I drove terribly slowly, less than ten miles per hour, watching the blocks of American flags punctuated intermittently by quiet retail streets. Our radio was on, but it was quiet too. Nothing was loud anymore. Even the whine and whoosh of airplanes passing had disappeared. People stayed inside and watched the news. That’s all anyone did. It was the only thing that felt right anymore.
When I stopped the car, the bubbles would catch up to us if the wind was right. If the wind was very right, the bubbles would blow anyway, even though we were stopped. I would cheer them on silently, watch the little bulge appear in the thick part of the wand and think “Go! Go! Go!” Most of the time, it would retreat, snap back to flat inaudibly. I would move again when the superfluous traffic lights would turn, letting a stream of bubbles loose behind me, and dip again for more, watching them fly in the rearview, scared and curious in their new home.
Gina’s eyes were closed and her hand was down her pants. Though the weather was quickly turning cold, she insisted on leaving the heat off. She said it was better this way. I think she meant that it was easier to stay wet without the blower on her, but I felt at the time that going without heat was part of our sacrifice, that being comfortable and having an orgasm was too much. Gina’s hand was on my thigh. I unzipped and pulled myself out for when she would be ready. I dipped the bubble wand and let some of the bubble-goo drip onto the tip of my cock. Just the smell of the bubble-goo gave me a hard-on those days.
Gina rolled her window down a little, feeling that removing any of the barrier between her joy and the void-sadness of the houses couldn’t hurt. I scanned the skies. I think we all did. We just looked up all the time back then. I’d seen some F-15s, but nothing else, the previous week. I didn’t think about it anymore, didn’t really know what it was that I was looking for.
Both of us were scared. We were scared of another attack just like anyone else was, but we were also scared of what everyone was going to do with all their anger, all their obsession and blind adrenaline. People were afraid to go to the mall, go into subways, say the wrong thing. Arabs were being screamed at on the streets. Indians were also being screamed at for looking like them. Zoos were empty. Museums were empty. People were calling the police over abandoned guacamole. Throngs of tourists on Michigan Avenue had left, no longer blocking the sidewalks. No one was shopping either, for that matter. Gina and I did what we used to do when we were sad. We blew bubbles and fucked. We decided it was time to take it outside.
Gina turned the bottle in my hand and let more of the bubble-goo drip onto my cock. It was time. I waited for her to finish, stretching my neck, waiting for the soft warmth of her fingers. When they arrived, always a welcome shock, I calmed myself and dipped the wand in the bottle again, controlling the pressure on the gas pedal. It was time for me to feel good, and my thoughts switched to the joy of being alive over the fear of death.
She lowered her sweatpants so I could see her, opened her knees wide. I risked one glance. Her fingers moved tighter on my cock, a lull, then a few quick swipes near the tip, then a lull again when she felt my back get tight. The bubbles were harder to control. Too often, I held my arm out and lost it all in one great pop. I brought the wand back to the bottle and was ready for another go when Gina let go of me and gently touched my hand, stopping me. She took the wand, dipped it herself and ringed the tip of my cock with it. I tried to just touch the brake, but found myself slamming us to a stop. She gently rubbed just the tip in the layer of soapy goo. It was like rubbing the base tickle of sex itself. Then she dropped the wand back into the bottle itself, my hand twisting on the steering wheel, and return to her normal duties on my cock, her hand like silk on me after the wand.
We were in the Arab part of town now, strangely just north of the Jewish one, and the houses and apartment blocks had just as many, if not more, American flags. The wind was light tonight, so the flags stirred slightly and swayed arrhythmically according to weight, the spooky humanity of material hanging in nature. I was as careful as I could be with the bubbles, my foot fighting its resistance at the pedal. Gina too began to go arrhythmic, was losing her footing on my cock and I began to concentrate, trying to get us both to come at the same time. I glanced at her hand in her pussy, the fingers sweetly pulling out love and felt it, the beginning of it, just behind my balls. I parked us on a residential street, right in the middle, and kissed her cheek. My foot pressed hard on the brake, but I pushed us in park anyway. Her head bent back suddenly, my hand now clutching her neck, and the two of us whimpered slightly, smiles on our faces, a dose of happy into the atmosphere.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
I'm actually making a strange squeaking sound.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #95? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Fisted, first.
“And it was lovely, because the movements made by his fist inside me were so different to a cock.”
The Razor, the Tape and the Man
“He’s never known this lack of control, this unstoppable surge of orgasm, this wave of ecstasy soldiers crossing his territory.”
Sex Work And Religion: Monotone Man
“Religion comes up during calls more than I anticipated when I started doing sex work.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Masterlock Street Cuffs
Editor’s Choice
Watching my girl’s caning
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Butch/Femme, Spanking and Team Gina, Oh My!
“If you jump into bed on a first date, it’s already over” and other Myths
Normal.
Or, When Fantasy Ruins Your Love Life
Sex in the possibly public square
The Storm Cone
When trust faltered…
Sex News & Reviews
Sex Blogger Cocktail Party In Toronto
Sex Toy Review: njoy Butt Plug
Wet vs. dry rub
BDSM & Fetish
The Blindfold
Dinner Party
Happy HNT - Subspace bondage
I’m Not Ready To Play Nice….
Manless
New Store!!! New Videos!!! New Look!!!
Posting tipsy
Social Kink Interviews Steve Diet Goedde
Trashy kisses
Weekend With CD Part I (Figging LFM)
Sex Poetry
Beauty mark
Mischief
NSFW Pics & Videos
Catalina loves To Take Pictures
Gabriella (Gallery Carre)
Jessica Beil Topless
A Reflective Half-Nekkid Thursday
Sandra Shine Nude
Valentina is a goldpiece
WebMistress Feature Gallery: Sultry Striptease
Sex & Politics
We Support the Human Rights Campaign
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Bubble Bath
Cadillac Confessions Vol. 1
Caught Between A Rock And A Hard On! - Part 1
Chatting
Every Six Seconds…#2
No reservations, part 2
Our holiday - part one
Party
Sexytime
Siesta
Sex from the Rooftops
Speaking of Porn Stars….
Sunshine On Naked Skin
That Makes Two
Wanking this weekend?
Warm Wet Velvet
We sleeping wake, and waking sleep
Half-naked Melissa courtesy of Watching My Wife.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Monday, August 27, 2007
Grey
Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine and seek to mend….
-John Donne, ca. 1615
My whole existence is flawed. You get me closer to God. -Trent Reznor, 1994
“No, I’ve never doubted my faith,” Tonio said. I adjusted my pants, looking at his shoulder. This is what I had wanted him to say. I hoped he didn’t ask me. “What about you, Hugo?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not,” he echoed.
Tell you the truth, it doesn’t come up too much anymore. Though at the time it meant so much to me. I was giving up a habit that I never told him about, and was struggling to replace my thoughts of it with God, though it wasn’t coming as easy to me as it once had. When I was younger it would. The world was so black and white, so easy to understand. There was good and there was evil and here is what is good and here is what is evil. And even though both things will exist in you, you must only do what’s good. When I did what was evil, I tried to fight it, but it was hard. Especially when all I could see was that I was the only one I had a possibility of hurting. I knew I was supposed to think that it would hurt God, but it wouldn’t. If He didn’t want anyone to touch it, He shouldn’t have let us find it.
The funeral is a full mass. He was a soap star in the eighties. He died of a cocaine overdose the previous weekend. He only took occasionally as far as anyone knew. That might have been what killed him. His body wasn’t dead to it yet. The River Phoenix thing. People are wearing sunglasses, piled up in the church, the flashbulbs going off even during the service, leaving purple-red mottles on our retinae. Father Moses spoke, then stepped down for the wife of the soap star.
“The poem is by John Donne,” she says, “and it was one of Luis’s favorites.”
I’d heard it before, read it in some textbook in high school. We gathered up in the hallway, muttering to each other. Did that mean what I thought that meant? Yeah, I think it really did. Holy shit and they actually read that to us? Maybe they don’t know what it means. We broke up to go to class.
“Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you as yet but knock…”
Tonio never spoke about God much, though it was on his mind all the time. It was a reason for him to say no to a lot of things. It bolstered me. I felt like if I hung around him all the time it would rub off. I’d stopped going years ago, not just over the meth, but because I just didn’t buy it anymore. Since giving it up, I joined the choir, a hell-bent effort recommended by my sponsor, but it just didn’t have as much of an effect on me. Tonio did, somehow. His purity, the way he saw things, reminded me so much of myself back then. I thought it would wash away the filth.
Coming off of meth also makes your heart dry. The only time I ever felt anything at all was when I was with him.
“…breathe, shine and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.”
I slept all the time, waking only in a scentless sweat in time to shower and get ready for choir practice. To act normal in front of him, this substitute priest with his shining eyes.
The room has shut up for once, everyone listening to Luis’s wife, whose eyes are puffy and red, though she always seemed to hate him before. Her bottom lip is quivering, each syllable a fight to get out, her lipstick wearing away, a flashbulb in her face illuminating new wrinkles. “I, like an usurped town, to another due, labor to admit you, but O, to no end….”
There was one time that he spoke of it, over a burger instead of a cocktail after a rehearsal. ”I see the proof of God in the mountains and the dextrousness of your hands,” he said, holding them out in front of himself. “I see Him in children and the digestive system and the water cycle. There’s no way He doesn’t exist. It’s all too perfect. My sister has turned away, you know,” he said, flashing his eyelashes at me. “She let doubt get the better of her. I miss her, but she won’t see me anymore.”
“Why, just because of that?”
“She’s a lesbian now. She didn’t like my disapproval.”
I took a sip of my Coke, letting my hair hide the look on my face.
“Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, but is captived, and proves weak or untrue.”
Tonio squirms a little in his seat. He’s been reading along with the poem, but squinting up at her, trying to make it all out.
I’d been trying to replace the meth with God, but I had been all along replacing it with Tonio. At night, my hand drifted down my front, my eyes slammed shut, my fingers wrapped around my cock and I thought about him, what would happen if I let myself do what I wanted to do with him. My hand, sticky with butter or hand lotion or olive oil or whatever I could find came down over his imaginary body and when I came, his lips parted and he smiled, approvingly.
“Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, but am betrothed unto your enemy.”
Tonio bought some beers one night, the taste of real sin on our lips, we talked for hours. We were on the couch in his living room, watching some stupid show on Animal Planet. Telling him came up a thousand times, as he put his feet on my knees, smiling that unbreakable smile. He was so clean. He was so much of what I wanted to be. I couldn’t tell him about my past, couldn’t tell him what was in my mind now. I stepped gingerly around both things and he let me. Because he assumed they weren’t there, that they couldn’t be, that I was like him. Because I made him think I was like him.
The beer spoke for me anyway. “Have you ever done anything serious? What’s the worst thing that you’ve done?” He sat up a little, hooking the arches of his feet over my thighs, wiggling his toes in his socks. He looked at me and cocked his head.
“Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, take me to you, imprison me….”
The widow is really kind of losing it now. The priest comes up next to her to comfort her but she doesn’t let him. She doesn’t like him. I can see that much. Does she blame him, I wonder? Does she think he didn’t do anything about this, or did too much?
He wiggled his toes some more, examining them. “Um, I let a guy…. Well me and this other guy we…. I had a thing going on with a male friend of mine.”
“What?”
“Me and this guy, we were… fucking for a while. But it’s over.” He looked at his feet again and removed them from my thigh.
“What?” My brain went cloudy. It reeled, stupid and empty.
“It’s over. I don’t really think about it anymore.”
I took his hand and he let me. He looked to the side.
“…For I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.”
The funeral card shakes in Tonio’s hand and he looks at the widow like he’s afraid of her. She covers her face in her gloved hand, waiting to regain composure. The poem is over, but she stands at the dais, afraid to let her husband go.
He pulled my hand and we took each other’s faces hard, the taste of the beer in each other’s mouths, the squeak of his couch and the innocent voiceover on the TV, his cock jabbing into me, his uncontaminated skin which had lied about his soul, silken under my fingertips. He unbuckled his pants. I pulled them off for him.
