on him from Marcus’s brow. “Watch, buddy, here’s how you do it . . .”
Joseph watched, tugging on his white briefs.
So much for waiting for more bukkake.
Joseph dressed and rinsed his hair as I watched the boys fuck, intense but with laughter.
They decided to break, and fell back on the bed.
“Well,” Joseph said, standing at the foot of the bed. “I suppose I should be off . . .”
I stood. “Let me put on some clothes and show you to the door.”
“Thanks. Nice to meet you, Marcus. Ben.”
“Nice to see you too, Joseph,” Marcus smiled. His arms held Ben close.
“Yeah, very nice,” Ben nodded against Marcus’s chest.
I said goodbye at the door.
“Let’s do it again sometime,” I smiled, offering a hand.
He shook my hand. “Yes, let’s do that,” he replied.
I closed the door.
Ben and Marcus stood in the hallway.
“Think you’ll see him again?” Ben asked.
Marcus and I looked at one another. “Nah.”
It was a Sunday evening, so I turned on The Big Broadcast.
Marcus offered cigars. I poured bourbons for Ben and myself, a vodka for Marcus.
I lit a few candles. We sat on the terrace nude, smoking, drinking, talking, laughing.
Ben asked about Madeline and other people he knew from the blog.
He and Marcus talked about an electric current they felt while fucking one another.
“Maybe you should blog him as ‘battery,’ Marcus,” I suggested. “You name all your tricks after inanimate objects.”
“No,” Marcus said, puffing his cigar and glancing at the boy. “This one gets a name.”
We settled on Ben, as in Franklin.
Marcus left for home that night. He and Ben walked out together.
I slept alone.
The next day, I got an email from Ben.
It was great to meet you finally. And Marcus was just as cool as I expected.
So when are you going to fuck me, Jefferson?
I dropped a line to Marcus.
We had a keeper.
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Monday, December 19, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Shelby Meets Marcus
“Hello, baby . . . ,” she ventured, stepping toward him.
He thrust his hand forward like a gun, freezing her mid step.
“Shut up! It’s ‘Daddy,’ shithead.”
She looked down. In a quiet voice, she whispered, “Hello . . . Daddy.”
What is this shit? he thought. He could fix it; she didn’t fuck it up . . . not yet. He drew a breath and exhaled.
“Where’s my bourbon?”
She left quickly to get his drink.
“I can see why you like this movie,” Shelby said.
“Shut up!” I growled.
“You shut up. Drink your bourbon, shithead.”
Shelby and I were unable to have intercourse for a couple of months, as she had undergone a medical procedure that required healing.
Our sexual activity may have been curtailed, but nothing affected the enjoyment of our ongoing project: mining the generation gap.
Most of the time, we don’t think much of the two decades between us.
We find plenty to talk about, sharing stories, opinions, books and, above all, time. We have a very relaxed and comfortable groove.
Still, every now and then, we trip over the intervening years.
Like the time we heard on the radio news that Jerry Falwell was in failing health.
“That’s one grave I look forward to dancing on,” I said.
“Who’s Jerry Falwell?” she asked.
I looked at her and realized that to her, at age twenty, Jerry Falwell is ancient history. He was as meaningful to her as, say, Whittaker Chambers would have been to me at the same age.
So I told her about Jerry Falwell.
This education works both ways. It’s refreshing to know someone who can explain to me why the faces on People magazine are famous, someone who introduces me to new music while revering our shared favorites. (I like Radiohead; she would kill her grandmother to see them live.)
When she discovered I had never seen “American Dad” or “Aqua Teen Hunger Force,” she introduced me to “Adult Swim.” She was aghast that I had not seen “Sin City” or “Revenge of the Sith,” and put those DVDs in my player.
I scored points for realizing she needed to be introduced to David Lynch. Mind you, she did scoff when I dusted off my ancient VHS copy of “Blue Velvet.”
“Man, that is so old school. Does it even play?”
“It plays,” I said, fast-forwarding through the FBI warning. “Now, you be nice—my college roommate Jetboy shoplifted this for me when it was new. It’s a treasure.”
“Whatever, man. Last century.”
We screened “Blue Velvet” as we watched anything on television, cuddled nude on my bed, arms and legs entwined.
My fingers isolated strands of her fine hair. Her fingers plucked my nipples raw.
Intercourse was off the menu, but we still spent most of our time together nude and within arm’s reach.
We enjoy that intimacy.
I have to admit, though, that it could be frustrating.
Our bodies are accustomed to reaching out for one another. Touching and kissing lead to fucking, fucking leads to new twists and turns, leading to new highs.
Feeling her head on my chest as we watched movies, caressing her shoulders and breasts, I can’t help but want her.
I sighed. “You want a foot massage, baby?”
She squinted and raised an eyebrow toward my hard cock. I shrugged. It would pass.
Shelby pointed her toes toward the oil.
I warmed my palms.
Shelby’s medical procedure had not gone smoothly. She ditched one doctor in favor of another, and endured cramps and leaking. She retained weight and her skin broke out. She felt awful and ugly.
Given the circumstances, her libido took a hike.
I wanted to reassure her. This hurts, I would say, but it will pass. I held her hand and spooned her as she slept. I kissed her forehead and cheeks.
“I’m broken,” she lamented, curling up.
“You are my sweet baby,” I whispered, kissing her hair. “It’s going to be better.”
Marcus was going to be in town one weekend, and asked if he could stay with me. His trip included a night that Shelby was planning to stay over. I asked her if she would mind if Marcus joined us.
“It would be cool to meet him, finally,” she said. “But he knows I’m broken, right? He can’t fuck me.”
“He knows, and that’s no problem,” I said.
Such is my life now, I thought. Most of my friends assume that meeting one another will include sex.
Marcus and I decided to take Shelby to Tompkins Square Park for Wigstock, the annual celebration of all things drag.
“Drag queens?” Shelby grinned. “Man, I’m so there.”
As we cabbed downtown, Marcus told us about his recent clients, using euphemisms and gestures to foil our eavesdropping driver.
“This guy—let’s call him ‘Brick’—he was pretty hot. So he wanted to, you know,” Marcus said, pointing first to his dick then, looking to be sure the cabbie didn’t notice, pointing to his mouth, “You know what I mean? And that was fine, but I also knew he had never, you know,” he lifted his ass and pointed to his hip, raising an eyebrow. “You know? And I wanted to take his,” he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “virgin ass.”
Shelby laughed. She was taken with my boyfriend. Everyone is.
We were a block from the park when Marcus lost patience with the traffic and paid the cabbie. We walked through the crowds milling along the sidewalk, eyeballing the beautiful queens strolling past awful paintings.
“George Dubya seems to be a popular subject for bad art,” I observed, holding Shelby’s hand.
“Apparently,” she nodded. “Did that one spell ‘fascist’ right?”
We made our way into the park, pressing close enough to see Lady Bunny announce the closing acts. We had missed most of the show on stage, but no matter. We were really there for the show going on around us.
We were awash in a sea of fabulousness, held aloft on waves of AquaNet.
The three of us pointed out the beauties that caught our eye. Marcus ran off to tell one queen—who may actually have been a woman—that she was too much for words.
He stopped her. “I’m sorry, I just have to look at you for a moment.” She posed and gave herself over to his eyes.
“Thanks,” he smiled. “You are just perfect.”
We stood near a gate, and as the crowd began to thin, hundreds of people filed past us. Marcus and I lapsed into a game of “Who Would You Do?,” an urban game in which players must identify passers-by that they would bed based on looks alone.
“I’d do him,” Marcus said of one passing man.
The man overheard. “Excuse me?”
“We’re just playing a game,” I assured him. “My friend says he would do you based on your looks.”
“Oh, well, thanks . . . ,” the man stammered, blushing and smiling.
Marcus got extra credit for garnering that reaction.
Shelby held close, not playing along. I leaned to ask if she was okay.
“Meh,” she said. “Cramps, they suck. Tell you what, if your friend’s massages are as good as he says, I’d take one.”
“Easy as pie,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Marcus, you’ll rub her down when we get home?”
“Sure, of course, but I’m starving, aren’t you? Can we please eat?”
Shelby voted for Indian. We headed to our favorite place, the one with the lights dripping from the ceiling and the “orange chicken” she craved.
We picked up some beers and climbed the stairs to the restaurant. The hosts of other establishments opened their doors, assuring us they had better food at better prices, but our eyes were set on that familiar orange chicken.
Shelby opened up over dinner. She felt comfortable here. She alerted the waiter that it was Marcus’s birthday. Marcus objected that this was not true, but the damage was done: the lights were dimmed in favor of disco sirens. Crazy birthday music blared as Marcus was served a dish of mango ice cream.
“Not nice,” Marcus smiled. “Not nice at all.”
“Eat your ice cream, bitch,” Shelby laughed, clapping to the music.
Back home, I reminded Marcus about the massage.
“Right,” he said, turning to Shelby. “Where do you ache?”
“Where don’t I? That’s the problem.”
“Okay, come here,” he said. He took her hand and led her to my bedroom. He stood her near my bed, and squeezed her shoulders. “Are you comfortable stripping to your underwear?”
“Sure,” she said, lifting her shirt.
I left to find candles. I poured a bourbon.
When I returned, Shelby was standing bent over, reaching for the ground as Marcus rubbed his palms along her spine. She was wearing panties, he was wearing briefs.
I busied myself with candles.
“Here?” he asked, pressing. “How’s that?”
“It hurts, like everywhere,” she said, standing up.
“Okay. I want you to stretch up, first this side,” he instructed, reaching for the ceiling, “and then this side,” he said, alternating his reach.
Shelby mirrored his movements.
I sat in a chair, sipping my drink, fully clothed.
Marcus asked Shelby to lay face down on the bed. She bunched her forearms to her side; he extended them above her head.
He gently touched her back with his fingers, and then alternated with feathers.
“Just breath deeply, Shelby. Don’t think or respond. Relax.”
Shelby drew a deep breath and exhaled.
“Good, just like that. Keep going.”
Marcus’s hands rubbed up her sides, to her shoulders and arms. He returned to her lower back and worked up again.
He straddled her body to gain leverage.
The two of them looked peaceful and still by the candlelight. Shelby relaxed gradually, breathing and feeling herself in her skin. Marcus communicated no hurries, no sense that this touch would end.
He crouched beside her to work her legs and buttocks. As his palms pressed over the fabric of her panties, Shelby asked, “You want me to take those off?”
“If you want,” Marcus said.
Shelby raised herself to remove her underwear.
Marcus stood to remove his.
He straddled her body again, rubbing her shoulders as he rocked his erection against her bare ass.
Shelby lifted a hip. Her hand found its way to her shaven slit.
“Yep, I’m wet all right. Damn, I miss cock.”
“You want to suck me, baby?” I asked.
She turned, her dark eyes looking through fallen strands at her ever-helpful boyfriend.
“Yeah, hand me that hair tie, okay?”
I put down my glass and stood. I passed her a black tie. She worked it into her hair as I stripped.
Marcus rubbed Shelby, his eyes on her neck.
I kissed her hair.
I lowered myself in front of her face.
She pulled herself up on her elbows, prefacing the blowjob with a self-confident smirk.
“Do your worst,” I said. “I can take it.”
“Ya think?” she said, taking my cock in hand.
She plunged me, deep.
“Hello, Jesus!” I gasped.
“Impressive,” Marcus concurred, as he worked Shelby’s thighs.
She spread her legs to accommodate his hands.
“I understand you are learning about your ass,” Marcus said, resting a hand on her buttock. “Let me show you something . . . ”
Shelby stopped. She held my cock as she looked back at him. “You are not fucking my ass, man.”
Marcus feigned shock. “What do you think I am, some amateur? Of course I’m not fucking your ass. I’m touching it, like this.” He rotated a finger pad on her hole. “And this,” he said, his thumb pressing on her perineum.
Shelby closed her eyes. “Well, yeah, that’s okay.” Her breath began to lift into staccato.
I tapped a knuckle on her skull. “Hi, remember me? Blowjob in progress?”
She turned back to me. “Shithead,” she murmured, taking my cock.
Shelby’s body moved to Marcus’s touch. He lowered his mouth to assist his fingers.
She sighed. Her finger returned to her clit.
It had been so long since I had seen Shelby surrender to her pleasure. I ran my fingers through her fine hair as she chased her orgasm.
“Sweet baby,” I whispered.
“You two are so sweet,” Marcus smiled, his chin resting between Shelby’s cheeks.
“Yeah . . . ,” I nodded, eyes closed.
“And you weren’t kidding about Shelby’s mouth,” Marcus said. “That does look like the best head in North America.”
Shelby stopped. “You want to find out?”
“Sure, if you are offering.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.” She faced me. “You. Move.” She looked back to Marcus. “You. Here.”
“Actually, can we try this?” Marcus asked, turning her shoulders as I moved aside. “I want to ride your face.”
“Whatever, it’s your blowjob, man.”
I sat on my haunches as Marcus straddled her chest. She took his cock in hand.
“You ready?” she smirked.
“Go for it.”
Shelby swallowed Marcus in one fell gulp.
“Unh!”
“See?” I laughed. I rested a hand on his shoulder, watching as he felt that initial rush pass. He exhaled loudly as he began to fuck her face.
Shelby’s fingers worked her clit—or rather, that sweet spot just to its right.
My tongue craved her pussy, but I knew she wasn’t comfortable with that these days.
I opened a cabinet and pulled down a gold box filled with sex toys.
I rummaged for a double bullet vibrator. I inserted the batteries and broke open one of the expired condoms reserved for toys.
“Baby, you want a bullet in your ass?” I asked, sheathing one of the vibrators.
“Mmm mmmf,” Shelby replied.
“You were talking to her or me?” Marcus asked. “’Cause I’ll take one.”
I picked up another condom. “Two ass vibrators, coming up.”
I spread Shelby’s cheeks, applied lube, and slowly inserted the metal egg. She grunted as it passed her sphincter.
“You okay, baby?”
“Mmm mmmf.”
“Good.” I kissed her thigh. “Your turn, baby Marcus.”
“Here, I’ll do it myself,” he said. He lifted his hand from Shelby’s scalp and took the remaining egg. He turned to slide it into himself.
I switched the vibrators on low. My friends’ asses hummed in quiet harmony.
I sat back, sipping my bourbon and watching.
With Marcus on her torso, Shelby was flying blind as she masturbated, unable to see past her own chest.
Her nimble fingers, trained on a cello’s bow, twitched as she sought the right note.
She suddenly arched her back, groaning as she raised her hips.
Just as abruptly, she fell back to the bed.
She missed that train.
“Grrrrrr,” she growled into Marcus’s cock. She drew a breath. Frustrated but determined, she started over.
Marcus rested his cock in her mouth. “You almost had that one, Shelby.”
I wanted to help. I knew it had been a while since she had cum, and she was trying hard. But close as she was, I didn’t want to interfere with my own hand—her fingers were better tuned to her body than anyone else’s could be.
Still, she needed to get off. Badly.
“Baby, you want another vibrator?”
“Muuuhf,” she shrugged. She bobbed her head on Marcus’s cock, signaling another round. He parlayed with his own thrusts.
Her fingers set back to work.
I took up a vibrating egg and lay it alongside her clit.
“Mmfff!” she called.
“Keep doing that,” Marcus suggested.