When he came, my cock deep inside of him, the world turning red around me, he screamed out for God. When I came I screamed out for Tonio, the idea still in my head that that was who he was. I lay on top of him, this strange man, no one I knew. I looked into his face for a while. He looked back at me, petrified. I pulled off of him and got dressed.
“See you for practice tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said, though my voice shook. I let the door shut quietly behind me, the sweat on my back like it was every morning. Feeling broken for the first time since the meth. It was something, at least, though not really what I’d been missing.
My whole existence is flawed. You get me closer to God. -Trent Reznor, 1994
“No, I’ve never doubted my faith,” Tonio said. I adjusted my pants, looking at his shoulder. This is what I had wanted him to say. I hoped he didn’t ask me. “What about you, Hugo?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not,” he echoed.
Tell you the truth, it doesn’t come up too much anymore. Though at the time it meant so much to me. I was giving up a habit that I never told him about, and was struggling to replace my thoughts of it with God, though it wasn’t coming as easy to me as it once had. When I was younger it would. The world was so black and white, so easy to understand. There was good and there was evil and here is what is good and here is what is evil. And even though both things will exist in you, you must only do what’s good. When I did what was evil, I tried to fight it, but it was hard. Especially when all I could see was that I was the only one I had a possibility of hurting. I knew I was supposed to think that it would hurt God, but it wouldn’t. If He didn’t want anyone to touch it, He shouldn’t have let us find it.
The funeral is a full mass. He was a soap star in the eighties. He died of a cocaine overdose the previous weekend. He only took occasionally as far as anyone knew. That might have been what killed him. His body wasn’t dead to it yet. The River Phoenix thing. People are wearing sunglasses, piled up in the church, the flashbulbs going off even during the service, leaving purple-red mottles on our retinae. Father Moses spoke, then stepped down for the wife of the soap star.
“The poem is by John Donne,” she says, “and it was one of Luis’s favorites.”
I’d heard it before, read it in some textbook in high school. We gathered up in the hallway, muttering to each other. Did that mean what I thought that meant? Yeah, I think it really did. Holy shit and they actually read that to us? Maybe they don’t know what it means. We broke up to go to class.
“Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you as yet but knock…”
Tonio never spoke about God much, though it was on his mind all the time. It was a reason for him to say no to a lot of things. It bolstered me. I felt like if I hung around him all the time it would rub off. I’d stopped going years ago, not just over the meth, but because I just didn’t buy it anymore. Since giving it up, I joined the choir, a hell-bent effort recommended by my sponsor, but it just didn’t have as much of an effect on me. Tonio did, somehow. His purity, the way he saw things, reminded me so much of myself back then. I thought it would wash away the filth.
Coming off of meth also makes your heart dry. The only time I ever felt anything at all was when I was with him.
“…breathe, shine and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.”
I slept all the time, waking only in a scentless sweat in time to shower and get ready for choir practice. To act normal in front of him, this substitute priest with his shining eyes.
The room has shut up for once, everyone listening to Luis’s wife, whose eyes are puffy and red, though she always seemed to hate him before. Her bottom lip is quivering, each syllable a fight to get out, her lipstick wearing away, a flashbulb in her face illuminating new wrinkles. “I, like an usurped town, to another due, labor to admit you, but O, to no end….”
There was one time that he spoke of it, over a burger instead of a cocktail after a rehearsal. ”I see the proof of God in the mountains and the dextrousness of your hands,” he said, holding them out in front of himself. “I see Him in children and the digestive system and the water cycle. There’s no way He doesn’t exist. It’s all too perfect. My sister has turned away, you know,” he said, flashing his eyelashes at me. “She let doubt get the better of her. I miss her, but she won’t see me anymore.”
“Why, just because of that?”
“She’s a lesbian now. She didn’t like my disapproval.”
I took a sip of my Coke, letting my hair hide the look on my face.
“Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, but is captived, and proves weak or untrue.”
Tonio squirms a little in his seat. He’s been reading along with the poem, but squinting up at her, trying to make it all out.
I’d been trying to replace the meth with God, but I had been all along replacing it with Tonio. At night, my hand drifted down my front, my eyes slammed shut, my fingers wrapped around my cock and I thought about him, what would happen if I let myself do what I wanted to do with him. My hand, sticky with butter or hand lotion or olive oil or whatever I could find came down over his imaginary body and when I came, his lips parted and he smiled, approvingly.
“Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, but am betrothed unto your enemy.”
Tonio bought some beers one night, the taste of real sin on our lips, we talked for hours. We were on the couch in his living room, watching some stupid show on Animal Planet. Telling him came up a thousand times, as he put his feet on my knees, smiling that unbreakable smile. He was so clean. He was so much of what I wanted to be. I couldn’t tell him about my past, couldn’t tell him what was in my mind now. I stepped gingerly around both things and he let me. Because he assumed they weren’t there, that they couldn’t be, that I was like him. Because I made him think I was like him.
The beer spoke for me anyway. “Have you ever done anything serious? What’s the worst thing that you’ve done?” He sat up a little, hooking the arches of his feet over my thighs, wiggling his toes in his socks. He looked at me and cocked his head.
“Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, take me to you, imprison me….”
The widow is really kind of losing it now. The priest comes up next to her to comfort her but she doesn’t let him. She doesn’t like him. I can see that much. Does she blame him, I wonder? Does she think he didn’t do anything about this, or did too much?
He wiggled his toes some more, examining them. “Um, I let a guy…. Well me and this other guy we…. I had a thing going on with a male friend of mine.”
“What?”
“Me and this guy, we were… fucking for a while. But it’s over.” He looked at his feet again and removed them from my thigh.
“What?” My brain went cloudy. It reeled, stupid and empty.
“It’s over. I don’t really think about it anymore.”
I took his hand and he let me. He looked to the side.
“…For I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.”
The funeral card shakes in Tonio’s hand and he looks at the widow like he’s afraid of her. She covers her face in her gloved hand, waiting to regain composure. The poem is over, but she stands at the dais, afraid to let her husband go.
He pulled my hand and we took each other’s faces hard, the taste of the beer in each other’s mouths, the squeak of his couch and the innocent voiceover on the TV, his cock jabbing into me, his uncontaminated skin which had lied about his soul, silken under my fingertips. He unbuckled his pants. I pulled them off for him.
When he came, my cock deep inside of him, the world turning red around me, he screamed out for God. When I came I screamed out for Tonio, the idea still in my head that that was who he was. I lay on top of him, this strange man, no one I knew. I looked into his face for a while. He looked back at me, petrified. I pulled off of him and got dressed.
“See you for practice tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said, though my voice shook. I let the door shut quietly behind me, the sweat on my back like it was every morning. Feeling broken for the first time since the meth. It was something, at least, though not really what I’d been missing.
Friday, August 24, 2007
The Party-Part Five, Listen
I’m told to just lay there, so I do. There are three others, all sort of stuck on benches just big enough to take our weight and balance us. My legs are apart on either side of the bench and my toes, stretched as long as I can get them, just make contact with the floor. I pretended to be in it for the money, but the money was really just there to justify this indulgence, to take away the fear of being sprawled naked in front of strangers, my breasts fallen to the sides, my pussy open to the touch of whomever wants to touch it. My lips, my nipples, even my freaking knees are available and I lay there, because they told me to, because I want to, with my hands frozen in place on the legs of a bench.
Often, a man will approach me, make eye contact with me, and lay a trembling hand on the breast nearest him. They exhale visibly, as if they were sure they’d never feel one again, and respectfully let it drop again. Some kiss me on the forehead like a child after they do. Some kiss me on the lips. My pussy lays open and waits. The first to have the guts, or maybe to take on the responsibility, is a woman.
By this time, my mind has been filled with fingers, smooth ones and callused ones, manicured and shaped ones, others with rough nails that scratch their signature into me. A fondue pot boils chocolate for strawberries and melons nearby. I imagine the tips of the strawberries, dripping with the chocolate, rubbing against me, outlining my curves and dips. I imagine it toying my clit, dipping into me, twisted and popped into someone’s mouth.
But the lower half of my body is entirely ignored for an hour. All around me, people are in mixed states of stimulation, some just buzzing and watching others, some in drowsy, post-coital bliss, some exploring, some showing off, some laughing, some howling, and my body just swells more with each tease, needs more, is ready to make summit just on its own. And then a woman, an aging hippy who fell into money somewhere along the way, bends over me curiously, slides her hand up my inner thigh and makes contact. I listen to the sound of a man coming somewhere, the held and broken breaths.
“You need this, baby,” she says, and I’m sure she’s stoned out of her mind. But she splits me, plunges three fingers into me and curves right into my g-spot. She kisses me tightly, holding my face in, then licks a line from the finial of my breastbone, down to my navel and along the sides of my hips. She rubs the g-spot nimbly, a prayer forming in my lips. Suddenly, my back arches, the sea parts and crashes back into itself and I float just off the beach, warm, wet and blissed. When I open my eyes, my back still arched, I make eye contact with the man behind me, also on a bench. My face still has the serious, worried look of the orgasm and he smiles deeply at me.
The woman who made me come laughs, takes a fingerful of my wet, brings it to him and slides it into his mouth.
“So you will know if she’s right for you,” she says. She walks to the other side of him, throws a leg over him, pulls his cock back to her and begins to ride. His eyes, imprinted on my brain at the moment of climax, become desperate and sweet. A small crowd forms to watch, some with hands down each other’s pants, but he watches only me. His face twitches and he comes too, the only blink in his stares, his shoulders turning and rattling on his bench. “Fuck her!” the hippy says, “You’re fucking her!” She comes just out of my sightlines. The only way I know is the slight cringe in his lips and the relaxed tension of the audience.
When they part, gone back to their individual fantasies, the man behind me whispers in shiny lips, “I’m Aaron. 773-555-2731.”
“Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731.” He lifts his hand and places it on my cheek before dropping it back to his bench and putting his head down.
Often, a man will approach me, make eye contact with me, and lay a trembling hand on the breast nearest him. They exhale visibly, as if they were sure they’d never feel one again, and respectfully let it drop again. Some kiss me on the forehead like a child after they do. Some kiss me on the lips. My pussy lays open and waits. The first to have the guts, or maybe to take on the responsibility, is a woman.
By this time, my mind has been filled with fingers, smooth ones and callused ones, manicured and shaped ones, others with rough nails that scratch their signature into me. A fondue pot boils chocolate for strawberries and melons nearby. I imagine the tips of the strawberries, dripping with the chocolate, rubbing against me, outlining my curves and dips. I imagine it toying my clit, dipping into me, twisted and popped into someone’s mouth.
But the lower half of my body is entirely ignored for an hour. All around me, people are in mixed states of stimulation, some just buzzing and watching others, some in drowsy, post-coital bliss, some exploring, some showing off, some laughing, some howling, and my body just swells more with each tease, needs more, is ready to make summit just on its own. And then a woman, an aging hippy who fell into money somewhere along the way, bends over me curiously, slides her hand up my inner thigh and makes contact. I listen to the sound of a man coming somewhere, the held and broken breaths.
“You need this, baby,” she says, and I’m sure she’s stoned out of her mind. But she splits me, plunges three fingers into me and curves right into my g-spot. She kisses me tightly, holding my face in, then licks a line from the finial of my breastbone, down to my navel and along the sides of my hips. She rubs the g-spot nimbly, a prayer forming in my lips. Suddenly, my back arches, the sea parts and crashes back into itself and I float just off the beach, warm, wet and blissed. When I open my eyes, my back still arched, I make eye contact with the man behind me, also on a bench. My face still has the serious, worried look of the orgasm and he smiles deeply at me.
The woman who made me come laughs, takes a fingerful of my wet, brings it to him and slides it into his mouth.
“So you will know if she’s right for you,” she says. She walks to the other side of him, throws a leg over him, pulls his cock back to her and begins to ride. His eyes, imprinted on my brain at the moment of climax, become desperate and sweet. A small crowd forms to watch, some with hands down each other’s pants, but he watches only me. His face twitches and he comes too, the only blink in his stares, his shoulders turning and rattling on his bench. “Fuck her!” the hippy says, “You’re fucking her!” She comes just out of my sightlines. The only way I know is the slight cringe in his lips and the relaxed tension of the audience.
When they part, gone back to their individual fantasies, the man behind me whispers in shiny lips, “I’m Aaron. 773-555-2731.”
“Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731.” He lifts his hand and places it on my cheek before dropping it back to his bench and putting his head down.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Party-Part Four, Open Up
I wasn’t sure what to make of the phone call, the invitation, what to wear, exactly. I’d been compulsively cleaning my house, had bought the industrial stuff that eats away at anything organic, put on gloves and attacked the layer of grease that he had, I imagined, laid upon my kitchen. The windows were open and even though a storm was catching on, I left them open, let the organic residue of him hit the air and speed away as soon as it was given the suggestion. The phone rang then, though it hadn’t in two weeks, I snicked the gloves off and left them inside out on a counter, hoping this shit didn’t do something horrible to marble.
And here we are. With all these fucking straight people. He’d said to me about three weeks ago, just after the be-quoop sound of the TiVo, fast forwarding through a scene in a reality show we just happened to catch, “You know what the problem is? You can’t tell who the gay guys are anymore.” He’s right. A while ago, they got into all this metrosexual stuff, all perfect eyebrows and good clothes, and then we said, oh shit, I guess we’ve gotta grow beards or something and now everyone’s got a beard. And here are all these straights, and everyone’s wearing the same damn tuxedo. Carlos doesn’t seem to see the irony of being here three weeks later. It’s not unusual. He contradicts himself all the time.
I’ve been compulsively smelling my hands, as unbecoming as that sounds, convinced that that many-syllabled chemical had gotten through the gloves and was currently breaking down the fiber of my skin. Any other time, I’d have Carlos smell them. Watching a straight couple go at it, this isn’t one of those times.
“Why are we here?” I ask him. He doesn’t say anything, implying that it’s obvious, and the old gay campfire story, the one about your boyfriend deciding to give up men, zips up my spinal chord before rational decision making has cleared the kidneys. Is he looking more at the man or the woman? I risk a glance at him. He’s not looking at either one.
A straight man, or at least he is right now, has become inspired and takes a woman by the top of the head, dropping her to his knees. He has her hair twisted in his fingers and parts of it fall into her face. He holds her away until he has his zipper unzipped and holds his dick out in front of her face. He forcibly rubs her lips with it, her mouth open and ready, and he finally pulls her in. I’m surprised to find my knees bend a little, a flash of imagination at a truly gay man taking a girl and using her. I’m sure that’s not what happened, but the idea cuts across me hard.
Maybe it’s because I always felt for sure that Carlos wanted to try straight.
I put my hand at the bottom curve of his back. He leaves it. I exhale. It’s the first time I’ve touched a man in weeks. I want him to turn and kiss me, or even just look at me, but he won’t. My hand lays there stupidly.
A pretty, and by that I mean just-quite-too-much-like-a-girl-pretty man dressed in nothing drifts by and lays lips on a similarly naked girl. I watch them, trying to decipher my reaction to the other straights, but nothing’s coming to me. My eyes still become heavy watching them, maybe some old, embarrassing desire to be straight switched on its track to perversion. I remember a day, not very long ago, when a friend of mine was stabbed by a group of suburban kids who were pretending to pick him up. It wasn’t even reported in the papers and no one expected it to be. Just a bad mugging in a parking lot, even though he retained his wallet. I can’t quite believe that all of that animosity just vaporized. And there’s part of me too, because you imitate the world in microcosm in your mind, that still feels that the friend of mine had it coming. It’s a horrible thing to think.
The girl who was kissing the pretty boy appears out of somewhere in my left sleeve. She doesn’t wait, turns her head and simply presses into my face hard. And I try it. I use all the force I ever use, a swipe of tongue and tickle of breath, her hips pressed thoroughly into mine and a few whimpers escape me. That I want her is a thought taken and found limp. That I want to be her is all that ever rings true. She reminded me of that and I smile in the kiss, leaving her with a little bit of grateful, which is all I have. She turns and moves into Carlos, but instead of kissing her, he picks her up like a doll and leaves little, affectionate nips on her neck. He watches me as he does. I want him. When she is put down and moves onto the next, Carlos takes my face in both hands and smiles for a moment before he, wet-lipped, kisses me like he never has before. I sink in my own quicksand. I reach up and take him by the top of the head, unzip, slap his lips, which are carved and crushingly dignified, with my cock, forcibly open his chin and fuck his mouth.
My eyes close, but when they open, I finally notice all the men with each other in the room. It was happening before, but I’d erased it. The pretty boy is now holding a man gently by the small and spine of the back, nibbling his neck. Carlos has changed speed, pulls my foreskin out and squeezes it between his lips. There in the corner, by one of the laughably small balconies, two men have dropped clothes altogether and rub at each other furiously. A server carrying a tray of sample lube bottles on silk offers them a selection. They’re choosy too. Carlos sucks hard, the tip of my dick battering his throat, turning on every other pull. I’m losing it. On the floor, surrounded by a large crowd shedding clothes, I make out a woman straddling another woman’s legs, her neck bent in the air. When I come, yelling out because I’m not afraid to, the microcosm rearranges itself, and my heart pours out to everyone. It pours out especially to Carlos. He brought me here to bring me here, and I am.
And here we are. With all these fucking straight people. He’d said to me about three weeks ago, just after the be-quoop sound of the TiVo, fast forwarding through a scene in a reality show we just happened to catch, “You know what the problem is? You can’t tell who the gay guys are anymore.” He’s right. A while ago, they got into all this metrosexual stuff, all perfect eyebrows and good clothes, and then we said, oh shit, I guess we’ve gotta grow beards or something and now everyone’s got a beard. And here are all these straights, and everyone’s wearing the same damn tuxedo. Carlos doesn’t seem to see the irony of being here three weeks later. It’s not unusual. He contradicts himself all the time.
I’ve been compulsively smelling my hands, as unbecoming as that sounds, convinced that that many-syllabled chemical had gotten through the gloves and was currently breaking down the fiber of my skin. Any other time, I’d have Carlos smell them. Watching a straight couple go at it, this isn’t one of those times.
“Why are we here?” I ask him. He doesn’t say anything, implying that it’s obvious, and the old gay campfire story, the one about your boyfriend deciding to give up men, zips up my spinal chord before rational decision making has cleared the kidneys. Is he looking more at the man or the woman? I risk a glance at him. He’s not looking at either one.
A straight man, or at least he is right now, has become inspired and takes a woman by the top of the head, dropping her to his knees. He has her hair twisted in his fingers and parts of it fall into her face. He holds her away until he has his zipper unzipped and holds his dick out in front of her face. He forcibly rubs her lips with it, her mouth open and ready, and he finally pulls her in. I’m surprised to find my knees bend a little, a flash of imagination at a truly gay man taking a girl and using her. I’m sure that’s not what happened, but the idea cuts across me hard.
Maybe it’s because I always felt for sure that Carlos wanted to try straight.
I put my hand at the bottom curve of his back. He leaves it. I exhale. It’s the first time I’ve touched a man in weeks. I want him to turn and kiss me, or even just look at me, but he won’t. My hand lays there stupidly.
A pretty, and by that I mean just-quite-too-much-like-a-girl-pretty man dressed in nothing drifts by and lays lips on a similarly naked girl. I watch them, trying to decipher my reaction to the other straights, but nothing’s coming to me. My eyes still become heavy watching them, maybe some old, embarrassing desire to be straight switched on its track to perversion. I remember a day, not very long ago, when a friend of mine was stabbed by a group of suburban kids who were pretending to pick him up. It wasn’t even reported in the papers and no one expected it to be. Just a bad mugging in a parking lot, even though he retained his wallet. I can’t quite believe that all of that animosity just vaporized. And there’s part of me too, because you imitate the world in microcosm in your mind, that still feels that the friend of mine had it coming. It’s a horrible thing to think.
The girl who was kissing the pretty boy appears out of somewhere in my left sleeve. She doesn’t wait, turns her head and simply presses into my face hard. And I try it. I use all the force I ever use, a swipe of tongue and tickle of breath, her hips pressed thoroughly into mine and a few whimpers escape me. That I want her is a thought taken and found limp. That I want to be her is all that ever rings true. She reminded me of that and I smile in the kiss, leaving her with a little bit of grateful, which is all I have. She turns and moves into Carlos, but instead of kissing her, he picks her up like a doll and leaves little, affectionate nips on her neck. He watches me as he does. I want him. When she is put down and moves onto the next, Carlos takes my face in both hands and smiles for a moment before he, wet-lipped, kisses me like he never has before. I sink in my own quicksand. I reach up and take him by the top of the head, unzip, slap his lips, which are carved and crushingly dignified, with my cock, forcibly open his chin and fuck his mouth.
My eyes close, but when they open, I finally notice all the men with each other in the room. It was happening before, but I’d erased it. The pretty boy is now holding a man gently by the small and spine of the back, nibbling his neck. Carlos has changed speed, pulls my foreskin out and squeezes it between his lips. There in the corner, by one of the laughably small balconies, two men have dropped clothes altogether and rub at each other furiously. A server carrying a tray of sample lube bottles on silk offers them a selection. They’re choosy too. Carlos sucks hard, the tip of my dick battering his throat, turning on every other pull. I’m losing it. On the floor, surrounded by a large crowd shedding clothes, I make out a woman straddling another woman’s legs, her neck bent in the air. When I come, yelling out because I’m not afraid to, the microcosm rearranges itself, and my heart pours out to everyone. It pours out especially to Carlos. He brought me here to bring me here, and I am.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Party-Part Three, Kiss
The woman’s lips are soft and scared. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, and they swing at her sides. Her husband watches, smiling coyly. I tousle her hair, hold her cheek, press the backs of my fingers into her neck. She relaxes and, at the coaxing of her husband, circles me in her arms. Her clothed body feels strange against my skin. I can feel the sequins and baubles of her dress at my ribs and across my breasts. Her kiss becomes more affectionate, parting with a chaste lip-slap before her arms are dropped. “Thank you,” she says, and I’m genuinely flattered. I squeeze her hand before winking and walking on.
I’m wearing heels, expensive little things that are strappy enough to be sexy but not gaudy enough to cheapen. I’m here to bring this party to a white cloud, not coat it in Sodom and Gomorrah paint. They are high, but reasonable. I’m to be seen like a solid businesswoman who has gone to work remembering to wear shoes but nothing else. They’ve even pinned my hair back, put me in a minimum of subtle makeup, taken away the rings and necklace that I arrived in, giving ample time to let their marks disappear. I feel like I should be slamming a fist on a conference table of disobedient men, but I’m passing out affection instead, “keeping the mood light and flowing,” they said. They tested me with a kiss, every one of them, and agreed that I would be fine for the position.
A man watching a couple make love in the center of the room is turned and kissed by me. He’s confused, but after a few embarrassed laughs, lets himself fall into it, his hips at a safe distance from my own.
I look at another man in another turn of the room. He watches me, not predatorily, but with interest. His bow tie isn’t black like everyone else’s, but white, one of the social gaffes of new money. White tie, I was informed by an old boyfriend who would later inherit a large chain of casual restaurants, is only for very special events. When the invitation says black tie, it is black tie only. I glance back at the man to see if he looks uncomfortable. He does not. He just doesn’t give a shit about the color of his tie.
I walk on and see my male counterpart, a man with longish black hair and green eyes who smiles sweetly when he is looked at. He’s just finished a long pull at the lips of a much longer-haired gentleman who didn’t want to stop. He pulled away with a roll of his forehead and a gentle, loving grasp on his chin. He smiles wide at me and I smile back. It’s obvious. His lips are in a constant disappointment, turned down at the sides and pulled up in smug on the top. They part slightly as he turns to me, throws my arm up to his shoulder and bends into me. We’re both grinning, the porn version of the boy and girl kissing at the well figurine. His lips make me pudding inside, steal a little bit of the fibrous nature of my muscles and pour it, sweetened and buttery, between my legs. It’s what I needed.