“Got it. Come on, baby.”
“Mmff . . .”
Her fingers worked and I followed her actions, moving the vibrator to press her clit back against her fingertips.
Her fingers flew.
The vibrator buzzed, louder than those inside their bodies.
She lifted her hips.
“Nnnngguh . . .”
“That’s it, that’s it . . .”
“Come on. Shelby . . .”
“Nnngguh . . .” Shelby spat Marcus’s cock from her mouth.
And she roared.
Loud and long.
“Good, good!” I called under her shouts.
“Too hot,” Marcus said. “So hot, Shelby.”
Her body fell back on the bed.
She lay there, panting, her chest rising and falling. I languidly traced the vibrator on her thigh.
“Shit, man.” She laughed. “Okay, Marcus, get off me.”
Marcus lifted himself from her body and lay back on the bed. She sat up, bent over, then stood.
“Whoa, bad idea.” She fell back into a chair. She drew a deep breath. “Okay, man, I needed that.”
“You okay, baby?,” I asked, laying next to Marcus.
“Oh yeah. Oh yeah, I needed that. I haven't come in so-oo-oo long. I thought it was broken.”
“Nah, just on hiatus. Welcome back.” I kissed Marcus. “Nice work, everyone.”
“You boys entertain yourselves,” Shelby said, catching her breath. “I’m just going to sit here for now.”
I brought Shelby a glass of water, and picked up where she left off on Marcus’s cock.
That night, she slept nude in my arms, as usual, content despite my snores.
Marcus crashed in the back room.
The next day, we lounged nude until Shelby had to head home. She dressed and kissed us goodbye, lingering long for our kiss.
She made her way to Penn Station.
I poured another cup of coffee and sat next to Marcus.
“Can we talk about Shelby?” he asked.
“Sure, like what?”
“She really is something else.”
“I know.”
“Very pretty,”
“Yeah.” I sipped my coffee.
“But Jefferson, she really is pretty young.”
“I know.”
“You guys are cool, and that’s great. But she is young.”
“I know.”
“Well, you know.” Marcus flipped open his laptop. “So now, who are we going to fuck today?”
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
fucking
gay
erotica
oral sex
anal sex
group sex
threesome
sex toy
He thrust his hand forward like a gun, freezing her mid step.
“Shut up! It’s ‘Daddy,’ shithead.”
She looked down. In a quiet voice, she whispered, “Hello . . . Daddy.”
What is this shit? he thought. He could fix it; she didn’t fuck it up . . . not yet. He drew a breath and exhaled.
“Where’s my bourbon?”
She left quickly to get his drink.
“I can see why you like this movie,” Shelby said.
“Shut up!” I growled.
“You shut up. Drink your bourbon, shithead.”
Shelby and I were unable to have intercourse for a couple of months, as she had undergone a medical procedure that required healing.
Our sexual activity may have been curtailed, but nothing affected the enjoyment of our ongoing project: mining the generation gap.
Most of the time, we don’t think much of the two decades between us.
We find plenty to talk about, sharing stories, opinions, books and, above all, time. We have a very relaxed and comfortable groove.
Still, every now and then, we trip over the intervening years.
Like the time we heard on the radio news that Jerry Falwell was in failing health.
“That’s one grave I look forward to dancing on,” I said.
“Who’s Jerry Falwell?” she asked.
I looked at her and realized that to her, at age twenty, Jerry Falwell is ancient history. He was as meaningful to her as, say, Whittaker Chambers would have been to me at the same age.
So I told her about Jerry Falwell.
This education works both ways. It’s refreshing to know someone who can explain to me why the faces on People magazine are famous, someone who introduces me to new music while revering our shared favorites. (I like Radiohead; she would kill her grandmother to see them live.)
When she discovered I had never seen “American Dad” or “Aqua Teen Hunger Force,” she introduced me to “Adult Swim.” She was aghast that I had not seen “Sin City” or “Revenge of the Sith,” and put those DVDs in my player.
I scored points for realizing she needed to be introduced to David Lynch. Mind you, she did scoff when I dusted off my ancient VHS copy of “Blue Velvet.”
“Man, that is so old school. Does it even play?”
“It plays,” I said, fast-forwarding through the FBI warning. “Now, you be nice—my college roommate Jetboy shoplifted this for me when it was new. It’s a treasure.”
“Whatever, man. Last century.”
We screened “Blue Velvet” as we watched anything on television, cuddled nude on my bed, arms and legs entwined.
My fingers isolated strands of her fine hair. Her fingers plucked my nipples raw.
Intercourse was off the menu, but we still spent most of our time together nude and within arm’s reach.
We enjoy that intimacy.
I have to admit, though, that it could be frustrating.
Our bodies are accustomed to reaching out for one another. Touching and kissing lead to fucking, fucking leads to new twists and turns, leading to new highs.
Feeling her head on my chest as we watched movies, caressing her shoulders and breasts, I can’t help but want her.
I sighed. “You want a foot massage, baby?”
She squinted and raised an eyebrow toward my hard cock. I shrugged. It would pass.
Shelby pointed her toes toward the oil.
I warmed my palms.
Shelby’s medical procedure had not gone smoothly. She ditched one doctor in favor of another, and endured cramps and leaking. She retained weight and her skin broke out. She felt awful and ugly.
Given the circumstances, her libido took a hike.
I wanted to reassure her. This hurts, I would say, but it will pass. I held her hand and spooned her as she slept. I kissed her forehead and cheeks.
“I’m broken,” she lamented, curling up.
“You are my sweet baby,” I whispered, kissing her hair. “It’s going to be better.”
Marcus was going to be in town one weekend, and asked if he could stay with me. His trip included a night that Shelby was planning to stay over. I asked her if she would mind if Marcus joined us.
“It would be cool to meet him, finally,” she said. “But he knows I’m broken, right? He can’t fuck me.”
“He knows, and that’s no problem,” I said.
Such is my life now, I thought. Most of my friends assume that meeting one another will include sex.
Marcus and I decided to take Shelby to Tompkins Square Park for Wigstock, the annual celebration of all things drag.
“Drag queens?” Shelby grinned. “Man, I’m so there.”
As we cabbed downtown, Marcus told us about his recent clients, using euphemisms and gestures to foil our eavesdropping driver.
“This guy—let’s call him ‘Brick’—he was pretty hot. So he wanted to, you know,” Marcus said, pointing first to his dick then, looking to be sure the cabbie didn’t notice, pointing to his mouth, “You know what I mean? And that was fine, but I also knew he had never, you know,” he lifted his ass and pointed to his hip, raising an eyebrow. “You know? And I wanted to take his,” he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “virgin ass.”
Shelby laughed. She was taken with my boyfriend. Everyone is.
We were a block from the park when Marcus lost patience with the traffic and paid the cabbie. We walked through the crowds milling along the sidewalk, eyeballing the beautiful queens strolling past awful paintings.
“George Dubya seems to be a popular subject for bad art,” I observed, holding Shelby’s hand.
“Apparently,” she nodded. “Did that one spell ‘fascist’ right?”
We made our way into the park, pressing close enough to see Lady Bunny announce the closing acts. We had missed most of the show on stage, but no matter. We were really there for the show going on around us.
We were awash in a sea of fabulousness, held aloft on waves of AquaNet.
The three of us pointed out the beauties that caught our eye. Marcus ran off to tell one queen—who may actually have been a woman—that she was too much for words.
He stopped her. “I’m sorry, I just have to look at you for a moment.” She posed and gave herself over to his eyes.
“Thanks,” he smiled. “You are just perfect.”
We stood near a gate, and as the crowd began to thin, hundreds of people filed past us. Marcus and I lapsed into a game of “Who Would You Do?,” an urban game in which players must identify passers-by that they would bed based on looks alone.
“I’d do him,” Marcus said of one passing man.
The man overheard. “Excuse me?”
“We’re just playing a game,” I assured him. “My friend says he would do you based on your looks.”
“Oh, well, thanks . . . ,” the man stammered, blushing and smiling.
Marcus got extra credit for garnering that reaction.
Shelby held close, not playing along. I leaned to ask if she was okay.
“Meh,” she said. “Cramps, they suck. Tell you what, if your friend’s massages are as good as he says, I’d take one.”
“Easy as pie,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Marcus, you’ll rub her down when we get home?”
“Sure, of course, but I’m starving, aren’t you? Can we please eat?”
Shelby voted for Indian. We headed to our favorite place, the one with the lights dripping from the ceiling and the “orange chicken” she craved.
We picked up some beers and climbed the stairs to the restaurant. The hosts of other establishments opened their doors, assuring us they had better food at better prices, but our eyes were set on that familiar orange chicken.
Shelby opened up over dinner. She felt comfortable here. She alerted the waiter that it was Marcus’s birthday. Marcus objected that this was not true, but the damage was done: the lights were dimmed in favor of disco sirens. Crazy birthday music blared as Marcus was served a dish of mango ice cream.
“Not nice,” Marcus smiled. “Not nice at all.”
“Eat your ice cream, bitch,” Shelby laughed, clapping to the music.
Back home, I reminded Marcus about the massage.
“Right,” he said, turning to Shelby. “Where do you ache?”
“Where don’t I? That’s the problem.”
“Okay, come here,” he said. He took her hand and led her to my bedroom. He stood her near my bed, and squeezed her shoulders. “Are you comfortable stripping to your underwear?”
“Sure,” she said, lifting her shirt.
I left to find candles. I poured a bourbon.
When I returned, Shelby was standing bent over, reaching for the ground as Marcus rubbed his palms along her spine. She was wearing panties, he was wearing briefs.
I busied myself with candles.
“Here?” he asked, pressing. “How’s that?”
“It hurts, like everywhere,” she said, standing up.
“Okay. I want you to stretch up, first this side,” he instructed, reaching for the ceiling, “and then this side,” he said, alternating his reach.
Shelby mirrored his movements.
I sat in a chair, sipping my drink, fully clothed.
Marcus asked Shelby to lay face down on the bed. She bunched her forearms to her side; he extended them above her head.
He gently touched her back with his fingers, and then alternated with feathers.
“Just breath deeply, Shelby. Don’t think or respond. Relax.”
Shelby drew a deep breath and exhaled.
“Good, just like that. Keep going.”
Marcus’s hands rubbed up her sides, to her shoulders and arms. He returned to her lower back and worked up again.
He straddled her body to gain leverage.
The two of them looked peaceful and still by the candlelight. Shelby relaxed gradually, breathing and feeling herself in her skin. Marcus communicated no hurries, no sense that this touch would end.
He crouched beside her to work her legs and buttocks. As his palms pressed over the fabric of her panties, Shelby asked, “You want me to take those off?”
“If you want,” Marcus said.
Shelby raised herself to remove her underwear.
Marcus stood to remove his.
He straddled her body again, rubbing her shoulders as he rocked his erection against her bare ass.
Shelby lifted a hip. Her hand found its way to her shaven slit.
“Yep, I’m wet all right. Damn, I miss cock.”
“You want to suck me, baby?” I asked.
She turned, her dark eyes looking through fallen strands at her ever-helpful boyfriend.
“Yeah, hand me that hair tie, okay?”
I put down my glass and stood. I passed her a black tie. She worked it into her hair as I stripped.
Marcus rubbed Shelby, his eyes on her neck.
I kissed her hair.
I lowered myself in front of her face.
She pulled herself up on her elbows, prefacing the blowjob with a self-confident smirk.
“Do your worst,” I said. “I can take it.”
“Ya think?” she said, taking my cock in hand.
She plunged me, deep.
“Hello, Jesus!” I gasped.
“Impressive,” Marcus concurred, as he worked Shelby’s thighs.
She spread her legs to accommodate his hands.
“I understand you are learning about your ass,” Marcus said, resting a hand on her buttock. “Let me show you something . . . ”
Shelby stopped. She held my cock as she looked back at him. “You are not fucking my ass, man.”
Marcus feigned shock. “What do you think I am, some amateur? Of course I’m not fucking your ass. I’m touching it, like this.” He rotated a finger pad on her hole. “And this,” he said, his thumb pressing on her perineum.
Shelby closed her eyes. “Well, yeah, that’s okay.” Her breath began to lift into staccato.
I tapped a knuckle on her skull. “Hi, remember me? Blowjob in progress?”
She turned back to me. “Shithead,” she murmured, taking my cock.
Shelby’s body moved to Marcus’s touch. He lowered his mouth to assist his fingers.
She sighed. Her finger returned to her clit.
It had been so long since I had seen Shelby surrender to her pleasure. I ran my fingers through her fine hair as she chased her orgasm.
“Sweet baby,” I whispered.
“You two are so sweet,” Marcus smiled, his chin resting between Shelby’s cheeks.
“Yeah . . . ,” I nodded, eyes closed.
“And you weren’t kidding about Shelby’s mouth,” Marcus said. “That does look like the best head in North America.”
Shelby stopped. “You want to find out?”
“Sure, if you are offering.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.” She faced me. “You. Move.” She looked back to Marcus. “You. Here.”
“Actually, can we try this?” Marcus asked, turning her shoulders as I moved aside. “I want to ride your face.”
“Whatever, it’s your blowjob, man.”
I sat on my haunches as Marcus straddled her chest. She took his cock in hand.
“You ready?” she smirked.
“Go for it.”
Shelby swallowed Marcus in one fell gulp.
“Unh!”
“See?” I laughed. I rested a hand on his shoulder, watching as he felt that initial rush pass. He exhaled loudly as he began to fuck her face.
Shelby’s fingers worked her clit—or rather, that sweet spot just to its right.
My tongue craved her pussy, but I knew she wasn’t comfortable with that these days.
I opened a cabinet and pulled down a gold box filled with sex toys.
I rummaged for a double bullet vibrator. I inserted the batteries and broke open one of the expired condoms reserved for toys.
“Baby, you want a bullet in your ass?” I asked, sheathing one of the vibrators.
“Mmm mmmf,” Shelby replied.
“You were talking to her or me?” Marcus asked. “’Cause I’ll take one.”
I picked up another condom. “Two ass vibrators, coming up.”
I spread Shelby’s cheeks, applied lube, and slowly inserted the metal egg. She grunted as it passed her sphincter.
“You okay, baby?”
“Mmm mmmf.”
“Good.” I kissed her thigh. “Your turn, baby Marcus.”
“Here, I’ll do it myself,” he said. He lifted his hand from Shelby’s scalp and took the remaining egg. He turned to slide it into himself.
I switched the vibrators on low. My friends’ asses hummed in quiet harmony.
I sat back, sipping my bourbon and watching.
With Marcus on her torso, Shelby was flying blind as she masturbated, unable to see past her own chest.
Her nimble fingers, trained on a cello’s bow, twitched as she sought the right note.
She suddenly arched her back, groaning as she raised her hips.
Just as abruptly, she fell back to the bed.
She missed that train.
“Grrrrrr,” she growled into Marcus’s cock. She drew a breath. Frustrated but determined, she started over.
Marcus rested his cock in her mouth. “You almost had that one, Shelby.”
I wanted to help. I knew it had been a while since she had cum, and she was trying hard. But close as she was, I didn’t want to interfere with my own hand—her fingers were better tuned to her body than anyone else’s could be.
Still, she needed to get off. Badly.
“Baby, you want another vibrator?”
“Muuuhf,” she shrugged. She bobbed her head on Marcus’s cock, signaling another round. He parlayed with his own thrusts.