“Mmmmrrr,” he grunts, and with a wipe at his smile, moves on to a woman who looks like she has a litter of Dalmatians in her purse, ready for dispatch. She pulls him in tight.
I wedge myself between a gay couple with matching haircuts and coax the smaller one with a nibble on the side of his mouth. I feel his nose exhale hard on my upper lip and I turn in. He is a one-man fight to prove to women everywhere that gay men kiss better. He wins. His boyfriend turns me at the hip, bends over and picks me up. I cross heels as he turns my neck with his chin and pitters a few patted sweeps at my jawline. I open my eyes for a moment and see the man in the white tie leaning on the wall. He continues to watch me, now with a drink in his hand. I watch back, though my eyes must close at a couple of bites. He puts me down and sends me away by the back of the arm before embracing his boyfriend. Good karma passed on.
At a third pass, the white tie man pushes off of the wall and takes my arm. He is handsome, I notice, aging gracefully like Paul Newman or Cary Grant. He does not kiss me, but stands with my arm in his. He is about to say something, but changes his mind and swings my arm absently. I’m not allowed to speak unless spoken to. He pull me closer and rubs his cheek with mine. I hear his breath in my ear. He puts his hand in my hair until it pulls and gently pulls hairpin after hairpin out of it. He drops them to the floor. My hair comes down and he buries his face in it. His right hand makes a circle on the small of my back, dropping a little with each loop. I attempt a lock on his lips, but he evades it. His hand circles to my front and touches my abdomen just below my navel. “I wanted to touch you here,” he says, so low I wouldn’t be able to hear him two more inches away. His hand is warm, dry and smooth. He can feel me breathing.
I try again at a kiss, but he doesn’t want it. He backs up so I can see his eyes, brown and clear, bent in a u-shape against each other. His fingers drop below. I’m about to pull away, this not being part of the deal and the clients know it, but I find that I want him to and let him. He finds my clit in no time, circles it and gently pulls. I’m immediately addicted to it. My hands find his sides and clench at his jacket. “You… shouldn’t,” I finally agree with myself to say.
“Really?” he says and presses a little bit harder. My right heel slides out.
He holds me tighter and begins to bite at my ear. My hips fill with a purple joy that descends from that white cloud and I tremble, my hands downright yanking at his jacket.
“This is for you,” he says, and meets my lips at last as I come, all a blurred flutter and losing gravity. He licks the top of my open lips and lets me recover. I fall into his arms. After a few moments, he asks if I’m okay. When I respond that I am, he holds me away from him and walks off. I go in the other direction, recharged.
I’m wearing heels, expensive little things that are strappy enough to be sexy but not gaudy enough to cheapen. I’m here to bring this party to a white cloud, not coat it in Sodom and Gomorrah paint. They are high, but reasonable. I’m to be seen like a solid businesswoman who has gone to work remembering to wear shoes but nothing else. They’ve even pinned my hair back, put me in a minimum of subtle makeup, taken away the rings and necklace that I arrived in, giving ample time to let their marks disappear. I feel like I should be slamming a fist on a conference table of disobedient men, but I’m passing out affection instead, “keeping the mood light and flowing,” they said. They tested me with a kiss, every one of them, and agreed that I would be fine for the position.
A man watching a couple make love in the center of the room is turned and kissed by me. He’s confused, but after a few embarrassed laughs, lets himself fall into it, his hips at a safe distance from my own.
I look at another man in another turn of the room. He watches me, not predatorily, but with interest. His bow tie isn’t black like everyone else’s, but white, one of the social gaffes of new money. White tie, I was informed by an old boyfriend who would later inherit a large chain of casual restaurants, is only for very special events. When the invitation says black tie, it is black tie only. I glance back at the man to see if he looks uncomfortable. He does not. He just doesn’t give a shit about the color of his tie.
I walk on and see my male counterpart, a man with longish black hair and green eyes who smiles sweetly when he is looked at. He’s just finished a long pull at the lips of a much longer-haired gentleman who didn’t want to stop. He pulled away with a roll of his forehead and a gentle, loving grasp on his chin. He smiles wide at me and I smile back. It’s obvious. His lips are in a constant disappointment, turned down at the sides and pulled up in smug on the top. They part slightly as he turns to me, throws my arm up to his shoulder and bends into me. We’re both grinning, the porn version of the boy and girl kissing at the well figurine. His lips make me pudding inside, steal a little bit of the fibrous nature of my muscles and pour it, sweetened and buttery, between my legs. It’s what I needed.
“Mmmmrrr,” he grunts, and with a wipe at his smile, moves on to a woman who looks like she has a litter of Dalmatians in her purse, ready for dispatch. She pulls him in tight.
I wedge myself between a gay couple with matching haircuts and coax the smaller one with a nibble on the side of his mouth. I feel his nose exhale hard on my upper lip and I turn in. He is a one-man fight to prove to women everywhere that gay men kiss better. He wins. His boyfriend turns me at the hip, bends over and picks me up. I cross heels as he turns my neck with his chin and pitters a few patted sweeps at my jawline. I open my eyes for a moment and see the man in the white tie leaning on the wall. He continues to watch me, now with a drink in his hand. I watch back, though my eyes must close at a couple of bites. He puts me down and sends me away by the back of the arm before embracing his boyfriend. Good karma passed on.
At a third pass, the white tie man pushes off of the wall and takes my arm. He is handsome, I notice, aging gracefully like Paul Newman or Cary Grant. He does not kiss me, but stands with my arm in his. He is about to say something, but changes his mind and swings my arm absently. I’m not allowed to speak unless spoken to. He pull me closer and rubs his cheek with mine. I hear his breath in my ear. He puts his hand in my hair until it pulls and gently pulls hairpin after hairpin out of it. He drops them to the floor. My hair comes down and he buries his face in it. His right hand makes a circle on the small of my back, dropping a little with each loop. I attempt a lock on his lips, but he evades it. His hand circles to my front and touches my abdomen just below my navel. “I wanted to touch you here,” he says, so low I wouldn’t be able to hear him two more inches away. His hand is warm, dry and smooth. He can feel me breathing.
I try again at a kiss, but he doesn’t want it. He backs up so I can see his eyes, brown and clear, bent in a u-shape against each other. His fingers drop below. I’m about to pull away, this not being part of the deal and the clients know it, but I find that I want him to and let him. He finds my clit in no time, circles it and gently pulls. I’m immediately addicted to it. My hands find his sides and clench at his jacket. “You… shouldn’t,” I finally agree with myself to say.
“Really?” he says and presses a little bit harder. My right heel slides out.
He holds me tighter and begins to bite at my ear. My hips fill with a purple joy that descends from that white cloud and I tremble, my hands downright yanking at his jacket.
“This is for you,” he says, and meets my lips at last as I come, all a blurred flutter and losing gravity. He licks the top of my open lips and lets me recover. I fall into his arms. After a few moments, he asks if I’m okay. When I respond that I am, he holds me away from him and walks off. I go in the other direction, recharged.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Sugasm Spasm
This dork forgot to submit last week. Duhhh. Here it is:
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Between Baths
“His tongue licks along the edge of my thong and then slips underneath, and then he pulls the material aside so he can get to me.”
Fantasy Vs. Reality: What Is Cheating?
“Paid escort work is fantasy; dating me is reality.”
How To Set Up an MFM Threesome
“You’d be surprised how many guys will say they can’t wait to bed her down, then chicken out or not show up after you’ve shelled out money for a hotel room.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Neal Mather Fetish Figurenes
Editor’s Choice
Need a hand?
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Erotic Writing and Experiences
And the answer is
Christening The Bed
Episode One
Sally & Bill
Stop
Sex Audio & Podcasts
Almost Perfect
Nobilis Erotica 30-Woman of the Mountain
NSFW Pics & Videos
Bree olsen episode 1
Catalina loves Guest HNT Posts!
Georgi (I Shot Myself)
Half-Nekkid at the BBQ
I Feel Myself
Photo of the Moment: Curvy Girls
Sexy DJane Jesse Capelli
Sexy showgirl upskirt pinup photo
Tits for the Troops #5
Sex Work
Breakdown Of A Quickie
Objectify Me
BDSM & Fetish
Calling All film slaves in the New York/New Jersey area!!!
Friday night
Fucked to bits
Happy HNT - A switching in the old abandoned cabin
Let’s give the boy a hand! - Part Two of Text Message Mayhem
An Ode to Bondage
Playing with Morgan
Showerland
Social Kink Interviews The Knotty Boys (Shibari, Bondage)
Sweet Possession
Trembling, redux
Sex News & Reviews
Aneros Progasm Prostate Massager Review
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Did you have sex?
Half-Nekkid and Openly Bisexual
Keeping Secrets
Love Sick
Mirror, Mirror
More On Cougars - Older Men, Younger Women, Mistresses and Married Men
Playing with my Barbie
Skanky Panties & The Business of Faux Fish Juices
Bondage and heels courtesy of Long-Distance Sub.
The Party-Part Two Bend Over
We enter the room slowly, taking it in, my hand on the back of Marianne’s pants. The suede feels good against my fingers and falls heavily on her curves. We’re in a miniature mansion that is the penthouse at The Chicago Hilton and Towers. The rooms have high ceilings, long, cream drapery and vertically detailed edging. The chandeliers are crystal and they draw more light down onto the floor in reflections and dots. Thick and padded oriental rugs comfort our footsteps. The room reminds us that we are rich and important, that not everyone can be here. You can see it from Lake Shore Drive, a little White House, lit to the heavens. Inside, tonight at least, is a large group of people waiting to have their clothes taken off. I plan for us to be the first.
I lead Marianne to a centerish portion of the room with a little bit of space and reach around to her belt. She is, I see in a gilt mirror far off, too stunned to fight and simply waits, breathing. The belt is undone and the suede drops. I pull it in my fist at her knees, twisting the slack so that she can’t move. I push her down by the back and watch the rise of her ass, the twin curves into the depression at her pussy, the four-leafed clover in pink underlined by her thighs, an arrow pointed to the floor.
I’ve seen it many times, but never has it been seen by this many people, never has it been exposed to quite this much air, this much admiration, this much casual voyeurism. I’d been wanting to show everyone what I went home to for years and see her again as I did when we first met, when I moved into this pussy to stay, when I had yet to find its motives and its folded delights. “Here!” I wanted to yell. “Have a look at mine!” I waited a while, watched this new familiar thing, holding a distance so others could see, though I wouldn’t look at them, wanted them to be comfortable looking. And then, my zipper between thumb and forefinger, pulled down slowly, and my cock pulled out, because the pussy is mine and waits patiently only for me.
Marianne didn’t want to go to this. She worried that people she knew would be here, though we live in L.A.. She’s uncomfortable about her age, feels that she’s got to be close to invisible now. I can tell her that she’s beautiful all day long, but it’s throwing darts at a submarine. She won’t have it. I hope she can turn her face and see the men staring at her, wanting her, wanting to be me.
I enter her slowly, conscious of those watching, that they can see the veins and the ridges disappear into her, watching it myself, down the white shirt and beyond the belt. Mine. All of it. I hold her by her hips and thrust into her, almost pulling out each time so they could once again see the full length descend inside of her. I even pull back to the tip, let it have a feel on the lips of her pussy before another dip. It’s slow. I’m meant to take my time.
For two weeks, I wouldn’t let Marianne come. That’s how I got her here. If she was in the bath, I’d barge in unpredictably for Q-Tips or hand lotion or floss. If she got up in the middle of the night, I’d get up with her, make her a toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk. If I needed to run an errand, I found a reason that she had to come with me. Sex did not happen. She could not tolerate less than an orgasm a week. I’d wound her into a reel and put a weight on it that got bigger every day. She agreed to the party today, nodded as if it was her idea in the first place.