Her fingers set back to work.
I took up a vibrating egg and lay it alongside her clit.
“Mmfff!” she called.
“Keep doing that,” Marcus suggested.
“Got it. Come on, baby.”
“Mmff . . .”
Her fingers worked and I followed her actions, moving the vibrator to press her clit back against her fingertips.
Her fingers flew.
The vibrator buzzed, louder than those inside their bodies.
She lifted her hips.
“Nnnngguh . . .”
“That’s it, that’s it . . .”
“Come on. Shelby . . .”
“Nnngguh . . .” Shelby spat Marcus’s cock from her mouth.
And she roared.
Loud and long.
“Good, good!” I called under her shouts.
“Too hot,” Marcus said. “So hot, Shelby.”
Her body fell back on the bed.
She lay there, panting, her chest rising and falling. I languidly traced the vibrator on her thigh.
“Shit, man.” She laughed. “Okay, Marcus, get off me.”
Marcus lifted himself from her body and lay back on the bed. She sat up, bent over, then stood.
“Whoa, bad idea.” She fell back into a chair. She drew a deep breath. “Okay, man, I needed that.”
“You okay, baby?,” I asked, laying next to Marcus.
“Oh yeah. Oh yeah, I needed that. I haven't come in so-oo-oo long. I thought it was broken.”
“Nah, just on hiatus. Welcome back.” I kissed Marcus. “Nice work, everyone.”
“You boys entertain yourselves,” Shelby said, catching her breath. “I’m just going to sit here for now.”
I brought Shelby a glass of water, and picked up where she left off on Marcus’s cock.
That night, she slept nude in my arms, as usual, content despite my snores.
Marcus crashed in the back room.
The next day, we lounged nude until Shelby had to head home. She dressed and kissed us goodbye, lingering long for our kiss.
She made her way to Penn Station.
I poured another cup of coffee and sat next to Marcus.
“Can we talk about Shelby?” he asked.
“Sure, like what?”
“She really is something else.”
“I know.”
“Very pretty,”
“Yeah.” I sipped my coffee.
“But Jefferson, she really is pretty young.”
“I know.”
“You guys are cool, and that’s great. But she is young.”
“I know.”
“Well, you know.” Marcus flipped open his laptop. “So now, who are we going to fuck today?”
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
fucking
gay
erotica
oral sex
anal sex
group sex
threesome
sex toy
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Fan Fiction III
Another piece of fan fiction has come in over the transom.
Fan fiction is your opportunity to write yourself into the story, gentle reader. If you have thoughts about what might happen if you met Jefferson and/or his friends, write them up and send the results my way. If your writing passes muster, it may wind up on these pages.
And if it turns the readers on, who knows what may happen?
This tale comes from a reader in California who wishes to remain anonymous. She wonders: what if Jefferson was made to be submissive?
it’s late when i get into the city. jefferson is nothing yet everything i expected. usually, handsome men turn me off because once you get past their smarminess, there is nothing but vanity. but jefferson is different. he has a quiet confidence about him that precedes the delicious smile whenever he enters a room.
or in this case, gate 7B, where he meets me for the first time.
"hello," he whispers, as he kisses my cheek. immediately, i am excited at the sound of his voice. since this is the first time i hear him, i clear my head of any previous expectations.
"hey, jefferson," i say, with a shortness of breath. does he notice my nervousness, my awe of him? if he does, he ignores it.
"ready?" he asks. in my mind, this opens up floodgates. ready? i was born ready, but i am unprepared for this. where is my ticket? can i turn back now?
"sure . . . just give me a sec. i need to call matt to say good night." i find a place away from him to call my twelve-year-old sweet boy who has no idea of his mother's illicitness.
"ready now?" he asks a second time patiently, as he greets me with the sweetest of smiles. even his eyes are smiling. if i look too long, i'll be forever in this moment. its not a bad place to be, but there is work to be done.
"yes, jefferson, im ready," i say with a little laugh.
he hails a cab because in this city of sidewalks and subways, he doesnt have a car.
about six years ago, i began an online sexual affair with a woman. she told me the first time we "talked" that she had just gotten home from a cab ride where she masturbated. since i never ride in cabs, i couldn’t imagine her experience. but now was a great time to try.
"so, how was the journey?" he asks politely.
"it's worth the destination. it was long. the guy next to me kept looking at me like he had something to say. but i kept writing in my journal."
"was he hot?"
"mmm . . . just your average coast to coast traveler. i don’t remember his face. i was too busy trying to avoid it so i wouldn’t have to start a conversation."
how do i steer this from nicey nice to some form of sexual banter, at the very least?
"jefferson, are we far from my hotel?" i ask casually.
"hotel? i thought you were staying at my place?"
me? at his place? i thought i told him i wouldn’t be invading his space. in case his ex father in law bernard made an emergency stop.
"no, baby. i have a room. but jefferson, how far are we from my hotel?" of course, he can't answer this question because he thinks were going to his place. that’s what he tells the cabbie, anyway.
"we are a short ride from my place. stop by for awhile."
a short ride? that’s plenty. "so, i was wondering. should we get the first kiss over with?" i ask as i look into his eyes without caving in to the desire to look away.
this is hard. and if i were a man, i would be, too.
"let’s, shall we?" and with this, i am given the liberty to do what it is i came for. i came for jefferson. i came to experience the man whose blog has changed my sexual nature. forever.
he leans in towards me, and as i get closer, i begin to giggle. shit. what an inopportune time. the giggling begins and takes a life of its own, and i look at him, and he looks at me like i am crazy.
"jefferson. i. am. sorry," i say haltingly. "it. isnt. you. im. just nervous. im so nervous that im laughing over the fact that im so nervous."
damn. why the hell doesn’t the giggling stop? okay, ive been in situations where the giggling has invaded my system. what did i do then? and then i remember. breathe. inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. i am in control again.
"jefferson." i move closer to him so i can feel his breath. i lean closer still and kiss him. first, slow butterfly kisses. then as i look deeper into his gaze, i become hungry. i kiss him with such force that it scares me but excites me more. this is what i came to do.
i reach down to feel if he is as excited as i am, and i cannot tell what it is i am holding. my mind cannot register that it is jefferson’s cock. when i get my bearings, i decide to inspect it, not with my eyes for it is too dark. but rather, with my mouth and tongue.
it's been awhile since i’ve had a man’s cock in my mouth . . . or any other place in my body, for that matter. i’ve been celibate for awhile now. at first, it was for intimacy purposes. then it was because it was a novel pursuit. finally, it was because i wanted to wait for jefferson to break me open.
in a way i have not been broken before.
i suck his cock for awhile, yet the man doesn’t cum. i am intrigued. any other man would make me feel i wasn’t doing it right, but jefferson likes to make women cum first. again and again.
so, i am not surprised when he reaches under my skirt. he finds my clit right away because i do not wear undies. they just get in the way. have i told this to him before? either way, it is a surprise.
he fingers me as i suck his cock. i am careful not to groan, but my slurping cannot be quieted. the cabbie was getting a show; i hope hes driving slowly. i cum on jefferson’s fingers, and instinctively, i place them in my mouth. i taste what he has done to me, and i want him to have a taste, too.
as i go back to his hard dick, i detour to his mouth. i cannot get enough of this mans lips. his tongue. i cannot wait until i am in the comfort of his room. finally, the cab pulls over.
how we make it out of the cab to jefferson’s place to his bedroom is a blur. by the time i recover my senses, i am straddling over his naked body, about to put a velvet blindfold on him. i have to tie him up, this i know, but first i want him to finger me again.
usually, i am conversational during sex. i like to say what i like. i like to ask if he’s okay. i like to say where he should go next. i like to ask for directions. but not tonight. not with jefferson. i’ve played this scene over and over, and i do not care for chit chat. i want to do this, and i need to do it without verbosity.
i blindfold jefferson, but before i do, i kiss his eyelids gently. his eyes are so beautiful, and its almost a shame to hide them behind this fabric, but i come here with a purpose. one more gaze to try to read his soul, and the velvet is on.
he fingers me furiously. i let him. i cum on his fingers, enjoying the growing size of his dick. but then it is time. i move from his fingers and lovingly take his arms and find the rope that will bind them. this is a ritual that i have not done with anyone, nor had done to me, and the novelty of it calms me while it awakens me at the same time.
"jefferson, thank you for letting me." and with this, i hit his ass with my hand. the sting makes my eyes water. the sound of my hand against his skin makes me wet. i see his cock, and i dive for it. i find his balls, his asshole, and the area in between. i am so hungry. i am so desperate. for what? for jefferson.
i grab the flogger, the one he let me borrow, to use against his skin. i bring it down hard on the side of his leg, and the tears begin to come.
"jefferson, should i stop?" i ask him, trying to mask the sob about to come out.
"no, baby, you are doing fine."
"say my name, jefferson."
"maria." and i smack him again, this time the opposite leg. i touch what i had done, and i feel the welts. tears stream down. i am happy. i am scared. i am with jefferson.
i take his cock in my mouth. sucking more savagely than before. i am careful not to hurt him with my teeth. i am tasting my spit, my tears, and some of his cum. i pull away. where is that dildo and the lube?
"baby, are you here with me?" i am afraid he is asleep. he has done this so many times before. what makes me think i am different? who am i? why me?
"i am here." and with that, i slap him across his right cheek. his head jerks to the side, and i am scared i really hurt him. but i want to hurt him. it causes me such pleasure. i know i cannot turn back after tonight.
i lube the dildo, then i go back to his lips. i kiss him. i search for something in his lips; i search for answers. as i search, i insert the dildo in his ass. gently. i do not like this, but I’m curious about it, and i know jefferson would want me to do it.
he lifts his hips up, and as he does, i feel his cock against my pussy. it is difficult to ride him and manipulate the dildo, so i leave his cock alone for awhile and concentrate on his ass. can he cum this way? i pull the dildo from his ass, and use the flogger to hit him harder than necessary.
"jefferson. jefferson." it’s my mantra, my prayer.
"maria." i hit him again.
i am addicted.
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
BDSM
erotica
Fan fiction is your opportunity to write yourself into the story, gentle reader. If you have thoughts about what might happen if you met Jefferson and/or his friends, write them up and send the results my way. If your writing passes muster, it may wind up on these pages.
And if it turns the readers on, who knows what may happen?
This tale comes from a reader in California who wishes to remain anonymous. She wonders: what if Jefferson was made to be submissive?
it’s late when i get into the city. jefferson is nothing yet everything i expected. usually, handsome men turn me off because once you get past their smarminess, there is nothing but vanity. but jefferson is different. he has a quiet confidence about him that precedes the delicious smile whenever he enters a room.
or in this case, gate 7B, where he meets me for the first time.
"hello," he whispers, as he kisses my cheek. immediately, i am excited at the sound of his voice. since this is the first time i hear him, i clear my head of any previous expectations.
"hey, jefferson," i say, with a shortness of breath. does he notice my nervousness, my awe of him? if he does, he ignores it.
"ready?" he asks. in my mind, this opens up floodgates. ready? i was born ready, but i am unprepared for this. where is my ticket? can i turn back now?
"sure . . . just give me a sec. i need to call matt to say good night." i find a place away from him to call my twelve-year-old sweet boy who has no idea of his mother's illicitness.
"ready now?" he asks a second time patiently, as he greets me with the sweetest of smiles. even his eyes are smiling. if i look too long, i'll be forever in this moment. its not a bad place to be, but there is work to be done.
"yes, jefferson, im ready," i say with a little laugh.
he hails a cab because in this city of sidewalks and subways, he doesnt have a car.
about six years ago, i began an online sexual affair with a woman. she told me the first time we "talked" that she had just gotten home from a cab ride where she masturbated. since i never ride in cabs, i couldn’t imagine her experience. but now was a great time to try.
"so, how was the journey?" he asks politely.
"it's worth the destination. it was long. the guy next to me kept looking at me like he had something to say. but i kept writing in my journal."
"was he hot?"
"mmm . . . just your average coast to coast traveler. i don’t remember his face. i was too busy trying to avoid it so i wouldn’t have to start a conversation."
how do i steer this from nicey nice to some form of sexual banter, at the very least?
"jefferson, are we far from my hotel?" i ask casually.
"hotel? i thought you were staying at my place?"
me? at his place? i thought i told him i wouldn’t be invading his space. in case his ex father in law bernard made an emergency stop.
"no, baby. i have a room. but jefferson, how far are we from my hotel?" of course, he can't answer this question because he thinks were going to his place. that’s what he tells the cabbie, anyway.
"we are a short ride from my place. stop by for awhile."
a short ride? that’s plenty. "so, i was wondering. should we get the first kiss over with?" i ask as i look into his eyes without caving in to the desire to look away.
this is hard. and if i were a man, i would be, too.
"let’s, shall we?" and with this, i am given the liberty to do what it is i came for. i came for jefferson. i came to experience the man whose blog has changed my sexual nature. forever.
he leans in towards me, and as i get closer, i begin to giggle. shit. what an inopportune time. the giggling begins and takes a life of its own, and i look at him, and he looks at me like i am crazy.
"jefferson. i. am. sorry," i say haltingly. "it. isnt. you. im. just nervous. im so nervous that im laughing over the fact that im so nervous."
damn. why the hell doesn’t the giggling stop? okay, ive been in situations where the giggling has invaded my system. what did i do then? and then i remember. breathe. inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. i am in control again.
"jefferson." i move closer to him so i can feel his breath. i lean closer still and kiss him. first, slow butterfly kisses. then as i look deeper into his gaze, i become hungry. i kiss him with such force that it scares me but excites me more. this is what i came to do.
i reach down to feel if he is as excited as i am, and i cannot tell what it is i am holding. my mind cannot register that it is jefferson’s cock. when i get my bearings, i decide to inspect it, not with my eyes for it is too dark. but rather, with my mouth and tongue.
it's been awhile since i’ve had a man’s cock in my mouth . . . or any other place in my body, for that matter. i’ve been celibate for awhile now. at first, it was for intimacy purposes. then it was because it was a novel pursuit. finally, it was because i wanted to wait for jefferson to break me open.
in a way i have not been broken before.
i suck his cock for awhile, yet the man doesn’t cum. i am intrigued. any other man would make me feel i wasn’t doing it right, but jefferson likes to make women cum first. again and again.
so, i am not surprised when he reaches under my skirt. he finds my clit right away because i do not wear undies. they just get in the way. have i told this to him before? either way, it is a surprise.
he fingers me as i suck his cock. i am careful not to groan, but my slurping cannot be quieted. the cabbie was getting a show; i hope hes driving slowly. i cum on jefferson’s fingers, and instinctively, i place them in my mouth. i taste what he has done to me, and i want him to have a taste, too.
as i go back to his hard dick, i detour to his mouth. i cannot get enough of this mans lips. his tongue. i cannot wait until i am in the comfort of his room. finally, the cab pulls over.
how we make it out of the cab to jefferson’s place to his bedroom is a blur. by the time i recover my senses, i am straddling over his naked body, about to put a velvet blindfold on him. i have to tie him up, this i know, but first i want him to finger me again.
usually, i am conversational during sex. i like to say what i like. i like to ask if he’s okay. i like to say where he should go next. i like to ask for directions. but not tonight. not with jefferson. i’ve played this scene over and over, and i do not care for chit chat. i want to do this, and i need to do it without verbosity.
i blindfold jefferson, but before i do, i kiss his eyelids gently. his eyes are so beautiful, and its almost a shame to hide them behind this fabric, but i come here with a purpose. one more gaze to try to read his soul, and the velvet is on.
he fingers me furiously. i let him. i cum on his fingers, enjoying the growing size of his dick. but then it is time. i move from his fingers and lovingly take his arms and find the rope that will bind them. this is a ritual that i have not done with anyone, nor had done to me, and the novelty of it calms me while it awakens me at the same time.