There is a crowd forming around us at a polite distance. When Marianne’s purse drops from her shoulder, a polite man steps forward to stand it up for her. He looks at me and holds his hands out. I nod. His hand lands gently on the back of her neck, strokes it, down around her shoulders and below to her breast. His face becomes more serious. I feel Marianne’s pussy tighten. He lets her go with an affectionate squeeze and walks away. I take some of Marianne ‘s pussy juice on my thumb and rub at her asshole. She shivers, pulses in my swipes. I let it drop in. She yells out immediately, her knees losing their lock. She vises my cock in intermittent grasps. My eyes tear up to the chandeliers and the carved ceiling, little dots like my wife’s nipples as I empty myself into her. Her. Mine.
I lead Marianne to a centerish portion of the room with a little bit of space and reach around to her belt. She is, I see in a gilt mirror far off, too stunned to fight and simply waits, breathing. The belt is undone and the suede drops. I pull it in my fist at her knees, twisting the slack so that she can’t move. I push her down by the back and watch the rise of her ass, the twin curves into the depression at her pussy, the four-leafed clover in pink underlined by her thighs, an arrow pointed to the floor.
I’ve seen it many times, but never has it been seen by this many people, never has it been exposed to quite this much air, this much admiration, this much casual voyeurism. I’d been wanting to show everyone what I went home to for years and see her again as I did when we first met, when I moved into this pussy to stay, when I had yet to find its motives and its folded delights. “Here!” I wanted to yell. “Have a look at mine!” I waited a while, watched this new familiar thing, holding a distance so others could see, though I wouldn’t look at them, wanted them to be comfortable looking. And then, my zipper between thumb and forefinger, pulled down slowly, and my cock pulled out, because the pussy is mine and waits patiently only for me.
Marianne didn’t want to go to this. She worried that people she knew would be here, though we live in L.A.. She’s uncomfortable about her age, feels that she’s got to be close to invisible now. I can tell her that she’s beautiful all day long, but it’s throwing darts at a submarine. She won’t have it. I hope she can turn her face and see the men staring at her, wanting her, wanting to be me.
I enter her slowly, conscious of those watching, that they can see the veins and the ridges disappear into her, watching it myself, down the white shirt and beyond the belt. Mine. All of it. I hold her by her hips and thrust into her, almost pulling out each time so they could once again see the full length descend inside of her. I even pull back to the tip, let it have a feel on the lips of her pussy before another dip. It’s slow. I’m meant to take my time.
For two weeks, I wouldn’t let Marianne come. That’s how I got her here. If she was in the bath, I’d barge in unpredictably for Q-Tips or hand lotion or floss. If she got up in the middle of the night, I’d get up with her, make her a toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk. If I needed to run an errand, I found a reason that she had to come with me. Sex did not happen. She could not tolerate less than an orgasm a week. I’d wound her into a reel and put a weight on it that got bigger every day. She agreed to the party today, nodded as if it was her idea in the first place.
There is a crowd forming around us at a polite distance. When Marianne’s purse drops from her shoulder, a polite man steps forward to stand it up for her. He looks at me and holds his hands out. I nod. His hand lands gently on the back of her neck, strokes it, down around her shoulders and below to her breast. His face becomes more serious. I feel Marianne’s pussy tighten. He lets her go with an affectionate squeeze and walks away. I take some of Marianne ‘s pussy juice on my thumb and rub at her asshole. She shivers, pulses in my swipes. I let it drop in. She yells out immediately, her knees losing their lock. She vises my cock in intermittent grasps. My eyes tear up to the chandeliers and the carved ceiling, little dots like my wife’s nipples as I empty myself into her. Her. Mine.
Monday, August 20, 2007
The Party-Part One Lay There
This week promises to be as busy as last one, so I'm just going to post a little bit of this story every day. Check back every day now through Friday.
My job is to lay there. So I do. I lie across a bench just wide enough to keep me comfortable and balanced. My chest has been waxed and my pubes trimmed. There’s nothing quite like not one, but two grown adults discussing just the right length and shape of your pubic hair. I’ve had a long and impersonal pedicure, whole parts of my feet shaved off by what looked like a miniature cheese slicer. I tried not to giggle, but when I did they ignored me. My eyebrows have been shaped, a woman, breathing on my face, her fingers on my cheekbones, gently plucked bit by painful bit away as I tried not to look down her blouse. I’ve had a facial, grey mud on my face spied over a copy of Maxim in the mirror. I was scared for a moment, then caught myself and laughed.
A woman’s fingers run over my chest. The women here are of the older, richer sort. They have wrinkles, but they’ve also have work done. Their fingers look pliant under the weight of UFO-sized rocks. This one is the same, the diamond on her left hand only slightly outweighed by the sapphire on her right. I look at her and she looks down cooly, deferring to me a polite smile.
“Close your eyes,” she says, half under a spell of her creation and mine. I close them and she continues to lightly stroke my skin. It feels strangely numb without hair. The feeling is incredibly subtle. I give into it, if only to figure it out. It continues, my nipples run across, the insides of my arms caressed, my side run down. My thighs are handled and the hair is swiped backward. It tickles as it slowly falls back. A finger then slides up the bottom of my cock. I’m surprised to sense that it’s hard. I feel a flick of the tongue and am left there to squirm. I wait a little while and open one eye. The woman has reentered the crowd, though a few women have locked eyes with my pelvic region. I lean my head back and close my eyes again.
There is a girl behind me, but I have to strain to see her. We have a mirror couple across the room, but they are hidden behind a wall of the wealthy. The girl behind me is beautiful, as thoroughly coiffed as I am, and though I’ve strained to make eye contact, we haven’t caught each other.
Lips envelop the tip of my cock and the sensation is so unexpected and perfect that I jump. I look down and find a man’s face in profile, still in his tuxedo. I can feel the wool brush my legs. A woman hovers above him, gives me a gentle smile and slides a hand between the man’s legs. The woman is dignified, aging well, in a dress more elegance than sex. Her hair is light red and falls in spots out of the pins holding it back in a planned way. I keep eye contact with her while the man twists lips and tongue around me. My mouth is pursed, the man knowing what he’s doing, and I have to blink out a couple of surges before I can return to her. She gives the man in the tuxedo a little slap and he stands erect, eyebrows raised and looking down at my body. The woman exhales fully, puts her hand in the man’s belt and pulls him away. I’ve never had a man do that before, and I figured it would be a “his loss, I won’t be hard” thing, it wasn’t. His lips burned into my cock like the feeling that you’re still wearing a hat once you’ve taken it off. I feel them for ten more minutes, my head straining for the girl. I can just make out another woman bent over her, kissing her gently.
My job is to lay there. So I do. I lie across a bench just wide enough to keep me comfortable and balanced. My chest has been waxed and my pubes trimmed. There’s nothing quite like not one, but two grown adults discussing just the right length and shape of your pubic hair. I’ve had a long and impersonal pedicure, whole parts of my feet shaved off by what looked like a miniature cheese slicer. I tried not to giggle, but when I did they ignored me. My eyebrows have been shaped, a woman, breathing on my face, her fingers on my cheekbones, gently plucked bit by painful bit away as I tried not to look down her blouse. I’ve had a facial, grey mud on my face spied over a copy of Maxim in the mirror. I was scared for a moment, then caught myself and laughed.
A woman’s fingers run over my chest. The women here are of the older, richer sort. They have wrinkles, but they’ve also have work done. Their fingers look pliant under the weight of UFO-sized rocks. This one is the same, the diamond on her left hand only slightly outweighed by the sapphire on her right. I look at her and she looks down cooly, deferring to me a polite smile.
“Close your eyes,” she says, half under a spell of her creation and mine. I close them and she continues to lightly stroke my skin. It feels strangely numb without hair. The feeling is incredibly subtle. I give into it, if only to figure it out. It continues, my nipples run across, the insides of my arms caressed, my side run down. My thighs are handled and the hair is swiped backward. It tickles as it slowly falls back. A finger then slides up the bottom of my cock. I’m surprised to sense that it’s hard. I feel a flick of the tongue and am left there to squirm. I wait a little while and open one eye. The woman has reentered the crowd, though a few women have locked eyes with my pelvic region. I lean my head back and close my eyes again.
There is a girl behind me, but I have to strain to see her. We have a mirror couple across the room, but they are hidden behind a wall of the wealthy. The girl behind me is beautiful, as thoroughly coiffed as I am, and though I’ve strained to make eye contact, we haven’t caught each other.
Lips envelop the tip of my cock and the sensation is so unexpected and perfect that I jump. I look down and find a man’s face in profile, still in his tuxedo. I can feel the wool brush my legs. A woman hovers above him, gives me a gentle smile and slides a hand between the man’s legs. The woman is dignified, aging well, in a dress more elegance than sex. Her hair is light red and falls in spots out of the pins holding it back in a planned way. I keep eye contact with her while the man twists lips and tongue around me. My mouth is pursed, the man knowing what he’s doing, and I have to blink out a couple of surges before I can return to her. She gives the man in the tuxedo a little slap and he stands erect, eyebrows raised and looking down at my body. The woman exhales fully, puts her hand in the man’s belt and pulls him away. I’ve never had a man do that before, and I figured it would be a “his loss, I won’t be hard” thing, it wasn’t. His lips burned into my cock like the feeling that you’re still wearing a hat once you’ve taken it off. I feel them for ten more minutes, my head straining for the girl. I can just make out another woman bent over her, kissing her gently.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Razor, the Tape and the Man
For the first time, I bring you a true story. Not me, though. A kind gentleman, capable of a deluge of flattery and really fucking great ideas sent me this plotline. He's here, though there's not much to see. He says this happened to him. Glad it did.
The razor has no bite to it, but a simple, numbing danger. Jay is handling her completely impersonally, her back against the tiled blue and grey of the shower. He flattens her thighs as he opens them against his palm, only to press the other one away. Her neck is bent against the wall and she’s panting, panting already and they haven’t anywhere near begun yet. She can’t move for fear of being cut and though he has not cut her, will not cut her, she feels the slight wavering in her trust all the same. Her hands are in fists behind her back. He’s not thinking about any of this. He frowns at his duty and handles methodically, half-hypnotized by the tiny detail in it. She doesn’t say a word to interrupt him.
He stops at the last fold before her ass, gives a final check, pressing her pussy lips to examine them, one at a time, then lets them go. He stands, bends the shower water over to himself to straighten his matted hair, stretches his arms and leaves her in the shower. “Clean yourself up now,” he says. She takes the showerhead back to her direction and pours the water over her face until she can regain her control.
When she’s done, nodded at her resolve, had a good grin and exited the bathroom in a towel, she pats, barefoot, to the bedroom and lays down. She covers herself in the blankets and waits there until it’s warm enough to take off the towel. Jay comes in, dressed in a tight t-shirt and low-cut jeans that drop the pockets below his ass. He looks gorgeous as a gay man, but she doesn’t tell him so, doesn’t want to remind him. She’ll find this easier if all of the transition is in her mind, rather than spoken. He moves the towel and pulls the sheet back to reveal her. She looks down too. She has smallish breasts, but they’re still breasts, and the lack of the pouf of pubic hair leaves no doubt that she has no penis. She’s never been what anyone would term “curvy.” She has broad shoulders and barely a dip at the sides. While she looks at this, a new sound appears, one of the rip of surgical tape.
Rrrip.
“Your name will still be Aiden.”
He holds her left breast up and straight and lays the tape across it, just to left of the nipple.
Rrrip.
“It’s a man’s name too. That part’s easy.”
More on the other side of the nipple.
Rrrip. Rrrip. Two more strips on either side.
“Sit up and jump around a bit.”
She does and he nods.
“Good enough,” he says.
Rrrip. The other breast.
“But you’re a ‘he’ from now on.”
Rrrip.
“You’ve got a dick and a hairy ass and everyone’s assumed that you want a girl your whole life.”
Rrrip. Rrrip.
“Sit up and bounce again.”
She does. He examines them for symmetry.
“Lie back. Pull your legs as far apart as you can.”
Rrrip.
“But you don’t,” Jay continues. “You’ve got a secret. You’ve sat through too many sporting events now and you’re done. You want what you want.”