"jefferson, thank you for letting me." and with this, i hit his ass with my hand. the sting makes my eyes water. the sound of my hand against his skin makes me wet. i see his cock, and i dive for it. i find his balls, his asshole, and the area in between. i am so hungry. i am so desperate. for what? for jefferson.
i grab the flogger, the one he let me borrow, to use against his skin. i bring it down hard on the side of his leg, and the tears begin to come.
"jefferson, should i stop?" i ask him, trying to mask the sob about to come out.
"no, baby, you are doing fine."
"say my name, jefferson."
"maria." and i smack him again, this time the opposite leg. i touch what i had done, and i feel the welts. tears stream down. i am happy. i am scared. i am with jefferson.
i take his cock in my mouth. sucking more savagely than before. i am careful not to hurt him with my teeth. i am tasting my spit, my tears, and some of his cum. i pull away. where is that dildo and the lube?
"baby, are you here with me?" i am afraid he is asleep. he has done this so many times before. what makes me think i am different? who am i? why me?
"i am here." and with that, i slap him across his right cheek. his head jerks to the side, and i am scared i really hurt him. but i want to hurt him. it causes me such pleasure. i know i cannot turn back after tonight.
i lube the dildo, then i go back to his lips. i kiss him. i search for something in his lips; i search for answers. as i search, i insert the dildo in his ass. gently. i do not like this, but I’m curious about it, and i know jefferson would want me to do it.
he lifts his hips up, and as he does, i feel his cock against my pussy. it is difficult to ride him and manipulate the dildo, so i leave his cock alone for awhile and concentrate on his ass. can he cum this way? i pull the dildo from his ass, and use the flogger to hit him harder than necessary.
"jefferson. jefferson." it’s my mantra, my prayer.
"maria." i hit him again.
i am addicted.
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Friday, December 02, 2005
Gay Abe
When your name is “Jefferson,” you develop an interest in presidential trivia.
A while ago, I was having lunch with a friend of mine, a photography curator, when he posed an interesting question:
Who was the most handsome president, while in office?
I put down my fork and pondered this. First, I had to break down the question.
My friend specified that only sitting presidents were to be judged. While Eisenhower and Ford were handsome as young men, neither had been particularly good looking while in office, so they would not be among the contenders.
Knowing the questioner also eliminated some possibilities. My friend was fond of asserting that all history prior to the invention of photography was irrelevant. So while my namesake Jefferson was by all accounts quite a looker, I could be sure that my friend was not considering anyone in office prior to 1839.
I also knew my friend would not be seeking an obvious answer. My first thought might be Kennedy, but there was no way he was considering a modern president. I could eliminate everyone after, say, Franklin Roosevelt.
Finally, he had not phrased the question to ask who, in my opinion, was the most handsome president. My friend had a correct answer in mind; my opinion did not come into play.
I chewed my salad and flipped through mental images of all presidents circa 1839 through circa 1939.
“Well,” I ventured, “I’ve seen a photograph of Wilson seated at his desk that suggests he was hung like a horse. But you are no size queen.”
He shook his head.
I took another bite.
The preponderance of dated nineteenth-century facial hair would seem to discount many contenders, particularly Arthur with his ludicrous muttonchops.
And Lincoln, while blessed with genius, grace and beauty, was never anyone’s idea of handsome.
Cleveland and Taft were too portly . . . Hoover too staid . . . Theodore Roosevelt too obnoxious . . .
I chewed it over.
“I’m going to venture a guess,” I offered. “Cool-as-a-cucumber Coolidge.”
“Nope,” he replied. “You won’t guess it. Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Franklin Pierce.”
“No shit, he was all that?”
“Yes he was, and I’ll prove it when we get back to my archives.”
After lunch, I followed my friend back to his office. He rummaged through a flat file and produced a print, based on a daguerreotype portrait of our fourteenth president.
I whistled.
“Hot damn, that is one fine looking president.”
“Handsome, right?”
“I’ll say. He must’ve been some lady killer.”
“I don’t know about that,” the curator replied, returning the print to its folder. “But I’d do him.”
I thought about that, and decided that while there is no question that Pierce was a pretty boy, he did not top my list of presidents I would most like to fuck.
That honor still goes to homely Honest Abe.
Lincoln stole my heart many Februarys ago, as his sweet cardboard face stared down from above the cursive alphabet crowning the blackboard of Mrs. Huey’s classroom.
His partner, Washington, stared away, reserved and haughty.
Lincoln looked me right in the eye, his mouth almost smiling.
I’m sure my Confederate ancestors would roll in their red-dirt graves to think that I can imagine hot sweaty sex with the Northern Aggressor.
Maybe my desire is helped along by the long-standing notion, expressed most recently in C. A. Tripp’s The Intimate World of Abraham Lincoln, that he was physically drawn to men, in that prelapsarian era when men could still hold hands and profess love for one another.
Maybe I recognize that we would find some common ground as we compared notes about our crazy wives.
Or maybe my lust for Lincoln is wrapped up in my feelings about freedom after my recent emancipation , and my subsequent longing for honesty.
I don’t examine it too much. All I know is, every now and then I pull out a five spot and think, “Baby, you had me at four score and seven.”
Alas, the man of my dreams was laid to rest a century before my birth, my lust stillborn to the midwife of cruel fate.
If there is a heaven, I will find Mister Lincoln—yes, long before I search out Jim Morrison or Kiki de Montparnasse—and I will kiss every inch of his long lanky frame.
To my great astonishment, I recently got as close to this nirvana as I am likely to be while on this mortal plain.
Jimmy showed up just ahead of the first guests at the monthly male party we co-host.
We talked in the kitchen as we do, but he was a bit frantic with organizing his list and dealing with guests. I poured myself a bourbon and retired to the couch to watch as things progressed.
A regular soon joined me. He was nude, as Jimmy insists that all attendees check their clothing. I was fully dressed, as I must be ready to answer the door at the party’s beginning.
The regular and I chatted and nodded at the nude men on their way to cruise the bedrooms, until two new arrivals caught our eyes.
They were each very tall, so tall that they instinctively ducked as they entered my doorway.
“Looks like basketball practice let out early tonight,” my pal noted.
“Gee, they are six five, easy.”
“At least. Well, that’s a novel twist.”
Jimmy sat the boys at my table and asked them to fill out the form that all partygoers must have on file. (Jimmy uses this data to organize parties so that there are a balanced number of tops to bottoms, and so on.)
The dark-haired boy was seated with his back to me, but I could see the other very clearly. He was handsome, with wavy sandy blonde hair and nice full lips. As he undressed to check his clothes, his smooth and naturally muscled body came to view.
As did his long thick cock.
“Man, he is all right,” I whispered.
“And I’m sure he knows it,” my acquaintance replied.
While the dark-haired boy rose to speak with Jimmy in the kitchen, the handsome boy walked past to the bedrooms. He nodded to us in silent greeting.
“I think I’ll just check out the bedrooms,” my friend said, standing.
“Right behind you,” I smiled.
By the time I ditched my clothes and found them, the handsome boy was standing near a bed, his cock deep in my friend’s mouth.
I watched as the boy looked down to his cock, vanishing and reappearing from this man’s mouth.
I saw that he caressed his own nipples when he was focused on the blowjob, then lost his focus as his eyes scanned the room, presumably reassuring himself he was getting the best available sex.
I thought I might be able to help the boy with his nipples.
I approached and nodded, hand reaching to his torso.
He nodded, and I made contact.
I touched his belly and chest, holding him from behind, moving ever closer to the prize.
He jumped slightly as my fingers grazed his nipples, each timed to hit as the other found its target.
It was a very pleasant reaction. I lightly touched my cheek to his spine, and gently kissed a shoulder blade.
I stepped aside to face him. His eyes were intent on his blowjob, aware that others were gathering to watch him.
I circled my fingers around his nipples then moved my mouth toward him. He moved his arm to allow access to me.
I look a nipple in my mouth.
I was standing at full height, my lips just reaching his chest.
In time, he turned away to deliver his cock to another mouth. I took this moment to scout out the party’s progress.
When I found him again, he was laying back in bed as yet another mouth swallowed his cock. His fingers continued to work his nipples.
I leaned over his body, once more aiming to suck his tits. He shook his head, as my doing so would obscure his view of the blowjob.
I smiled and pulled away, running my fingers through his hair as I did so.
He shook his hair roughly, as if annoyed that it had been mussed.
I can take a hint. You don’t want me on your tits, you worry I’ll wreck your hair . . . well, you know where to find me.
I sat back on chair to watch the action.
The room was very active by this time.
“I saw what you were doing to that guy in the other room,” a voice whispered. “It looked nice.”
“Thanks.” I looked up. It was the other tall fellow, the dark-haired one.
“I’m Jerome,” he said, holding out a hand.
“I’m Jefferson. Welcome; it’s my place.”
“Nice place,” he said, looking around. “You must read a lot.”
“Yeah, but not enough to hurt me none.”
“Same,” Jerome grinned, his eyes settling on the men piled on my bed. After a moment, he looked down to me. “So, you wanna fuck me?”
“I think I might like that.”
“Cool.”
He reached over me to pick up some lube. I took a condom and snuck my first long look at him. He caught my eye and smiled.
Jerome was handsome, and well built, no question, but I would have fucked him for that smile alone.
“How do you want me?” he asked.
“Face up, sweet, I want to look at that face of yours.”
Another smile. I was hard for that smile.
There was something instantly familiar about him, something I couldn’t place.
Jerome lay back on a recently vacated corner of the bed. He lifted his legs.
He held out a palm moist with lube and took my cock in his hand. I watch his large strong hand work me, then lead me to his hole.
I leaned slightly, entering him.
His eyes were on mine. He nodded, smiling.
As long as you smile, I thought, I will fuck you right.
Once we established a good rhythm, I moved up the speed, and varied motions. He kept looking at me, and kept smiling.
I caressed his long torso, enjoying the light sensation of hair on my fingers.
My hands found their way to his cheek, and his dark Amish beard. He leaned in to my touch.
That’s when it struck me:
Abe.
Now, I was really hot for the boy.
I fucked him until he came.
We washed up together in the bathroom, chatting amiably, at ease in our skin.
Our conversation continued at the couch. I learned he had recently moved to the city to attend graduate school at my alma mater, studying a field related to my own.
I also discovered that I liked his voice. It was easily measured and throaty, with abundant emphasis on consonants.
(Growing up in the south, I came to treasure the exoticism of consonants. I reckon my family was just too poor to afford them.)
Something about his voice struck me as similar to Celia’s. I hadn’t thought of her in a while. She was from Maine, I thought, or Massachusetts. I asked; he’s from Southern California.
No regional connection. They grew up as far apart as possible within the contiguous forty eight. Maybe it’s just my ears that hear the smiliarities.
As his voice washed over me, so did his hands. He leaned into me, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed me when he felt like it.
I could get used to this, and fast.
As we talked, the party thinned out. Jimmy was closing up shop in the kitchen.
“Jefferson, can you spare your boyfriend?” Jimmy teased. “I need him for a few photos.”
Jimmy shoots porn and dirty pictures on the side. Jerome had indicated an interest in modeling.
“Do I need to do anything?” Jerome asked, peeling himself off me.
“No, nothing fancy, these are just snapshots so I can remember what you look like.”
“Cool.” Jerome stood to follow. He turned and grabbed a wedge of my chest. “C’mon, I may need a fluffer.”
That was all the invitation I needed.
Jimmy posed Jerome near a mirror, and used his cell phone to take a few photos of his face and body.
Jerome glowered at the lens.
Jimmy lowered the camera and pursed his lips.
“Now, come on doll, you know I am only interested in you for that smile.”
Jerome laughed.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked happy.
My fluffing services were not required during the shoot, nor after, so I went to send Jimmy on his way.
Jerome fell into conversation with John, the only other person remaining. John is also at my alma mater.
We were three naked boys talking after an orgy when there was a knock at the door.
Shelby was home.
Banished from the male orgy, she had visited Todd for Chinese take out and a high definition screening of “Finding Nemo.”
Once a month, her nights at my place overlap with the boy orgy.
I try to have the boys out before she arrives. But she was fine about this instance; she likes John, and she was amused by how into this new guy we were.
Even so, I hurried the boys off.
They retrieved their clothes. I put on pajama bottoms.
Jerome gave me his contact information. “Be in touch,” he said.
I gave him mine. “Count on it.”
I kissed him goodnight, long and wet.
I had to stand on my toes.
He waved goodbye at the door.
John followed, turning back to kiss me good night.
“He’s so hot,” he mouthed, rolling his eyes.
“I know.” I mouthed back before kissing him.
I locked the door and smiled to Shelby.
“Now that you got rid of the bodies, man,” she smirked. “You ready to watch some movies?”
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Franklin Pierce
Abraham Lincoln
C. A. Tripp
A while ago, I was having lunch with a friend of mine, a photography curator, when he posed an interesting question:
Who was the most handsome president, while in office?
I put down my fork and pondered this. First, I had to break down the question.
My friend specified that only sitting presidents were to be judged. While Eisenhower and Ford were handsome as young men, neither had been particularly good looking while in office, so they would not be among the contenders.
Knowing the questioner also eliminated some possibilities. My friend was fond of asserting that all history prior to the invention of photography was irrelevant. So while my namesake Jefferson was by all accounts quite a looker, I could be sure that my friend was not considering anyone in office prior to 1839.
I also knew my friend would not be seeking an obvious answer. My first thought might be Kennedy, but there was no way he was considering a modern president. I could eliminate everyone after, say, Franklin Roosevelt.
Finally, he had not phrased the question to ask who, in my opinion, was the most handsome president. My friend had a correct answer in mind; my opinion did not come into play.
I chewed my salad and flipped through mental images of all presidents circa 1839 through circa 1939.
“Well,” I ventured, “I’ve seen a photograph of Wilson seated at his desk that suggests he was hung like a horse. But you are no size queen.”
He shook his head.
I took another bite.
The preponderance of dated nineteenth-century facial hair would seem to discount many contenders, particularly Arthur with his ludicrous muttonchops.
And Lincoln, while blessed with genius, grace and beauty, was never anyone’s idea of handsome.
Cleveland and Taft were too portly . . . Hoover too staid . . . Theodore Roosevelt too obnoxious . . .
I chewed it over.
“I’m going to venture a guess,” I offered. “Cool-as-a-cucumber Coolidge.”
“Nope,” he replied. “You won’t guess it. Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Franklin Pierce.”
“No shit, he was all that?”
“Yes he was, and I’ll prove it when we get back to my archives.”
After lunch, I followed my friend back to his office. He rummaged through a flat file and produced a print, based on a daguerreotype portrait of our fourteenth president.
I whistled.
“Hot damn, that is one fine looking president.”
“Handsome, right?”
“I’ll say. He must’ve been some lady killer.”
“I don’t know about that,” the curator replied, returning the print to its folder. “But I’d do him.”
I thought about that, and decided that while there is no question that Pierce was a pretty boy, he did not top my list of presidents I would most like to fuck.
That honor still goes to homely Honest Abe.
Lincoln stole my heart many Februarys ago, as his sweet cardboard face stared down from above the cursive alphabet crowning the blackboard of Mrs. Huey’s classroom.
His partner, Washington, stared away, reserved and haughty.
Lincoln looked me right in the eye, his mouth almost smiling.
I’m sure my Confederate ancestors would roll in their red-dirt graves to think that I can imagine hot sweaty sex with the Northern Aggressor.
Maybe my desire is helped along by the long-standing notion, expressed most recently in C. A. Tripp’s The Intimate World of Abraham Lincoln, that he was physically drawn to men, in that prelapsarian era when men could still hold hands and profess love for one another.
Maybe I recognize that we would find some common ground as we compared notes about our crazy wives.
Or maybe my lust for Lincoln is wrapped up in my feelings about freedom after my recent emancipation , and my subsequent longing for honesty.
I don’t examine it too much. All I know is, every now and then I pull out a five spot and think, “Baby, you had me at four score and seven.”
Alas, the man of my dreams was laid to rest a century before my birth, my lust stillborn to the midwife of cruel fate.
If there is a heaven, I will find Mister Lincoln—yes, long before I search out Jim Morrison or Kiki de Montparnasse—and I will kiss every inch of his long lanky frame.
To my great astonishment, I recently got as close to this nirvana as I am likely to be while on this mortal plain.
Jimmy showed up just ahead of the first guests at the monthly male party we co-host.
We talked in the kitchen as we do, but he was a bit frantic with organizing his list and dealing with guests. I poured myself a bourbon and retired to the couch to watch as things progressed.
A regular soon joined me. He was nude, as Jimmy insists that all attendees check their clothing. I was fully dressed, as I must be ready to answer the door at the party’s beginning.
The regular and I chatted and nodded at the nude men on their way to cruise the bedrooms, until two new arrivals caught our eyes.
They were each very tall, so tall that they instinctively ducked as they entered my doorway.
“Looks like basketball practice let out early tonight,” my pal noted.
“Gee, they are six five, easy.”
“At least. Well, that’s a novel twist.”
Jimmy sat the boys at my table and asked them to fill out the form that all partygoers must have on file. (Jimmy uses this data to organize parties so that there are a balanced number of tops to bottoms, and so on.)
The dark-haired boy was seated with his back to me, but I could see the other very clearly. He was handsome, with wavy sandy blonde hair and nice full lips. As he undressed to check his clothes, his smooth and naturally muscled body came to view.
As did his long thick cock.
“Man, he is all right,” I whispered.
“And I’m sure he knows it,” my acquaintance replied.
While the dark-haired boy rose to speak with Jimmy in the kitchen, the handsome boy walked past to the bedrooms. He nodded to us in silent greeting.
“I think I’ll just check out the bedrooms,” my friend said, standing.
“Right behind you,” I smiled.
By the time I ditched my clothes and found them, the handsome boy was standing near a bed, his cock deep in my friend’s mouth.
I watched as the boy looked down to his cock, vanishing and reappearing from this man’s mouth.
I saw that he caressed his own nipples when he was focused on the blowjob, then lost his focus as his eyes scanned the room, presumably reassuring himself he was getting the best available sex.
I thought I might be able to help the boy with his nipples.
I approached and nodded, hand reaching to his torso.
He nodded, and I made contact.
I touched his belly and chest, holding him from behind, moving ever closer to the prize.
He jumped slightly as my fingers grazed his nipples, each timed to hit as the other found its target.
It was a very pleasant reaction. I lightly touched my cheek to his spine, and gently kissed a shoulder blade.
I stepped aside to face him. His eyes were intent on his blowjob, aware that others were gathering to watch him.
I circled my fingers around his nipples then moved my mouth toward him. He moved his arm to allow access to me.
I look a nipple in my mouth.
I was standing at full height, my lips just reaching his chest.
In time, he turned away to deliver his cock to another mouth. I took this moment to scout out the party’s progress.
When I found him again, he was laying back in bed as yet another mouth swallowed his cock. His fingers continued to work his nipples.
I leaned over his body, once more aiming to suck his tits. He shook his head, as my doing so would obscure his view of the blowjob.
I smiled and pulled away, running my fingers through his hair as I did so.
He shook his hair roughly, as if annoyed that it had been mussed.
I can take a hint. You don’t want me on your tits, you worry I’ll wreck your hair . . . well, you know where to find me.
I sat back on chair to watch the action.
The room was very active by this time.
“I saw what you were doing to that guy in the other room,” a voice whispered. “It looked nice.”
“Thanks.” I looked up. It was the other tall fellow, the dark-haired one.
“I’m Jerome,” he said, holding out a hand.
“I’m Jefferson. Welcome; it’s my place.”
“Nice place,” he said, looking around. “You must read a lot.”
“Yeah, but not enough to hurt me none.”
“Same,” Jerome grinned, his eyes settling on the men piled on my bed. After a moment, he looked down to me. “So, you wanna fuck me?”
“I think I might like that.”
“Cool.”
He reached over me to pick up some lube. I took a condom and snuck my first long look at him. He caught my eye and smiled.
Jerome was handsome, and well built, no question, but I would have fucked him for that smile alone.
“How do you want me?” he asked.
“Face up, sweet, I want to look at that face of yours.”
Another smile. I was hard for that smile.
There was something instantly familiar about him, something I couldn’t place.
Jerome lay back on a recently vacated corner of the bed. He lifted his legs.
He held out a palm moist with lube and took my cock in his hand. I watch his large strong hand work me, then lead me to his hole.
I leaned slightly, entering him.
His eyes were on mine. He nodded, smiling.
As long as you smile, I thought, I will fuck you right.
Once we established a good rhythm, I moved up the speed, and varied motions. He kept looking at me, and kept smiling.
I caressed his long torso, enjoying the light sensation of hair on my fingers.
My hands found their way to his cheek, and his dark Amish beard. He leaned in to my touch.
That’s when it struck me:
Abe.
Now, I was really hot for the boy.
I fucked him until he came.
We washed up together in the bathroom, chatting amiably, at ease in our skin.
Our conversation continued at the couch. I learned he had recently moved to the city to attend graduate school at my alma mater, studying a field related to my own.
I also discovered that I liked his voice. It was easily measured and throaty, with abundant emphasis on consonants.
(Growing up in the south, I came to treasure the exoticism of consonants. I reckon my family was just too poor to afford them.)
Something about his voice struck me as similar to Celia’s. I hadn’t thought of her in a while. She was from Maine, I thought, or Massachusetts. I asked; he’s from Southern California.
No regional connection. They grew up as far apart as possible within the contiguous forty eight. Maybe it’s just my ears that hear the smiliarities.
As his voice washed over me, so did his hands. He leaned into me, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed me when he felt like it.
I could get used to this, and fast.
As we talked, the party thinned out. Jimmy was closing up shop in the kitchen.
“Jefferson, can you spare your boyfriend?” Jimmy teased. “I need him for a few photos.”
Jimmy shoots porn and dirty pictures on the side. Jerome had indicated an interest in modeling.
“Do I need to do anything?” Jerome asked, peeling himself off me.
“No, nothing fancy, these are just snapshots so I can remember what you look like.”
“Cool.” Jerome stood to follow. He turned and grabbed a wedge of my chest. “C’mon, I may need a fluffer.”
That was all the invitation I needed.
Jimmy posed Jerome near a mirror, and used his cell phone to take a few photos of his face and body.
Jerome glowered at the lens.
Jimmy lowered the camera and pursed his lips.
“Now, come on doll, you know I am only interested in you for that smile.”
Jerome laughed.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked happy.
My fluffing services were not required during the shoot, nor after, so I went to send Jimmy on his way.
Jerome fell into conversation with John, the only other person remaining. John is also at my alma mater.
We were three naked boys talking after an orgy when there was a knock at the door.
Shelby was home.
Banished from the male orgy, she had visited Todd for Chinese take out and a high definition screening of “Finding Nemo.”
Once a month, her nights at my place overlap with the boy orgy.
I try to have the boys out before she arrives. But she was fine about this instance; she likes John, and she was amused by how into this new guy we were.
Even so, I hurried the boys off.
They retrieved their clothes. I put on pajama bottoms.
Jerome gave me his contact information. “Be in touch,” he said.
I gave him mine. “Count on it.”
I kissed him goodnight, long and wet.
I had to stand on my toes.
He waved goodbye at the door.
John followed, turning back to kiss me good night.
“He’s so hot,” he mouthed, rolling his eyes.
“I know.” I mouthed back before kissing him.
I locked the door and smiled to Shelby.
“Now that you got rid of the bodies, man,” she smirked. “You ready to watch some movies?”
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Thursday, December 01, 2005
Fan Fiction II
Rose was feeling contrite.
She wrote a very nice fantasy about meeting Jefferson, thus inaugurating a new segment of this blog, “Fan Fiction.”
This segment allows readers to imagine meeting Jefferson and/or his friends.
Feel free to try your hand in writing a fantasy. You can submit it at duchampecho@aol.com.
Rose did well. I was content.
But Rose read the comments of readers, including those of people who know me well. She correctly surmised that these are the best critics of her fantasy.
She felt she could do better. She felt she owed it to me—and to you, gentle reader—to do better.
Once more, she submits.
The Summoning
As I sit working at my computer I notice his name pop up in my inbox: Jefferson.
My mind immediately wanders to slutty thoughts as I open his message. It’s brief.
Rose, please leave whatever you’re doing. I wish for you to be at my door in twenty minutes.
J
I slip on a skirt and little shirt, check my hair and I’m out the door.
On my way to meet Jefferson I wonder what he’s got planned in that lusciously perverse mind of his. As I ponder the possibilities, my breathing grows shallow and wetness begins to seep out of me.
What an effect you have on me, Jefferson . . . , I think to myself, smiling in anticipation.
He answers the door almost immediately after hearing my knock. Opening the door, he pulls me in, shutting the door with my body as he pins me to it, my hands held tightly over my head as he leans in to kiss me . . . hard, passionate, demanding, hungry. He pulls away grabbing my hair and lowering me to my knees.
Slip off your coat, he tells me. The only words he’s spoken to me. I do as requested and then he binds my wrists together behind my back with the cuffs he had sitting by the door.
Sneaky, I think to myself. I didn’t even see those when I came in.
Jefferson is now standing in front of me, clothed. He looks down at me, raising my face to look at him. He requests that I remove his pants.
With my teeth, I comply, struggling to undo his belt and the button on his pants. I can’t get the button, so with an admonishment and promise of punishment, he opens the button for me.
I take the zipper down with my teeth.
With a little nudging, his pants fall to the ground with a thud. Jefferson steps out of them as his cock springs forth in front of me. Running his hand through my hair, he feeds me his cock . . . deep into my mouth, mmmmmmmmmm, I mumble, sending vibrations up his cock.
I look up at him in the sheer bliss of having his cock in my mouth.
Grabbing my hair to keep my head still, he fucks my face for a nice long time, enjoying my gasps, gurgles and drools as he plunges himself deep inside my throat. Pulling out, Jefferson caresses my check.
Such a good girl, he tells me, helping me up.
Taking my hand, Jefferson leads me to the bedroom.
He blindfolds me, unhooks my wrists and begins to remove my clothes, playing with my body as he uncovers my flesh.
My body quivers with each touch, not knowing where I will feel his hands or lips next . . .
His lips on mine, warm, exciting, tongues dancing over each other, then it stops . . .
Lips on left shoulder, nibbling, (mmmmmmmm) . . .
Hand squeezing my nipple, (ooooo, good), hand smacking my ass, once, twice, third time really hard (I arch back wanting more, it stops), lips sucking my tit (oh more, more) as his hand runs over my stomach and feels my pussy, which he finds so wet, my juices running down my thigh.
Oh Jefferson, yes please . . . more of that. Fuck me, I plead.
Rose, you know it’s not going to happen that easily, baby.
He moves away from me, leaving me to stand alone. I hear him moving about the room, opening drawers, assembling things, but I can’t see what’s going on.
Anxious, I begin to shake, wondering what next sensation I will feel.
He doesn’t leave me wondering for long.
I feel his hands turn me and push my upper back forward. I’m leaning on the bed, my ass and pussy totally exposed.
Smack . . . the feeling of a crop on my ass.
I moan as Jefferson thoroughly crops my ass, varying the speed and strength of those luscious whacks. A pause and then I feel the gentle caress of his hands on my red, welted ass, soothing me, feeling my wetness.
That was for the button on my pants, sweet Rose.
Standing me upright, turning me toward him, he lowers me to the bed and helps me scoot back so he has me centered.
Lay down baby.
I do as asked, again waiting for a sound, some movement to tell me what may happen next. I am greeted with silence.
Then I feel his weight on the bed, the heat of him as he moves on top of me, taking my arms and pinning them over my head as he kisses me. I eagerly respond, melting into his kisses, forgetting everything else.
I could get lost in his kisses, I think.
Then I realize that he is binding me to the bed by my wrists as he’s kissing me. Moving off me, he secures my ankles.
Silence again for a time and I wonder if he’s just staring at me. Has he left the room, what’s happening?
The silence that envelops me as I am blindfolded and secured to the bed both intoxicates and scares me a little. After all Rose, you hardly know this man, I think to myself.
Yet I know I can trust him and the scariness subsides. Now my senses are just heightened at the curiosity of what will happen next.
I don’t wonder for long.
All of a sudden, I feel the sensation of something hot dripping on my skin and I yelp in surprise. He follows that with ice . . . cold, shocking.
He alternates the two, making my body buzz with pleasure/pain as I give myself up to the feeling.
The hot wax stops and he deposits a piece of ice in my pussy, following that with his tongue on my clit.
Moaning with desire I strain against my restraints as Jefferson teases my clit, enjoying my reactions. And again he stops.
We need to clean you up, baby, he tells me.
The restraints are removed and kissing me, he removes my blindfold. It feels a little odd to see my surroundings again.
How’re you feeling, Rose? he asks.
Wonderful, still hungry, I reply.
Don’t worry, baby, we’re not even close to being done.
I smile and kiss him between his shoulder blades as I follow him to the bathroom.
We get in the shower together and Jefferson removes the wax and soaps me up. We stand together, under the warm stream of water, kissing tenderly, caressing each other, kisses growing more urgent.
I’m on my knees sucking his cock.
He lets me go for a bit then stops me. We step out of the shower, drying each other with fluffy towels.
Walking back down the hall, I start to turn into the bedroom. Jefferson stops my by pulling on my hair.
No baby, a little lunch first.
He leads me to the kitchen.
He puts an already prepared salad on the table. We eat and talk, naked, and I’m surprised at how comfortable it is.
You make a fine lunch, Jefferson, as I feast on my salad of greens, pine nuts, a medley of veggies, goat cheese and a hunk of French bread.
Water along with bourbon for Jefferson and red wine for me are consumed with our meal and conversation.
After a bit, he stands. Taking my hand, he leads me back to the bedroom.
On the way, he admires the marks left on my ass. I laugh and tell him I’m glad they’re there. I will enjoy the reminders for a few day. They will bring the memories and sensations flooding back.