Rrrip.
“Cock, that’s what you want. And tonight, you know you’re getting it.”
The strips are now laid sideways across her pussy, thigh to thigh. He has to pinch the lips together so her clit is untouched. Rrrip. Rrrip. There is something small and smooth now. He pushes it inside her. Rrrip. It’s locked in.
“Plugged,” he says, patting it to make sure it’s flush. “No more pussy.”
A few more strips of tape are pulled and placed for good measure and he stands back to examine his work. “Okay, get dressed,” he says.
She stands and gets the clothes that she hung up on the closet door, a loose flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. She puts them on the bed. One last thing. She’d thought of using socks, the old standby, but decided instead on an oil-filled balloon. She places it across the front of her pelvis and tapes it too in several places. They’re men’s jeans and she only pulls them up to mid-hip. They fall convincingly on the balloon. She stares at the bulge as she would any other she’s ever seen. The shirt is pulled over her head. She combs her short hair flat against her scalp with a bend above the forehead. No makeup, no deodorant, no props.
Aiden looks in the mirror and sighs. He looks hot as a man, he decides.
There’s a man at Aiden’s job who walks with a slight lilt due to a football injury in high school. It’s not unattractive. His bottom just swings a little more on his left leg. His right kicks out and completes the balance with a little flip at the toe. It’s a punishing-the-sidewalk kind of grind, a cowboy thing. Aiden practiced all week and has it down now. He walks to the bar stool, kicks a knee around it and turns himself onto it. His elbows stretch comfortably across the padded edge of the bar, his knees, also comfortably, far apart. He hasn’t said anything yet, isn’t as sure about his voice. Jay orders, the back of his arms flexing as he gets his wallet out of his pants. Aiden watches this and wonders if anyone’s watching him. He takes his cigarettes and lighter out of his wallet and lets them slide to a stop on the bar. He lights one and leaves it in his mouth for a good puff. When he takes it out, he holds it between the inner bones of his fore- and middle finger.
“When did you know you were gay?” Jay asks him, his face turning a little. Aiden wonders if he’s beginning to see him as a man.
Aiden lets out a good cough from the cigarette, hoping loose phlegm will make the slight deepness easier. He can talk, but not loud and with very little air vibrating the vocal chords. He is almost breathy, but it’s controlled.
“I always kind of knew, you know? But I was sure when I got my first kiss. There was nothing. No there there. Like making out with a very large fish.” Aiden takes another hit of the cigarette and thinks. “I just couldn’t wait for it to stop.”
“Uh-huh,” Jay says. He blinked a little when Aiden mentioned kissing a girl. He wondered if this was working on him. He squeezed the thing in his hips to confirm.
“Yeah, that was it right there,” Aiden says. “Gay.”
Jay pauses a while and takes a minor sip of his drink. The Halloweeness of the night is beginning to disappear. Both of them are sure that this is happening now.
“And you want me to fuck you?” Jay says.
“Desperate for it.”
“I can’t believe it took you this long to get fucked.”
“I’m petrified.”
“Oh.”
“I mean this changes everything.”
A large hand lands on Aiden’s shoulder and he turns to see its owner. When the hand landed, an unconscious force drove his shoulders forward in a wince, but he put them back bravely to cover it right away. And he didn’t even think about it.
“My name’s William,” says an effeminate man with a bit of dance in his step and a drunk, eager smile. He holds his hand out. Jay casually looks forward, but listens. Aiden shakes the hand straight on, with a relieved smile when he finds it’s one of those weak wristed shakes. No grab for his small bones.
“Aiden,” Aiden says.
“You’re adorable.”
“This is my partner, Jay.”
“Ohhh. Oops. Jay?”
Jay looks up at William.
“You’ve got a fine man here,” William says and pecks Aiden on the cheek before walking away. Aiden and Jay exchange looks for a moment and Aiden decides to own it.
“Drunk,” he says.
Jay is simply fascinated, lets a small smile edge his lips. He takes Aiden by the shoulders and mashes him in a fighting kiss. Aiden feels that he is a man, kisses hard and rough, biting Jay’s lips and pushing his shoulders. And Jay fights back, holding Aiden by the collar, unnecessary roughness and hooking tongue.
“You ready, rookie?” Jay asks.
“Yes.”
“You ready for your first big cock?”
“Yes.”
“Pay for the drinks.”
Aiden reaches for his wallet in the back of his jeans, perfectly scared and shaking. The same trust faltering as it did in the shower. He’s never loved Jay so much, never wanted to please him so much, to be brave and perfect. He feels what can only be described as a disembodied-limb hard on in his jeans.
On the street, they suddenly realize that they can’t kiss, can’t hold hands. They take their need to touch and filter it into guy-games, kicking the back of each other’s knees out at stoplights, hip-checking each other off the sidewalk, punching the other’s shoulder at a car with one headlight. Aiden punches hard, his thumb out of the fist to save it. Instincts he never knew he had appear. The limped cowboy walk is natural now. He doesn’t think of it. And when he closes his eyes, he sees Jay’s cock, full and three-dimensional huge. He wants it inside of him. He can take it.
At the apartment, fumbling for his keys, Aiden is pressed into the door and he feels Jay’s cock against his ass. Jay bites his shoulderblade hard, slides his hand around Aiden’s stomach, dry-humps him, pointy and meaning it. They are under hypnosis, the fact that it’s not real so unattractive and worthless. They are beyond letting it in.
“You want me to fuck you, boy?” Jay says.
Aiden doesn’t answer. He grinds back for a yes.
Keys are found and mounted into the keyhole. Door is flung open and Aiden, Jay attached to him, are vaulted into the apartment. Bed is reached, Aiden panting like a heart attack, Jay doing the same, mount that. Jeans are disposed of in wrinkled figure eights. Tightie whities are fumbled off. There is ass, bent, eager, frightened in the air. There is cock, its own purpose.
“I’m just going to use my fingers first,” Jay says, a bottle of silicone lube a quarter drained on one hand. “This is going to feel very strange.”
He slips a finger inside and Aiden finds that his first reaction is anger. What the hell is that? That’s not where that’s supposed to be! Another finger is put in. Aiden cringes a bit, fights it, then finds a wash of sex over him. He can do this. Confident that the third finger will be a treat, when it comes the pain is an unwelcome intruder. He pounds the pillow and waits to get used to it.
“Are you okay?” Jay asks.
“I don’t know,” Aiden says.
He leaves the fingers for a while.
“Relax your muscles. All of them. Toes to face. There you go.”
Sex again. Jay moves the fingers, fucks him with them. The disembodied limb freaks out, screams things from “Stop it, what the fuck?” to “Oh holy Jesus on high that is the most amazing shit ever.” Aiden finds himself see-sawing on his knees, encouraging it, though the burning is sickening.
“I want you so bad,” Jay says, and for a moment Aiden is a girl again, feeling sorry for him having to wait.
“One more,” she says.
Four are in and she squeals, then grunts, a man. “Okay!” he says. “I’m okay!”
Quickly, quickly, Jesus quickly, the fingers turn to placeholders and slip out to be replaced by cock. Jay is in pure squishy zip, Aiden in impalement. The two of them freeze for a moment in shock and Jay dips beyond where his fingers were for the point of it. Jay doesn’t want to ask, but does, “Are you okay?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to start fucking you, okay?”
“Do it.”
Aiden is full of every thought ever. Aiden is full of fuck you and no really fuck me and things are good and things are too awful to be excusable and I hate and I love and what the fuck is this other thing and don’t ever ever ever stop. Aiden would really very much like Jay to have his dick cut off and Aiden would like to keep it. Here.
“Oh for the fucking Christ what the fuck is I love you and really you just my God,” he says.
“Unggh,” Jay says. Because that is what you say.
Jay stops for a moment, though he doesn’t want to, but knows he’ll be happy he did, and turns on the vibrator in what was Aiden’s pussy. Aiden grabs the pillow and takes it between his arms.
Jay says, “Oh, fuck.”
Aiden asks, “Can you feel that?”
Jay says, “Oh fuck, of course.”
Aiden says, “Go.”
Jay fucks and Aiden comes like a goddamn nuclear bomb. He’s never known this lack of control, this unstoppable surge of orgasm, this wave of ecstasy soldiers crossing his territory. He doesn’t even notice that Jay’s a person anymore and rides him like a needle in his arm. His arms flail and his life stops to record it. That was it. That was the time.
Jay came. Aiden notices it when he senses things again. Jay is bent over him and his cheek is against his back. Full of love, Aiden reaches behind him to feel the familiar rough of his armhairs. He holds them together as he falls sideways to the sheets. She reaches between her legs and turns the vibrator off. Jay languidly opens her thighs and gently pulls the tape off to let it out. They fall asleep in each other’s arms, Jay’s forearm against the left breast in the tape.
The razor has no bite to it, but a simple, numbing danger. Jay is handling her completely impersonally, her back against the tiled blue and grey of the shower. He flattens her thighs as he opens them against his palm, only to press the other one away. Her neck is bent against the wall and she’s panting, panting already and they haven’t anywhere near begun yet. She can’t move for fear of being cut and though he has not cut her, will not cut her, she feels the slight wavering in her trust all the same. Her hands are in fists behind her back. He’s not thinking about any of this. He frowns at his duty and handles methodically, half-hypnotized by the tiny detail in it. She doesn’t say a word to interrupt him.
He stops at the last fold before her ass, gives a final check, pressing her pussy lips to examine them, one at a time, then lets them go. He stands, bends the shower water over to himself to straighten his matted hair, stretches his arms and leaves her in the shower. “Clean yourself up now,” he says. She takes the showerhead back to her direction and pours the water over her face until she can regain her control.
When she’s done, nodded at her resolve, had a good grin and exited the bathroom in a towel, she pats, barefoot, to the bedroom and lays down. She covers herself in the blankets and waits there until it’s warm enough to take off the towel. Jay comes in, dressed in a tight t-shirt and low-cut jeans that drop the pockets below his ass. He looks gorgeous as a gay man, but she doesn’t tell him so, doesn’t want to remind him. She’ll find this easier if all of the transition is in her mind, rather than spoken. He moves the towel and pulls the sheet back to reveal her. She looks down too. She has smallish breasts, but they’re still breasts, and the lack of the pouf of pubic hair leaves no doubt that she has no penis. She’s never been what anyone would term “curvy.” She has broad shoulders and barely a dip at the sides. While she looks at this, a new sound appears, one of the rip of surgical tape.
Rrrip.
“Your name will still be Aiden.”
He holds her left breast up and straight and lays the tape across it, just to left of the nipple.
Rrrip.
“It’s a man’s name too. That part’s easy.”
More on the other side of the nipple.
Rrrip. Rrrip. Two more strips on either side.
“Sit up and jump around a bit.”
She does and he nods.
“Good enough,” he says.
Rrrip. The other breast.
“But you’re a ‘he’ from now on.”
Rrrip.
“You’ve got a dick and a hairy ass and everyone’s assumed that you want a girl your whole life.”
Rrrip. Rrrip.
“Sit up and bounce again.”
She does. He examines them for symmetry.
“Lie back. Pull your legs as far apart as you can.”
Rrrip.
“But you don’t,” Jay continues. “You’ve got a secret. You’ve sat through too many sporting events now and you’re done. You want what you want.”
Rrrip.
“Cock, that’s what you want. And tonight, you know you’re getting it.”
The strips are now laid sideways across her pussy, thigh to thigh. He has to pinch the lips together so her clit is untouched. Rrrip. Rrrip. There is something small and smooth now. He pushes it inside her. Rrrip. It’s locked in.
“Plugged,” he says, patting it to make sure it’s flush. “No more pussy.”
A few more strips of tape are pulled and placed for good measure and he stands back to examine his work. “Okay, get dressed,” he says.