Back in his bed, we cozy up next to each other kissing. The desire returns, hot and strong.
I’m glad my hands are free to roam over his body, touching, caressing, playing with his nipples, feeling him nibble my ear lobes.
He rolls me onto my back and works his way down my body, settling between my legs. Amazing feelings wash over me as he seems to pay attention to every little crevice of my pussy and ass.
His tongue and fingers are magic and I am swept away by the feelings, moaning and pushing my pussy into his mouth, a starving woman finally being fed.
My eyes close and my head rolls to the side as I moan and shudder with my first orgasm.
Jefferson doesn’t move, he just keeps massaging, licking, sucking until he feels me cum again. Flipping me over, he starts to massage my ass with his lubbed thumb. As he feels me relax, he inserts a finger slowly, then another, letting me get used to the feeling.
You okay, Rose?
Oh yes, Jefferson. It feels so good,
He removes his fingers, lubes up a butt plug and inserts that, making sure I’m comfortable.
Then he rolls a condom onto his cock and sets to fucking my pussy.
Oh god, Jefferson. That feels so good, I moan. I feel so full.
He fucks me hard for a bit, pulls out and with the butt plug still in place, flips me onto my back again. Holding my legs back, he plunges his cock back inside me and fucks me.
We gaze at each other feeling the intensity, kissing and fucking . . . I start to feel this new sensation . . . my body begins to shudder.
I realize that I’m having an orgasm just from penetration.
My eyes widen and I gasp in surprise.
What is it, Rose?
Sheepishly I tell him I just had my first orgasm from penetration. It was such a surprise.
He smiles and pulls out.
We cuddle for a while, talking quietly, kissing.
Feeling oh-so-wonderful, I move to suck Jefferson’s cock again.
I look up to find him watching me and smiling as I suck him.
I move to lick his balls, rimming his ass, then back to his cock.
I work the tip with my tongue and lips, then run my tongue down the underside as my hand squeezes the base of his hardness.
Taking him full in my mouth again, I suck and lick until he sits up and jerks off, spraying my tits and face with his cum.
He pulls me into his arms and we cuddle for a bit again, kissing, sharing our thoughts about what we’ve done.
All I can think about is that I can’t wait for more . . .
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BDSM
She wrote a very nice fantasy about meeting Jefferson, thus inaugurating a new segment of this blog, “Fan Fiction.”
This segment allows readers to imagine meeting Jefferson and/or his friends.
Feel free to try your hand in writing a fantasy. You can submit it at duchampecho@aol.com.
Rose did well. I was content.
But Rose read the comments of readers, including those of people who know me well. She correctly surmised that these are the best critics of her fantasy.
She felt she could do better. She felt she owed it to me—and to you, gentle reader—to do better.
Once more, she submits.
The Summoning
As I sit working at my computer I notice his name pop up in my inbox: Jefferson.
My mind immediately wanders to slutty thoughts as I open his message. It’s brief.
Rose, please leave whatever you’re doing. I wish for you to be at my door in twenty minutes.
J
I slip on a skirt and little shirt, check my hair and I’m out the door.
On my way to meet Jefferson I wonder what he’s got planned in that lusciously perverse mind of his. As I ponder the possibilities, my breathing grows shallow and wetness begins to seep out of me.
What an effect you have on me, Jefferson . . . , I think to myself, smiling in anticipation.
He answers the door almost immediately after hearing my knock. Opening the door, he pulls me in, shutting the door with my body as he pins me to it, my hands held tightly over my head as he leans in to kiss me . . . hard, passionate, demanding, hungry. He pulls away grabbing my hair and lowering me to my knees.
Slip off your coat, he tells me. The only words he’s spoken to me. I do as requested and then he binds my wrists together behind my back with the cuffs he had sitting by the door.
Sneaky, I think to myself. I didn’t even see those when I came in.
Jefferson is now standing in front of me, clothed. He looks down at me, raising my face to look at him. He requests that I remove his pants.
With my teeth, I comply, struggling to undo his belt and the button on his pants. I can’t get the button, so with an admonishment and promise of punishment, he opens the button for me.
I take the zipper down with my teeth.
With a little nudging, his pants fall to the ground with a thud. Jefferson steps out of them as his cock springs forth in front of me. Running his hand through my hair, he feeds me his cock . . . deep into my mouth, mmmmmmmmmm, I mumble, sending vibrations up his cock.
I look up at him in the sheer bliss of having his cock in my mouth.
Grabbing my hair to keep my head still, he fucks my face for a nice long time, enjoying my gasps, gurgles and drools as he plunges himself deep inside my throat. Pulling out, Jefferson caresses my check.
Such a good girl, he tells me, helping me up.
Taking my hand, Jefferson leads me to the bedroom.
He blindfolds me, unhooks my wrists and begins to remove my clothes, playing with my body as he uncovers my flesh.
My body quivers with each touch, not knowing where I will feel his hands or lips next . . .
His lips on mine, warm, exciting, tongues dancing over each other, then it stops . . .
Lips on left shoulder, nibbling, (mmmmmmmm) . . .
Hand squeezing my nipple, (ooooo, good), hand smacking my ass, once, twice, third time really hard (I arch back wanting more, it stops), lips sucking my tit (oh more, more) as his hand runs over my stomach and feels my pussy, which he finds so wet, my juices running down my thigh.
Oh Jefferson, yes please . . . more of that. Fuck me, I plead.
Rose, you know it’s not going to happen that easily, baby.
He moves away from me, leaving me to stand alone. I hear him moving about the room, opening drawers, assembling things, but I can’t see what’s going on.
Anxious, I begin to shake, wondering what next sensation I will feel.
He doesn’t leave me wondering for long.
I feel his hands turn me and push my upper back forward. I’m leaning on the bed, my ass and pussy totally exposed.
Smack . . . the feeling of a crop on my ass.
I moan as Jefferson thoroughly crops my ass, varying the speed and strength of those luscious whacks. A pause and then I feel the gentle caress of his hands on my red, welted ass, soothing me, feeling my wetness.
That was for the button on my pants, sweet Rose.
Standing me upright, turning me toward him, he lowers me to the bed and helps me scoot back so he has me centered.
Lay down baby.
I do as asked, again waiting for a sound, some movement to tell me what may happen next. I am greeted with silence.
Then I feel his weight on the bed, the heat of him as he moves on top of me, taking my arms and pinning them over my head as he kisses me. I eagerly respond, melting into his kisses, forgetting everything else.
I could get lost in his kisses, I think.
Then I realize that he is binding me to the bed by my wrists as he’s kissing me. Moving off me, he secures my ankles.
Silence again for a time and I wonder if he’s just staring at me. Has he left the room, what’s happening?
The silence that envelops me as I am blindfolded and secured to the bed both intoxicates and scares me a little. After all Rose, you hardly know this man, I think to myself.
Yet I know I can trust him and the scariness subsides. Now my senses are just heightened at the curiosity of what will happen next.
I don’t wonder for long.
All of a sudden, I feel the sensation of something hot dripping on my skin and I yelp in surprise. He follows that with ice . . . cold, shocking.
He alternates the two, making my body buzz with pleasure/pain as I give myself up to the feeling.
The hot wax stops and he deposits a piece of ice in my pussy, following that with his tongue on my clit.
Moaning with desire I strain against my restraints as Jefferson teases my clit, enjoying my reactions. And again he stops.
We need to clean you up, baby, he tells me.
The restraints are removed and kissing me, he removes my blindfold. It feels a little odd to see my surroundings again.
How’re you feeling, Rose? he asks.
Wonderful, still hungry, I reply.
Don’t worry, baby, we’re not even close to being done.
I smile and kiss him between his shoulder blades as I follow him to the bathroom.
We get in the shower together and Jefferson removes the wax and soaps me up. We stand together, under the warm stream of water, kissing tenderly, caressing each other, kisses growing more urgent.
I’m on my knees sucking his cock.
He lets me go for a bit then stops me. We step out of the shower, drying each other with fluffy towels.
Walking back down the hall, I start to turn into the bedroom. Jefferson stops my by pulling on my hair.
No baby, a little lunch first.
He leads me to the kitchen.
He puts an already prepared salad on the table. We eat and talk, naked, and I’m surprised at how comfortable it is.
You make a fine lunch, Jefferson, as I feast on my salad of greens, pine nuts, a medley of veggies, goat cheese and a hunk of French bread.
Water along with bourbon for Jefferson and red wine for me are consumed with our meal and conversation.
After a bit, he stands. Taking my hand, he leads me back to the bedroom.
On the way, he admires the marks left on my ass. I laugh and tell him I’m glad they’re there. I will enjoy the reminders for a few day. They will bring the memories and sensations flooding back.
Back in his bed, we cozy up next to each other kissing. The desire returns, hot and strong.
I’m glad my hands are free to roam over his body, touching, caressing, playing with his nipples, feeling him nibble my ear lobes.
He rolls me onto my back and works his way down my body, settling between my legs. Amazing feelings wash over me as he seems to pay attention to every little crevice of my pussy and ass.
His tongue and fingers are magic and I am swept away by the feelings, moaning and pushing my pussy into his mouth, a starving woman finally being fed.
My eyes close and my head rolls to the side as I moan and shudder with my first orgasm.
Jefferson doesn’t move, he just keeps massaging, licking, sucking until he feels me cum again. Flipping me over, he starts to massage my ass with his lubbed thumb. As he feels me relax, he inserts a finger slowly, then another, letting me get used to the feeling.
You okay, Rose?
Oh yes, Jefferson. It feels so good,
He removes his fingers, lubes up a butt plug and inserts that, making sure I’m comfortable.
Then he rolls a condom onto his cock and sets to fucking my pussy.
Oh god, Jefferson. That feels so good, I moan. I feel so full.
He fucks me hard for a bit, pulls out and with the butt plug still in place, flips me onto my back again. Holding my legs back, he plunges his cock back inside me and fucks me.
We gaze at each other feeling the intensity, kissing and fucking . . . I start to feel this new sensation . . . my body begins to shudder.
I realize that I’m having an orgasm just from penetration.
My eyes widen and I gasp in surprise.
What is it, Rose?
Sheepishly I tell him I just had my first orgasm from penetration. It was such a surprise.
He smiles and pulls out.
We cuddle for a while, talking quietly, kissing.
Feeling oh-so-wonderful, I move to suck Jefferson’s cock again.
I look up to find him watching me and smiling as I suck him.
I move to lick his balls, rimming his ass, then back to his cock.
I work the tip with my tongue and lips, then run my tongue down the underside as my hand squeezes the base of his hardness.
Taking him full in my mouth again, I suck and lick until he sits up and jerks off, spraying my tits and face with his cum.
He pulls me into his arms and we cuddle for a bit again, kissing, sharing our thoughts about what we’ve done.
All I can think about is that I can’t wait for more . . .
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Monday, November 28, 2005
In Laws
After meeting us at the train station, my boyfriend went over the details of our cover story.
“Now remember,” Marcus said, turning up the music so my kids would not overhear. “My sister Abigail is very fond of Madeline. She will likely ask you to convince Maddie to come visit us—“us” being me and my sister.”
“Abigail met Madeline?”
“No, but you know, Abigail calls her all the time, and they email and shit.”
“Right.”
“So you have to remember that Maddie is my girlfriend, not yours. You just introduced us.”
“Right. But how do I know her?”
Marcus pulled into his sister’s driveway. “I don’t know, you just know her.”
“That’s not good! I have to know her in some way that is beyond suspicion.”
“If Abigail asks, just make up something.”
“Maybe another mutual friend?”
“Whatever.”
My kids and I were joining Marcus’s family for Thanksgiving.
In this alternate universe, Marcus is not my boyfriend and we do not share a girlfriend. Instead, I am his best friend and Madeline is his new girlfriend with serious potential.
Legend has it that I introduced the two lovebirds in New York.
(Well, that part, at least, is entirely accurate)
Marcus shouted to his sister as he opened the door. We stepped inside to be greeted by two large dogs, two teenage nieces and one dodgy aunt.
These were followed by a sister, a brother-in-law, a cousin, another cousin . . .
Marcus had told me there would be twenty-three relatives at dinner, plus me and my three kids.
I began to wish for name tags.
As grown ups made introductions, my boys followed Marcus’s boys to the recreation room in the basement. They would play ping pong and air hockey for most of the day.
My daughter amused herself with a black Labrador who shared her name, keeping her eyes on the teenage girls.
Cocktails were mixed—Marcus and I took Bloody Marys, thank you—and I cleared a space to prepare my contribution to the festivities: my Granny’s famous deviled eggs.
Marcus had vetoed my other ideas for appetizers.
“No bacon wrapped anything,” he ordered. “No pork egg rolls, no sausages hidden in anything. We’re Jews, okay? Our people have suffered enough without you disrepecting our traditions.”
Allah be praised that my repertoire includes this family favorite.
“What are you doing?” a niece asked.
“Slicing eggs,” I replied, slicing eggs. “Soon to be deviled eggs.”
“Deviled eggs?” her sister asked. “What, is that a Christian thing?”
“I think so,” Abigail nodded. “Doesn’t the egg symbolize something?”
Marcus laughed. “Let’s try ‘fertility,’ okay, Abigail?”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, reaching for the mayonnaise I had packed. “But its damned good eating.”
“You brought mayonnaise?” Abigail asked. “What, you think we wouldn’t have mayonnaise? I’ve got regular mayonnaise, I’ve got fat-free mayo, I’ve got—what’s that called?—Miracle Whip . . .”
“Then you girls should learn how to make this,” I suggested to the teenagers. “Because it’s very easy.”
“But please, girls,” Abigail said to her daughters. “Just one apiece until everyone has had some, please?”
I sprinkled paprika on a tray full of eggs, declared them deviled, and set the dish on a side table.
Lillie took two deviled eggs, stuffing one entirely into her mouth. The teenagers took one each.
Then another.
And another.
Abigail shook her head.
“Those won’t last long,” she said. She sipped her cocktail, and turned to me. “So, how long have you known Madeline?”
“Oh, well, not so long . . .”
I was rescued by the arrival of my divorce attorney.
When I was beginning my divorce process, Marcus had suggested that I get in touch with his cousin, who had offered him great advice on his divorce.
I met Betsy and knew she was perfect for me. She’s aggressive and tough, unlikely to be cowed by my aggressive and tough spouse. As it turns out, she is also much smarter and engaged than Lucy’s lawyer proved to be.
Betsy met Lucy at every turn, and fought back her unreasonable claims on custody. It was a tough fight, but Betsy did what was right for me and the kids.
It was an added bonus that my divorce was handled by my boyfriend’s cousin.
It’s all in the family.
I like Betsy, but I was unsure I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with her, considering I owe her over seven thousand dollars.
Relax, Marcus told me. She’s got her own worries—she’s divorcing her husband now.
I kissed Betsy’s cheek and introduced her to my kids. She was soon outfitted with a Cosmopolitan and talking with her relatives about her divorce.
A true lawyer, she focused on hours spent preparing the documents.
Turns out the family has a few fresh divorces in our generation. A clique of divorced people formed. We swapped stories of dating. I listened as JDate was contrasted to eHarmony.
We swapped tales of ex spouses. I listened as a one cousin’s chummy ex husband was contrasted to someone else’s nogoodnik.
Marcus brought my second Bloody Mary. I took a sip and smiled at him.
Near as I can tell, Marcus and I were the only ones churning our new freedom into all manner of perversions.
Marcus’s mother listened in.
“You know, children, your father and I have an announcement to make today. Having just celebrated our fiftieth anniversary, we are also getting divorced. We’re tired of missing all the fun!”
Marcus put an arm around his mom. “Finally! Now I can introduce you to a few friends. Take Jefferson here . . .”
“That’s nice,” I said. “Sure, sign me up for the next fifty.”
Marcus found me later, playing ping pong with the kids. He held two Bloody Marys—our third—and nodded toward a staircase.
I finished my game with my son and surrendered the paddle to Marcus’s son.
Marcus led me upstairs to Abigail’s bedroom.
I followed him into her large bathroom.
He closed the door.
“Hey sweety,” he smiled, leaning in. “I just wanted a moment with you to myself.”
He kissed me.
I lifted myself into his lips, savoring the Bloody Mary taste of his tongue.
“Happy Thanksgiving, baby.”
“Thanks honey. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Is it weird, being with so much of my family?”
“No, it’s fine. And may I tell you, you have a fucking gorgeous family.”
He smiled. “You like?”
“Yeah! Are any of them off limits, you know, for me to fuck?”
He thought a moment. “No, it’s fine with me. Anyone in particular I can set you up with?”
“Well, the teenage sister combo is appealing. And of course, Abigail is very attractive. I could do her just to complete the brother and sister pair.”
“I do have another brother, you know, he’s just not here.”
“I don’t care about that, really. I would only be using your sister to get to her husband.”
“David.”
“Yeah, he’s to die for—all tall, dark and handsome like. He’s too damn hot in his glasses. ”
“You’re telling me? I’ve known him forever.”
There was a knock at the door. “Anyone in here?”
“Come in, Abigail, it’s just me,” Marcus called. “And Jefferson.”
“Are you decent?”
“No, we’re taking a bath. Come in.”
“Thanks,” she said, entering. “Oh, thank God, you were kidding. You two hiding out?”
“Something like that.”
“I just need to ditch this sweater. Ugh, I can’t believe how much I am eating. I’m too fat.”
“Abigail, you’re not fat.”
“Yes I am, look.” She lifted her shirt and pinched a sliver of skin on her toned stomach. “I can’t even get into my daughter’s jeans now.”
“You’re fat because you can’t wear a fifteen-year-old’s jeans?” I chided.
Marcus nodded at me. “Jefferson thinks you’re hot. He says he’d do you.”
“Actually, I said I would do you to get to your hunky husband.”
“Well, thanks for the offer,” she smiled, checking her mascara. “But we’re committed.”
“Just take my number anyway—you know, for after the divorce.”
“What?” she said, turning to me, “You’ve heard something?”
Evidently, Abigail and David are accustomed to being the hot couple that everyone wants to get with. And yet they don’t fool around, and they are happy.
Go figure.
Dinner was traditional.
Marcus’s twelve-year-old chafed that he was relegated to the children’s table, when his fifteen-year-old cousin sat with the adults.
Marcus’s dad sat at the head of the table, leading the young people into a political discussion that the older people knew to avoid.
Marcus sat with me, and we chewed as we listened to his aunt talk about the misogynist men at her new nursing home.
After dinner, I chatted with David, now stripped to a t-shirt, until I thought the better of it. Everyone knows not to stand next to the best-looking man at a party, lest one risk unfavorable comparisons.
Instead, I treated a two-year-old girl to swings and flips, until I was exhausted by her cries of “Again! Again!”
The kids and I took Lillie the dog outside to play catch. My eldest son and I played air hockey.
Marcus took me back outside for cigars and scotch.
“You having a good time, baby?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am.” I leaned on his shoulder. “Will you marry me?”
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“Now remember,” Marcus said, turning up the music so my kids would not overhear. “My sister Abigail is very fond of Madeline. She will likely ask you to convince Maddie to come visit us—“us” being me and my sister.”
“Abigail met Madeline?”
“No, but you know, Abigail calls her all the time, and they email and shit.”
“Right.”
“So you have to remember that Maddie is my girlfriend, not yours. You just introduced us.”
“Right. But how do I know her?”
Marcus pulled into his sister’s driveway. “I don’t know, you just know her.”
“That’s not good! I have to know her in some way that is beyond suspicion.”
“If Abigail asks, just make up something.”
“Maybe another mutual friend?”
“Whatever.”
My kids and I were joining Marcus’s family for Thanksgiving.
In this alternate universe, Marcus is not my boyfriend and we do not share a girlfriend. Instead, I am his best friend and Madeline is his new girlfriend with serious potential.
Legend has it that I introduced the two lovebirds in New York.
(Well, that part, at least, is entirely accurate)
Marcus shouted to his sister as he opened the door. We stepped inside to be greeted by two large dogs, two teenage nieces and one dodgy aunt.
These were followed by a sister, a brother-in-law, a cousin, another cousin . . .
Marcus had told me there would be twenty-three relatives at dinner, plus me and my three kids.
I began to wish for name tags.
As grown ups made introductions, my boys followed Marcus’s boys to the recreation room in the basement. They would play ping pong and air hockey for most of the day.
My daughter amused herself with a black Labrador who shared her name, keeping her eyes on the teenage girls.
Cocktails were mixed—Marcus and I took Bloody Marys, thank you—and I cleared a space to prepare my contribution to the festivities: my Granny’s famous deviled eggs.
Marcus had vetoed my other ideas for appetizers.
“No bacon wrapped anything,” he ordered. “No pork egg rolls, no sausages hidden in anything. We’re Jews, okay? Our people have suffered enough without you disrepecting our traditions.”
Allah be praised that my repertoire includes this family favorite.
“What are you doing?” a niece asked.
“Slicing eggs,” I replied, slicing eggs. “Soon to be deviled eggs.”
“Deviled eggs?” her sister asked. “What, is that a Christian thing?”
“I think so,” Abigail nodded. “Doesn’t the egg symbolize something?”
Marcus laughed. “Let’s try ‘fertility,’ okay, Abigail?”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, reaching for the mayonnaise I had packed. “But its damned good eating.”
“You brought mayonnaise?” Abigail asked. “What, you think we wouldn’t have mayonnaise? I’ve got regular mayonnaise, I’ve got fat-free mayo, I’ve got—what’s that called?—Miracle Whip . . .”
“Then you girls should learn how to make this,” I suggested to the teenagers. “Because it’s very easy.”
“But please, girls,” Abigail said to her daughters. “Just one apiece until everyone has had some, please?”
I sprinkled paprika on a tray full of eggs, declared them deviled, and set the dish on a side table.
Lillie took two deviled eggs, stuffing one entirely into her mouth. The teenagers took one each.
Then another.
And another.
Abigail shook her head.
“Those won’t last long,” she said. She sipped her cocktail, and turned to me. “So, how long have you known Madeline?”
“Oh, well, not so long . . .”
I was rescued by the arrival of my divorce attorney.
When I was beginning my divorce process, Marcus had suggested that I get in touch with his cousin, who had offered him great advice on his divorce.
I met Betsy and knew she was perfect for me. She’s aggressive and tough, unlikely to be cowed by my aggressive and tough spouse. As it turns out, she is also much smarter and engaged than Lucy’s lawyer proved to be.
Betsy met Lucy at every turn, and fought back her unreasonable claims on custody. It was a tough fight, but Betsy did what was right for me and the kids.
It was an added bonus that my divorce was handled by my boyfriend’s cousin.
It’s all in the family.
I like Betsy, but I was unsure I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with her, considering I owe her over seven thousand dollars.
Relax, Marcus told me. She’s got her own worries—she’s divorcing her husband now.
I kissed Betsy’s cheek and introduced her to my kids. She was soon outfitted with a Cosmopolitan and talking with her relatives about her divorce.
A true lawyer, she focused on hours spent preparing the documents.
Turns out the family has a few fresh divorces in our generation. A clique of divorced people formed. We swapped stories of dating. I listened as JDate was contrasted to eHarmony.
We swapped tales of ex spouses. I listened as a one cousin’s chummy ex husband was contrasted to someone else’s nogoodnik.
Marcus brought my second Bloody Mary. I took a sip and smiled at him.
Near as I can tell, Marcus and I were the only ones churning our new freedom into all manner of perversions.
Marcus’s mother listened in.
“You know, children, your father and I have an announcement to make today. Having just celebrated our fiftieth anniversary, we are also getting divorced. We’re tired of missing all the fun!”
Marcus put an arm around his mom. “Finally! Now I can introduce you to a few friends. Take Jefferson here . . .”
“That’s nice,” I said. “Sure, sign me up for the next fifty.”
Marcus found me later, playing ping pong with the kids. He held two Bloody Marys—our third—and nodded toward a staircase.
I finished my game with my son and surrendered the paddle to Marcus’s son.
Marcus led me upstairs to Abigail’s bedroom.
I followed him into her large bathroom.
He closed the door.
“Hey sweety,” he smiled, leaning in. “I just wanted a moment with you to myself.”
He kissed me.
I lifted myself into his lips, savoring the Bloody Mary taste of his tongue.
“Happy Thanksgiving, baby.”
“Thanks honey. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Is it weird, being with so much of my family?”
“No, it’s fine. And may I tell you, you have a fucking gorgeous family.”
He smiled. “You like?”
“Yeah! Are any of them off limits, you know, for me to fuck?”
He thought a moment. “No, it’s fine with me. Anyone in particular I can set you up with?”
“Well, the teenage sister combo is appealing. And of course, Abigail is very attractive. I could do her just to complete the brother and sister pair.”
“I do have another brother, you know, he’s just not here.”
“I don’t care about that, really. I would only be using your sister to get to her husband.”
“David.”
“Yeah, he’s to die for—all tall, dark and handsome like. He’s too damn hot in his glasses. ”
“You’re telling me? I’ve known him forever.”
There was a knock at the door. “Anyone in here?”
“Come in, Abigail, it’s just me,” Marcus called. “And Jefferson.”
“Are you decent?”
“No, we’re taking a bath. Come in.”
“Thanks,” she said, entering. “Oh, thank God, you were kidding. You two hiding out?”
“Something like that.”
“I just need to ditch this sweater. Ugh, I can’t believe how much I am eating. I’m too fat.”
“Abigail, you’re not fat.”
“Yes I am, look.” She lifted her shirt and pinched a sliver of skin on her toned stomach. “I can’t even get into my daughter’s jeans now.”
“You’re fat because you can’t wear a fifteen-year-old’s jeans?” I chided.
Marcus nodded at me. “Jefferson thinks you’re hot. He says he’d do you.”
“Actually, I said I would do you to get to your hunky husband.”
“Well, thanks for the offer,” she smiled, checking her mascara. “But we’re committed.”
“Just take my number anyway—you know, for after the divorce.”
“What?” she said, turning to me, “You’ve heard something?”
Evidently, Abigail and David are accustomed to being the hot couple that everyone wants to get with. And yet they don’t fool around, and they are happy.
Go figure.
Dinner was traditional.
Marcus’s twelve-year-old chafed that he was relegated to the children’s table, when his fifteen-year-old cousin sat with the adults.
Marcus’s dad sat at the head of the table, leading the young people into a political discussion that the older people knew to avoid.
Marcus sat with me, and we chewed as we listened to his aunt talk about the misogynist men at her new nursing home.
After dinner, I chatted with David, now stripped to a t-shirt, until I thought the better of it. Everyone knows not to stand next to the best-looking man at a party, lest one risk unfavorable comparisons.
Instead, I treated a two-year-old girl to swings and flips, until I was exhausted by her cries of “Again! Again!”
The kids and I took Lillie the dog outside to play catch. My eldest son and I played air hockey.
Marcus took me back outside for cigars and scotch.
“You having a good time, baby?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am.” I leaned on his shoulder. “Will you marry me?”
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
divorce
parenting
gay marriage
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Fan Fiction
Rose is a sweet submissive in the city, in search of a dom.
She found my blog. It cost her a good night’s sleep, as she read and masturbated.
Her vibrator and nipple clamps called my name.
“Since reading your blog, an entirely new world seems to be opening up.” she wrote me. “I may have to start a blog of my own to record my ascent to perversity. Mostly thanks to you. Reveling in my sluttines is, mmmmmmmmmmm, so good . . .”
I instructed her to return the favor by imagining what might happen if we met.
The following arrived in my in box.
. . . and finally we meet
As I dress, I smile to myself hoping you enjoy the little surprise I’ve planned for you. Feeling rather nervous about meeting, wanting to please you, aching to experience the pleasures I’ve read about, I take comfort in my rituals of preparing for a date . . . a long, luscious shower, shaving my pussy, doing my hair, dabbing those hot spots with yummy perfume. I’m so happy that you granted my request for drinks and a light supper at your apartment . . . it goes with my surprise. One final check of my makeup, outfit and bag and I’m out the door.
Once in a cab, I notice that, while my stomach feels as if bats are flying around in there, there is also a wetness growing between my legs. So slutty, I think and smile with anticipation, wrapping my coat tightly around me.
You greet me at the door with a luscious kiss . . . long, slow, deep, our tongues playing over each other and as you pull back you nip my lower lip. Then you look at me inquisitively, asking why I have myself so wrapped up in my coat.
“Are you cold?,” you ask, with an offer to warm me up. I grin mischievously as I drop my coat revealing my surprise. . . You find me dressed in my black leather corset with my breasts exposed, nipples hard, a garter belt with thigh high stockings and heels
You applaud my moxie for our first meeting.
Picking up my coat and taking my bag, you draw me into the living room, kissing me again and I moan quietly feeling your kiss all the way down to my clit. I feel your hand in my hair, pulling, keeping my lips against yours, and devouring my mouth as I squirm with delight at your heavenly kisses.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Please let me serve you, Sexy Man. My desire is to serve and please you tonight,” I answer.
You point me toward the kitchen where I rummage for glasses, and ice. I ask about a particular bottle of red wine, which I open with your assent. I pour your bourbon and return to you. You’ve settled yourself into the couch and I cozy in next to you.
Drinks in hand, we fall into conversation, covering a variety of topics . . . careers, your kids, sex . . . Feeling more comfortable, my hand wanders to your leg almost absentmindedly, and I start to run my fingers up and down, in circles as I feel your hand in my hair.
Silence descends as we gaze at each other and you ask what I’m thinking. Laughing, I tell you I’m thinking of your kisses, how delicious they are and that I would like another one, please. You happily oblige me, setting down our drinks and moving closer.
I feel your hand tracing circles on my exposed breast, closer and closer your hand moves toward my already hard nipple. I’m arching my body trying to get your hand to that nipple more quickly. In response, you pull your hand away. I pull away from your mouth and pout, ”You are such a tease.” You reply with an evil little laugh, enjoying my desire and frustration.
“All in good time, my pet,” you tell me and announce that dinner is waiting.
Again, I ask your permission to serve you, which you grant and we move toward the kitchen. As we walk, I feel your hand on my ass, snaking it’s way down and you feel my pussy, happy to find that I’m already wet and swollen with desire.
I move my hips, wanting more contact, but again you pull your hand away, giving my ass a sound smack. Your hands grab my waist and pull me toward you, kissing me again.