She stands and gets the clothes that she hung up on the closet door, a loose flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. She puts them on the bed. One last thing. She’d thought of using socks, the old standby, but decided instead on an oil-filled balloon. She places it across the front of her pelvis and tapes it too in several places. They’re men’s jeans and she only pulls them up to mid-hip. They fall convincingly on the balloon. She stares at the bulge as she would any other she’s ever seen. The shirt is pulled over her head. She combs her short hair flat against her scalp with a bend above the forehead. No makeup, no deodorant, no props.
Aiden looks in the mirror and sighs. He looks hot as a man, he decides.
There’s a man at Aiden’s job who walks with a slight lilt due to a football injury in high school. It’s not unattractive. His bottom just swings a little more on his left leg. His right kicks out and completes the balance with a little flip at the toe. It’s a punishing-the-sidewalk kind of grind, a cowboy thing. Aiden practiced all week and has it down now. He walks to the bar stool, kicks a knee around it and turns himself onto it. His elbows stretch comfortably across the padded edge of the bar, his knees, also comfortably, far apart. He hasn’t said anything yet, isn’t as sure about his voice. Jay orders, the back of his arms flexing as he gets his wallet out of his pants. Aiden watches this and wonders if anyone’s watching him. He takes his cigarettes and lighter out of his wallet and lets them slide to a stop on the bar. He lights one and leaves it in his mouth for a good puff. When he takes it out, he holds it between the inner bones of his fore- and middle finger.
“When did you know you were gay?” Jay asks him, his face turning a little. Aiden wonders if he’s beginning to see him as a man.
Aiden lets out a good cough from the cigarette, hoping loose phlegm will make the slight deepness easier. He can talk, but not loud and with very little air vibrating the vocal chords. He is almost breathy, but it’s controlled.
“I always kind of knew, you know? But I was sure when I got my first kiss. There was nothing. No there there. Like making out with a very large fish.” Aiden takes another hit of the cigarette and thinks. “I just couldn’t wait for it to stop.”
“Uh-huh,” Jay says. He blinked a little when Aiden mentioned kissing a girl. He wondered if this was working on him. He squeezed the thing in his hips to confirm.
“Yeah, that was it right there,” Aiden says. “Gay.”
Jay pauses a while and takes a minor sip of his drink. The Halloweeness of the night is beginning to disappear. Both of them are sure that this is happening now.
“And you want me to fuck you?” Jay says.
“Desperate for it.”
“I can’t believe it took you this long to get fucked.”
“I’m petrified.”
“Oh.”
“I mean this changes everything.”
A large hand lands on Aiden’s shoulder and he turns to see its owner. When the hand landed, an unconscious force drove his shoulders forward in a wince, but he put them back bravely to cover it right away. And he didn’t even think about it.
“My name’s William,” says an effeminate man with a bit of dance in his step and a drunk, eager smile. He holds his hand out. Jay casually looks forward, but listens. Aiden shakes the hand straight on, with a relieved smile when he finds it’s one of those weak wristed shakes. No grab for his small bones.
“Aiden,” Aiden says.
“You’re adorable.”
“This is my partner, Jay.”
“Ohhh. Oops. Jay?”
Jay looks up at William.
“You’ve got a fine man here,” William says and pecks Aiden on the cheek before walking away. Aiden and Jay exchange looks for a moment and Aiden decides to own it.
“Drunk,” he says.
Jay is simply fascinated, lets a small smile edge his lips. He takes Aiden by the shoulders and mashes him in a fighting kiss. Aiden feels that he is a man, kisses hard and rough, biting Jay’s lips and pushing his shoulders. And Jay fights back, holding Aiden by the collar, unnecessary roughness and hooking tongue.
“You ready, rookie?” Jay asks.
“Yes.”
“You ready for your first big cock?”
“Yes.”
“Pay for the drinks.”
Aiden reaches for his wallet in the back of his jeans, perfectly scared and shaking. The same trust faltering as it did in the shower. He’s never loved Jay so much, never wanted to please him so much, to be brave and perfect. He feels what can only be described as a disembodied-limb hard on in his jeans.
On the street, they suddenly realize that they can’t kiss, can’t hold hands. They take their need to touch and filter it into guy-games, kicking the back of each other’s knees out at stoplights, hip-checking each other off the sidewalk, punching the other’s shoulder at a car with one headlight. Aiden punches hard, his thumb out of the fist to save it. Instincts he never knew he had appear. The limped cowboy walk is natural now. He doesn’t think of it. And when he closes his eyes, he sees Jay’s cock, full and three-dimensional huge. He wants it inside of him. He can take it.
At the apartment, fumbling for his keys, Aiden is pressed into the door and he feels Jay’s cock against his ass. Jay bites his shoulderblade hard, slides his hand around Aiden’s stomach, dry-humps him, pointy and meaning it. They are under hypnosis, the fact that it’s not real so unattractive and worthless. They are beyond letting it in.
“You want me to fuck you, boy?” Jay says.
Aiden doesn’t answer. He grinds back for a yes.
Keys are found and mounted into the keyhole. Door is flung open and Aiden, Jay attached to him, are vaulted into the apartment. Bed is reached, Aiden panting like a heart attack, Jay doing the same, mount that. Jeans are disposed of in wrinkled figure eights. Tightie whities are fumbled off. There is ass, bent, eager, frightened in the air. There is cock, its own purpose.
“I’m just going to use my fingers first,” Jay says, a bottle of silicone lube a quarter drained on one hand. “This is going to feel very strange.”
He slips a finger inside and Aiden finds that his first reaction is anger. What the hell is that? That’s not where that’s supposed to be! Another finger is put in. Aiden cringes a bit, fights it, then finds a wash of sex over him. He can do this. Confident that the third finger will be a treat, when it comes the pain is an unwelcome intruder. He pounds the pillow and waits to get used to it.
“Are you okay?” Jay asks.
“I don’t know,” Aiden says.
He leaves the fingers for a while.
“Relax your muscles. All of them. Toes to face. There you go.”
Sex again. Jay moves the fingers, fucks him with them. The disembodied limb freaks out, screams things from “Stop it, what the fuck?” to “Oh holy Jesus on high that is the most amazing shit ever.” Aiden finds himself see-sawing on his knees, encouraging it, though the burning is sickening.
“I want you so bad,” Jay says, and for a moment Aiden is a girl again, feeling sorry for him having to wait.
“One more,” she says.
Four are in and she squeals, then grunts, a man. “Okay!” he says. “I’m okay!”
Quickly, quickly, Jesus quickly, the fingers turn to placeholders and slip out to be replaced by cock. Jay is in pure squishy zip, Aiden in impalement. The two of them freeze for a moment in shock and Jay dips beyond where his fingers were for the point of it. Jay doesn’t want to ask, but does, “Are you okay?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to start fucking you, okay?”
“Do it.”
Aiden is full of every thought ever. Aiden is full of fuck you and no really fuck me and things are good and things are too awful to be excusable and I hate and I love and what the fuck is this other thing and don’t ever ever ever stop. Aiden would really very much like Jay to have his dick cut off and Aiden would like to keep it. Here.
“Oh for the fucking Christ what the fuck is I love you and really you just my God,” he says.
“Unggh,” Jay says. Because that is what you say.
Jay stops for a moment, though he doesn’t want to, but knows he’ll be happy he did, and turns on the vibrator in what was Aiden’s pussy. Aiden grabs the pillow and takes it between his arms.
Jay says, “Oh, fuck.”
Aiden asks, “Can you feel that?”
Jay says, “Oh fuck, of course.”
Aiden says, “Go.”
Jay fucks and Aiden comes like a goddamn nuclear bomb. He’s never known this lack of control, this unstoppable surge of orgasm, this wave of ecstasy soldiers crossing his territory. He doesn’t even notice that Jay’s a person anymore and rides him like a needle in his arm. His arms flail and his life stops to record it. That was it. That was the time.
Jay came. Aiden notices it when he senses things again. Jay is bent over him and his cheek is against his back. Full of love, Aiden reaches behind him to feel the familiar rough of his armhairs. He holds them together as he falls sideways to the sheets. She reaches between her legs and turns the vibrator off. Jay languidly opens her thighs and gently pulls the tape off to let it out. They fall asleep in each other’s arms, Jay’s forearm against the left breast in the tape.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Red and White
Tyler wears a dark blue jacket and tie with blue jeans. He tries not to look my direction, but we’ve made eye contact several times already. What do you do? We can’t pretend we don’t know each other. I gauge how often the other partners talk to each other and try to keep us in line with that. Maybe they’re all fucking. Wouldn’t that be funny? The idea of Don and Patty all legs-in-the-air in the back of their truck would be hilarious. Don with his old-man pompadour all fallen in his face, Patty screaming about her sciatica.
I receive a text message and resist a blush. I look at it with critical eyes, but inside, a few organs are in the wrong place.
It reads:
That dress is pure liquid sex. I can’t keep my eyes off of you. Go behind that shed there and pinch your nipple for me, hard.
I put the phone back in my purse, noticing that my fingers are playing with the material of the dress. Two fingers hold a fold in place and the middle runs across the arch. I go to the side of an aluminum lean-to shed. Tyler moves so he can see me. I dip my hand inside my dress, the lowest cut I ever had, and find my nipple. I slide it between two fingers and pinch hard. Tyler’s face relaxes a little at my wince. The wince was genuine.
I feel like I should talk to someone, be social, look less like the bewitched jello-as-bones that I become so often when Tyler’s around, but my mouth has no conjugation in it, and my eyes can barely see anything but blurry greens and yellows. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed a crowd forming around me and would have stopped leaning on the cake table before the bride had to order me off of it.
While Jo-Jo and T.J. cut the cake, a miniature ambulance with a heart instead of a red cross on the side, I feel Tyler behind me, very close. I can feel his breath steam-cloud the back of my neck and feel like I need to sit down. An actual drip of pussy juice is sensed, making room for itself between the lips and the clit. I wish I could find a way to push it back and forth. When everyone claps, he lets his fingers swish my back.
No one had any idea about Jo-Jo and T.J. The wedding invitations were their first notice. T.J. simply got a job at another company before they could fire him. No one is sure that they would, but the subject’s in enough debate without Tyler and me.
The next one reads:
Did you see the bowl of Jolly Ranchers for the kids? Go get one of the red ones and slip it into your pussy in the bathroom. I like the red ones.
I walk all atremble over to the bowl, take a small handful and stuff them in my purse. I open a green one and suck it into my mouth, thinking of where the next one’s going. I rub it with my tongue. Tyler looks and I let an end peek out between my lips before I suck it back in. Inside, miraculously, there is no line for the bathroom. I close the door and lean my back on it. I raise my dress, pull my panties to the side and push the candy in after a few swipes at my clit. I’ve got to hold out, I think to myself. I’ve got to hold out.
My pussy is soaking with my thoughts, and I’m curious about how quickly hard candy will melt in it. How many licks to get to the center. I swipe a finger around the entrance to my pussy and slide it into my mouth. Salt. Musty. Sugar and the biting sour of the candy. My panties aren’t coming back from this one. With one more quick flick at the clit, my fingers unable to resist, I shut my legs and go out there.
Tyler breaks out of a conversation with the mother and father of the groom and approaches me at the drinks table. He smiles, conversationally, and in that guise, he asks, “Are you wet? Is it going to be melted by the time I can have you?”
I smile as if he’d made a joke about how drunk the fifteen-year-old nieces are. “Yes. I’ll be sticky as cotton candy by the time you get to me.” He turns and takes a sip of his drink as if we’re having a comfortable lull in the conversation. He bounces on his heels a couple of times and buttons his jacket. He points at a family member of T.J.’s who’s about to return to the Gulf behind me and to the right. The man nods at him and Tyler nods back. He says, as he does this, “I’m so hard right now I could break my buckle. It hurts. I need your pussy. I need your tit in my mouth.”
“I need your mouth,” I say, nodding somberly, the brim of my hat covering my dark and slowly blinking eyes in shadow. I’m wondering about his lips, how he can just walk around with those things all day and not even think about them.
“One hour after the dancing starts. That’s it.”
“Half,” I reply, looking at the vibrations of drink in my hand, the tiny tsunamis that ripple across it. I’d be better off with it poured over my head. I watch his thighs walk away and want mine wrapped around them.