I feel as if my knees may buckle under me as I melt into you, lost in your mouth. As our bodies press against each other, I can feel your hard cock straining against your pants.
Suddenly, your hand is in my hair lowering me to my knees, dinner forgotten for the moment. Removing your belt, you move behind me, taking my arms and wrapping your belt around them, giving me the end with the request that I hold onto it.
Moving back to face me, you lower your pants, your cock springing loose in my face. Looking up at you, I stick out my tongue and begin to lick the tip of your cock, swirling my tongue around the head. Creeping forward on my knees, I open my mouth and take your throbbing hard cock deep into my mouth, running my tongue down the underside of the shaft, then returning to the head.
You watch as I happily suck your cock, slowly, hungrily as you run your hands through my hair. Then I feel you tighten your grip and start to fuck my face, enjoying my wide eyes, the slurpy sound as I suck, you fuck and drool runs down my chin.
You pull out, help me up from my knees and with my wrists still bound behind me, you lead me by my hair into the bedroom. Situating me on the bed, you remove my heels, stockings and garter belt and pull my hips to the edge of the bed. You start to tease my pussy with your tongue and I squirm closer, wanting you more, harder . . . but you are still teasing and back away again.
Laughing as you watch me pout you tell me we have plenty of time and you don’t intend to rush this. You seem to enjoy my frustration at wanting, wanting, wanting and not getting exactly what I want.
“Isn’t that what a good Dom does, create intensity, heightened feelings? I’m just giving you what you wish for,” you tell me with that impish grin and a caress of my cheek as you move to take the belt off my wrists.
Scooting me to the middle of your bed, you walk to a drawer and pull out wrist and ankle restraints and put them on me. Then you remove my corset, push me back so I’m lying down. You bind me spread-eagle to the bed.
“Now I have you totally in my control. No more squirming. I will do as I please with you.”
I smile in reply as you kiss me, moving onto the bed and on top of me. The weight of you on top of me feels wonderful. You kiss me again and I can feel your hard cock between my legs. Try as I might, I can’t move to get you inside of me.
You leave my mouth, nibbling my neck and moving on to my breasts. Finally your hands slowly circle my nipples and then squeeze them hard, watching my reaction.
I gasp and beg you to fuck me.
I am so hungry for your cock in my cunt.
You slip a pillow under my ass, slip on a condom and I feel you enter me. I moan with pleasure.
You fuck me slowly for a time, bending down to kiss me, suck and bite at my nipples and then you move away again. Moving up my body, you straddle me and feed me your cock, letting me happily suck your cock and lick your balls, nudging you with my nose so you’ll move up further so I can rim your ass.
This is heaven, being tied down and having your cock, balls and ass to suck and lick.
Not wanting to cum, you move away again and return to my pussy. This time you stay there, focusing on my clit and I feel you insert a couple fingers inside me, hitting my g-spot as you devour my clit until you feel me tense and then cum in shuddering waves, straining against my restraints, moaning with pleasure.
Your mouth moves and I feel your tongue on my ass, rimming me, with fingers still inside me and your thumb circling my clit. It doesn’t take long for me to cum again.
You stop and look up to see me smiling and I beg you again to fuck me. “Nope, time to eat. Then more play.” You release me from my bondage and we head to the kitchen.
You prepared a lovely salad, full of veggies, grilled tuna and some Romano cheese flakes. We put the salad into bowls together and move to the table.
As we eat, we talk about our initial go round of pleasure, laughing about my frustration, my “pouty girl” act when you won’t give me what I want. We decide that we have some business to finish after dinner.
We have more wine and bourbon as we chat and then I lose my resolve to sit and look at you without touching.
I move to my knees, pulling at your chair leg until you move so I can get to your beautiful cock. I slowly take you in my mouth, enjoying the feeling of you growing hard as I suck and lick you. You lean back in your chair, enjoying the wet warmth of my mouth, my earnest desire to please you.
After a bit, you push me off you and I immediately pout, looking like a kid who just had her lollipop taken away.
Laughing, you pull me up, kissing me.
Moving us toward the bedroom you say, “Come, my pet. We have business to finish . . .”
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
discipline
submission
bondage
oral sex
erotica
She found my blog. It cost her a good night’s sleep, as she read and masturbated.
Her vibrator and nipple clamps called my name.
“Since reading your blog, an entirely new world seems to be opening up.” she wrote me. “I may have to start a blog of my own to record my ascent to perversity. Mostly thanks to you. Reveling in my sluttines is, mmmmmmmmmmm, so good . . .”
I instructed her to return the favor by imagining what might happen if we met.
The following arrived in my in box.
. . . and finally we meet
As I dress, I smile to myself hoping you enjoy the little surprise I’ve planned for you. Feeling rather nervous about meeting, wanting to please you, aching to experience the pleasures I’ve read about, I take comfort in my rituals of preparing for a date . . . a long, luscious shower, shaving my pussy, doing my hair, dabbing those hot spots with yummy perfume. I’m so happy that you granted my request for drinks and a light supper at your apartment . . . it goes with my surprise. One final check of my makeup, outfit and bag and I’m out the door.
Once in a cab, I notice that, while my stomach feels as if bats are flying around in there, there is also a wetness growing between my legs. So slutty, I think and smile with anticipation, wrapping my coat tightly around me.
You greet me at the door with a luscious kiss . . . long, slow, deep, our tongues playing over each other and as you pull back you nip my lower lip. Then you look at me inquisitively, asking why I have myself so wrapped up in my coat.
“Are you cold?,” you ask, with an offer to warm me up. I grin mischievously as I drop my coat revealing my surprise. . . You find me dressed in my black leather corset with my breasts exposed, nipples hard, a garter belt with thigh high stockings and heels
You applaud my moxie for our first meeting.
Picking up my coat and taking my bag, you draw me into the living room, kissing me again and I moan quietly feeling your kiss all the way down to my clit. I feel your hand in my hair, pulling, keeping my lips against yours, and devouring my mouth as I squirm with delight at your heavenly kisses.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Please let me serve you, Sexy Man. My desire is to serve and please you tonight,” I answer.
You point me toward the kitchen where I rummage for glasses, and ice. I ask about a particular bottle of red wine, which I open with your assent. I pour your bourbon and return to you. You’ve settled yourself into the couch and I cozy in next to you.
Drinks in hand, we fall into conversation, covering a variety of topics . . . careers, your kids, sex . . . Feeling more comfortable, my hand wanders to your leg almost absentmindedly, and I start to run my fingers up and down, in circles as I feel your hand in my hair.
Silence descends as we gaze at each other and you ask what I’m thinking. Laughing, I tell you I’m thinking of your kisses, how delicious they are and that I would like another one, please. You happily oblige me, setting down our drinks and moving closer.
I feel your hand tracing circles on my exposed breast, closer and closer your hand moves toward my already hard nipple. I’m arching my body trying to get your hand to that nipple more quickly. In response, you pull your hand away. I pull away from your mouth and pout, ”You are such a tease.” You reply with an evil little laugh, enjoying my desire and frustration.
“All in good time, my pet,” you tell me and announce that dinner is waiting.
Again, I ask your permission to serve you, which you grant and we move toward the kitchen. As we walk, I feel your hand on my ass, snaking it’s way down and you feel my pussy, happy to find that I’m already wet and swollen with desire.
I move my hips, wanting more contact, but again you pull your hand away, giving my ass a sound smack. Your hands grab my waist and pull me toward you, kissing me again.
I feel as if my knees may buckle under me as I melt into you, lost in your mouth. As our bodies press against each other, I can feel your hard cock straining against your pants.
Suddenly, your hand is in my hair lowering me to my knees, dinner forgotten for the moment. Removing your belt, you move behind me, taking my arms and wrapping your belt around them, giving me the end with the request that I hold onto it.
Moving back to face me, you lower your pants, your cock springing loose in my face. Looking up at you, I stick out my tongue and begin to lick the tip of your cock, swirling my tongue around the head. Creeping forward on my knees, I open my mouth and take your throbbing hard cock deep into my mouth, running my tongue down the underside of the shaft, then returning to the head.
You watch as I happily suck your cock, slowly, hungrily as you run your hands through my hair. Then I feel you tighten your grip and start to fuck my face, enjoying my wide eyes, the slurpy sound as I suck, you fuck and drool runs down my chin.
You pull out, help me up from my knees and with my wrists still bound behind me, you lead me by my hair into the bedroom. Situating me on the bed, you remove my heels, stockings and garter belt and pull my hips to the edge of the bed. You start to tease my pussy with your tongue and I squirm closer, wanting you more, harder . . . but you are still teasing and back away again.
Laughing as you watch me pout you tell me we have plenty of time and you don’t intend to rush this. You seem to enjoy my frustration at wanting, wanting, wanting and not getting exactly what I want.
“Isn’t that what a good Dom does, create intensity, heightened feelings? I’m just giving you what you wish for,” you tell me with that impish grin and a caress of my cheek as you move to take the belt off my wrists.
Scooting me to the middle of your bed, you walk to a drawer and pull out wrist and ankle restraints and put them on me. Then you remove my corset, push me back so I’m lying down. You bind me spread-eagle to the bed.
“Now I have you totally in my control. No more squirming. I will do as I please with you.”
I smile in reply as you kiss me, moving onto the bed and on top of me. The weight of you on top of me feels wonderful. You kiss me again and I can feel your hard cock between my legs. Try as I might, I can’t move to get you inside of me.
You leave my mouth, nibbling my neck and moving on to my breasts. Finally your hands slowly circle my nipples and then squeeze them hard, watching my reaction.
I gasp and beg you to fuck me.
I am so hungry for your cock in my cunt.
You slip a pillow under my ass, slip on a condom and I feel you enter me. I moan with pleasure.
You fuck me slowly for a time, bending down to kiss me, suck and bite at my nipples and then you move away again. Moving up my body, you straddle me and feed me your cock, letting me happily suck your cock and lick your balls, nudging you with my nose so you’ll move up further so I can rim your ass.
This is heaven, being tied down and having your cock, balls and ass to suck and lick.
Not wanting to cum, you move away again and return to my pussy. This time you stay there, focusing on my clit and I feel you insert a couple fingers inside me, hitting my g-spot as you devour my clit until you feel me tense and then cum in shuddering waves, straining against my restraints, moaning with pleasure.
Your mouth moves and I feel your tongue on my ass, rimming me, with fingers still inside me and your thumb circling my clit. It doesn’t take long for me to cum again.
You stop and look up to see me smiling and I beg you again to fuck me. “Nope, time to eat. Then more play.” You release me from my bondage and we head to the kitchen.
You prepared a lovely salad, full of veggies, grilled tuna and some Romano cheese flakes. We put the salad into bowls together and move to the table.
As we eat, we talk about our initial go round of pleasure, laughing about my frustration, my “pouty girl” act when you won’t give me what I want. We decide that we have some business to finish after dinner.
We have more wine and bourbon as we chat and then I lose my resolve to sit and look at you without touching.
I move to my knees, pulling at your chair leg until you move so I can get to your beautiful cock. I slowly take you in my mouth, enjoying the feeling of you growing hard as I suck and lick you. You lean back in your chair, enjoying the wet warmth of my mouth, my earnest desire to please you.
After a bit, you push me off you and I immediately pout, looking like a kid who just had her lollipop taken away.
Laughing, you pull me up, kissing me.
Moving us toward the bedroom you say, “Come, my pet. We have business to finish . . .”
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
discipline
submission
bondage
oral sex
erotica
Monday, November 21, 2005
Blogoversary
Last year, just before Thanksgiving, I had a lunch date with Celia. I had been thinking about her for months.
Our lunch lasted two days.
I wrote about that date to my pal Dacia. She encouraged me to tell that tale in a blog.
I didn’t know nothing about no blogs.
Dacia came over to show me the ropes, and thus, over bourbons, with Dacia as the midwife, my blog was born.
I saw Dacia yesterday, in the midst of a very different weekend. You’ll hear all about it, I’m sure, once Mitzi, Viviane, Nate, Meg and my new straight boyfriend Eleyson and I process our “Perverts’ Thanksgiving.”
Yesterday, as Meg and I sipped red wine, Dacia devoured sex party leftovers—washed down by sex party soda—and we commiserated about how our lives have been affected by our blogs.
Dacia talked about how her blog is now being affected by her life.
Only today did I realize that this conversation marked my blogoversary.
My first post was written a year ago tonight, as an email to Dacia. It was posted a week later, in my newborn blog, and thus “Jefferson” was born.
Meg and I met through Shelby, who met me through my blog. And here she was meeting Dacia, who created the blog that created Jefferson.
How fitting, I thought, sipping wine that Viviane brought to our perverts’ Thanksgiving.
Come to think of it, I wouldn’t know Viviane if not for the blog.
I’m finishing the wine tonight.
This is my three hundred and twelfth post in fewer than three hundred and sixty five days.
Here’s the one that started it all.
I am toasting Dacia as I hit the “publish” button.
My Celia
It’s been over a year since the break up.
For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.
Until my Celia.
I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.
Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.
Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.
As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.
I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.
I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.
"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."
"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.
"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.
I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.
As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.
The summer passed.
Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!
I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.
Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.
We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.
Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.
(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)
We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.
I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.
She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.
She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.
"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"
"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.
Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.
Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.
I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.
I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.
We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.
I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."
She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.
She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.
As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.
I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.
"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.
I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.
We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.
I fuck her pussy.
"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)
In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.
We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."
I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.
I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.
My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.
I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.
Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.
sex
sexblogs
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Our lunch lasted two days.
I wrote about that date to my pal Dacia. She encouraged me to tell that tale in a blog.
I didn’t know nothing about no blogs.
Dacia came over to show me the ropes, and thus, over bourbons, with Dacia as the midwife, my blog was born.
I saw Dacia yesterday, in the midst of a very different weekend. You’ll hear all about it, I’m sure, once Mitzi, Viviane, Nate, Meg and my new straight boyfriend Eleyson and I process our “Perverts’ Thanksgiving.”
Yesterday, as Meg and I sipped red wine, Dacia devoured sex party leftovers—washed down by sex party soda—and we commiserated about how our lives have been affected by our blogs.
Dacia talked about how her blog is now being affected by her life.
Only today did I realize that this conversation marked my blogoversary.
My first post was written a year ago tonight, as an email to Dacia. It was posted a week later, in my newborn blog, and thus “Jefferson” was born.
Meg and I met through Shelby, who met me through my blog. And here she was meeting Dacia, who created the blog that created Jefferson.
How fitting, I thought, sipping wine that Viviane brought to our perverts’ Thanksgiving.
Come to think of it, I wouldn’t know Viviane if not for the blog.
I’m finishing the wine tonight.
This is my three hundred and twelfth post in fewer than three hundred and sixty five days.
Here’s the one that started it all.
I am toasting Dacia as I hit the “publish” button.
My Celia
It’s been over a year since the break up.
For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.
Until my Celia.
I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.
Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.
Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.
As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.
I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.
I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.
"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."
"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.
"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.
I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.
As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.
The summer passed.
Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!
I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.
Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.
We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.
Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.
(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)
We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.
I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.
She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.
She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.
"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"
"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.
Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.
Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.
I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.
I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.
We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.
I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."
She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.
She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.
As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.
I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.
"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.
I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.
We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.
I fuck her pussy.
"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)
In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.
We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."
I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.
I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.
My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.
I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.
Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
erotica
BDSM
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