Dinner is served, burgers and potato salad on paper plates. I sit down next to my boss, who complains about gas prices or something. I’m not sure. My phone vibrates in my purse and I jump.
It reads:
Number 17, five minutes.
I look up at Tyler, seated next to Mel, his old partner, who drives like a madman, even for an EMT. I shake my head no. I return to nodding at my boss when my phone buzzes again.
Bring your pussy to number 17 in five minutes or I’ll crawl inside your dress right where you’re sitting.
And then:
Or I could just jerk off into the potato salad.
I laugh and put the phone back in my purse before my boss, who’s gotten curious, can read it.
I look at the food, imagining that this might be something to want for some people, that even I have been “hungry” for “food” at one time or another. It ain’t happening right now.
I look up to Tyler. He’s gone.
Jo-Jo and T.J. agreed that the ambulances were good for their limousine service. They are each decorated in matching red and white. The back of the main one has a sign, “Not injured, just married.” Number 17 is parked next to it in the drive. I walk carefully in the gravel, unused to heels, unused to such practical requests at this time of the day. I get to the back of the truck and am taken suddenly, picked up in a fireman’s carry and laid out on the gurney. He throws my hat off, straps me under the top and middle seatbelts, leaving only my legs free to kick, lifts my dress unceremoniously, gets a pair of medical scissors and cuts open my pantyhose and panties, the cold of the metal against my thighs. He looks at my pussy for a moment, rapidly expanding runs appearing in the hose, exposed now and ready for him, but instead leans over my face, holding his mouth just over my own. He doesn’t kiss, but stands up instead, undoes and drops his jeans, straddles my face and holds his cock out over it. He leans forward and guides it in my mouth.
Is there a way, your pussy already swimming in a sea of itself, swollen beyond its own boundaries, your clit giving up and trying the air for friction, that you can get even more so? I didn’t think so. I was wrong. My thighs bash together and rub as hard as they can, my mouth full of Tyler’s cock, slippery and smooth and I suck it so tight and desperate, opening up the back of my throat, but gagging anyway, rolling the bottom of it back and forth on my tongue. He gasps and leans over more, holding the bottom of the jump seat, his stomach tightening above my eyes. His pubes play at my nostrils and I can smell his pre-come, let it hit that juicy center of my brain the way it does.
“I’ve got to stop,” he says, continuing. I’ve, frankly, had enough of this holding-back talk, especially since our jobs depend on no one getting curious and looking for us. I want to come right now, want him to come right now, so that we could get our minds off of this for a few hours. I crunch up and suck him deeper, take longer pulls faster, twist at the tip of him. His thighs begin to tremble and I work it harder, his knees crushing my shoulders. “I don’t care!” he says and shoots down my throat, his fingers squeaking in the naugahyde of the jump seat, stomach slapping my nose.
He holds for a few seconds and finally exhales, pulling out of my mouth, with a string of come pulling and finally snapping back to my lips.
“Dessert,” he says, and wipes his forehead with his arm.
He sees my thighs grinding each other and pulls them apart. He looks at my pussy for a second, says “You’re all pink,” and bends in. His tongue is everywhere, inside, along the lines and the folds and the soft bends, everywhere except my clit. My thighs crush his head and I begin to beg. “Stop teasing,” I say quietly. “I need.”
He lifts his head for a moment and says, “I’m not teasing, I’m eating.”
“Bastard!” I say, meaning it, grinding my head into the gurney, hooking his shoulders with my ankles and pulling. With the slightest swipe at my clit I freeze, two-thirds of the way to coming right away. He goes painfully slowly, though I twist in the belts. He gains speed for a moment and I plead with him, “Don’t stop. Keep going. Right there.” He slows. I kick his back with my heel. He starts again. “Please. Please. Please. Please.” He slows again. I kick harder. He cups his hand and drills four fingers into me holding my clit up with his thumb. He gently, gently like he’s painting details onto it, licks just the tip in flicks. My body grabs him, holds him and my nose fills with cherry Jolly Rancher and bliss. The lights on the ceiling of the ambulance blur into white, the red in the air. I come for ages, grabbing at the sheets and trying not to scream.
Screaming in an ambulance is the quickest way to get surrounded by EMTs.
I receive a text message and resist a blush. I look at it with critical eyes, but inside, a few organs are in the wrong place.
It reads:
That dress is pure liquid sex. I can’t keep my eyes off of you. Go behind that shed there and pinch your nipple for me, hard.
I put the phone back in my purse, noticing that my fingers are playing with the material of the dress. Two fingers hold a fold in place and the middle runs across the arch. I go to the side of an aluminum lean-to shed. Tyler moves so he can see me. I dip my hand inside my dress, the lowest cut I ever had, and find my nipple. I slide it between two fingers and pinch hard. Tyler’s face relaxes a little at my wince. The wince was genuine.
I feel like I should talk to someone, be social, look less like the bewitched jello-as-bones that I become so often when Tyler’s around, but my mouth has no conjugation in it, and my eyes can barely see anything but blurry greens and yellows. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed a crowd forming around me and would have stopped leaning on the cake table before the bride had to order me off of it.
While Jo-Jo and T.J. cut the cake, a miniature ambulance with a heart instead of a red cross on the side, I feel Tyler behind me, very close. I can feel his breath steam-cloud the back of my neck and feel like I need to sit down. An actual drip of pussy juice is sensed, making room for itself between the lips and the clit. I wish I could find a way to push it back and forth. When everyone claps, he lets his fingers swish my back.
No one had any idea about Jo-Jo and T.J. The wedding invitations were their first notice. T.J. simply got a job at another company before they could fire him. No one is sure that they would, but the subject’s in enough debate without Tyler and me.
The next one reads:
Did you see the bowl of Jolly Ranchers for the kids? Go get one of the red ones and slip it into your pussy in the bathroom. I like the red ones.
I walk all atremble over to the bowl, take a small handful and stuff them in my purse. I open a green one and suck it into my mouth, thinking of where the next one’s going. I rub it with my tongue. Tyler looks and I let an end peek out between my lips before I suck it back in. Inside, miraculously, there is no line for the bathroom. I close the door and lean my back on it. I raise my dress, pull my panties to the side and push the candy in after a few swipes at my clit. I’ve got to hold out, I think to myself. I’ve got to hold out.
My pussy is soaking with my thoughts, and I’m curious about how quickly hard candy will melt in it. How many licks to get to the center. I swipe a finger around the entrance to my pussy and slide it into my mouth. Salt. Musty. Sugar and the biting sour of the candy. My panties aren’t coming back from this one. With one more quick flick at the clit, my fingers unable to resist, I shut my legs and go out there.
Tyler breaks out of a conversation with the mother and father of the groom and approaches me at the drinks table. He smiles, conversationally, and in that guise, he asks, “Are you wet? Is it going to be melted by the time I can have you?”
I smile as if he’d made a joke about how drunk the fifteen-year-old nieces are. “Yes. I’ll be sticky as cotton candy by the time you get to me.” He turns and takes a sip of his drink as if we’re having a comfortable lull in the conversation. He bounces on his heels a couple of times and buttons his jacket. He points at a family member of T.J.’s who’s about to return to the Gulf behind me and to the right. The man nods at him and Tyler nods back. He says, as he does this, “I’m so hard right now I could break my buckle. It hurts. I need your pussy. I need your tit in my mouth.”
“I need your mouth,” I say, nodding somberly, the brim of my hat covering my dark and slowly blinking eyes in shadow. I’m wondering about his lips, how he can just walk around with those things all day and not even think about them.
“One hour after the dancing starts. That’s it.”
“Half,” I reply, looking at the vibrations of drink in my hand, the tiny tsunamis that ripple across it. I’d be better off with it poured over my head. I watch his thighs walk away and want mine wrapped around them.
Dinner is served, burgers and potato salad on paper plates. I sit down next to my boss, who complains about gas prices or something. I’m not sure. My phone vibrates in my purse and I jump.
It reads:
Number 17, five minutes.
I look up at Tyler, seated next to Mel, his old partner, who drives like a madman, even for an EMT. I shake my head no. I return to nodding at my boss when my phone buzzes again.
Bring your pussy to number 17 in five minutes or I’ll crawl inside your dress right where you’re sitting.
And then:
Or I could just jerk off into the potato salad.
I laugh and put the phone back in my purse before my boss, who’s gotten curious, can read it.
I look at the food, imagining that this might be something to want for some people, that even I have been “hungry” for “food” at one time or another. It ain’t happening right now.
I look up to Tyler. He’s gone.
Jo-Jo and T.J. agreed that the ambulances were good for their limousine service. They are each decorated in matching red and white. The back of the main one has a sign, “Not injured, just married.” Number 17 is parked next to it in the drive. I walk carefully in the gravel, unused to heels, unused to such practical requests at this time of the day. I get to the back of the truck and am taken suddenly, picked up in a fireman’s carry and laid out on the gurney. He throws my hat off, straps me under the top and middle seatbelts, leaving only my legs free to kick, lifts my dress unceremoniously, gets a pair of medical scissors and cuts open my pantyhose and panties, the cold of the metal against my thighs. He looks at my pussy for a moment, rapidly expanding runs appearing in the hose, exposed now and ready for him, but instead leans over my face, holding his mouth just over my own. He doesn’t kiss, but stands up instead, undoes and drops his jeans, straddles my face and holds his cock out over it. He leans forward and guides it in my mouth.
Is there a way, your pussy already swimming in a sea of itself, swollen beyond its own boundaries, your clit giving up and trying the air for friction, that you can get even more so? I didn’t think so. I was wrong. My thighs bash together and rub as hard as they can, my mouth full of Tyler’s cock, slippery and smooth and I suck it so tight and desperate, opening up the back of my throat, but gagging anyway, rolling the bottom of it back and forth on my tongue. He gasps and leans over more, holding the bottom of the jump seat, his stomach tightening above my eyes. His pubes play at my nostrils and I can smell his pre-come, let it hit that juicy center of my brain the way it does.
“I’ve got to stop,” he says, continuing. I’ve, frankly, had enough of this holding-back talk, especially since our jobs depend on no one getting curious and looking for us. I want to come right now, want him to come right now, so that we could get our minds off of this for a few hours. I crunch up and suck him deeper, take longer pulls faster, twist at the tip of him. His thighs begin to tremble and I work it harder, his knees crushing my shoulders. “I don’t care!” he says and shoots down my throat, his fingers squeaking in the naugahyde of the jump seat, stomach slapping my nose.
He holds for a few seconds and finally exhales, pulling out of my mouth, with a string of come pulling and finally snapping back to my lips.
“Dessert,” he says, and wipes his forehead with his arm.
He sees my thighs grinding each other and pulls them apart. He looks at my pussy for a second, says “You’re all pink,” and bends in. His tongue is everywhere, inside, along the lines and the folds and the soft bends, everywhere except my clit. My thighs crush his head and I begin to beg. “Stop teasing,” I say quietly. “I need.”
He lifts his head for a moment and says, “I’m not teasing, I’m eating.”
“Bastard!” I say, meaning it, grinding my head into the gurney, hooking his shoulders with my ankles and pulling. With the slightest swipe at my clit I freeze, two-thirds of the way to coming right away. He goes painfully slowly, though I twist in the belts. He gains speed for a moment and I plead with him, “Don’t stop. Keep going. Right there.” He slows. I kick his back with my heel. He starts again. “Please. Please. Please. Please.” He slows again. I kick harder. He cups his hand and drills four fingers into me holding my clit up with his thumb. He gently, gently like he’s painting details onto it, licks just the tip in flicks. My body grabs him, holds him and my nose fills with cherry Jolly Rancher and bliss. The lights on the ceiling of the ambulance blur into white, the red in the air. I come for ages, grabbing at the sheets and trying not to scream.
Screaming in an ambulance is the quickest way to get surrounded by EMTs.
Aw, Vixen!
Thanks, honeybunch!
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #93? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Do one thing every day that scares you…
“What I didn’t know-that it would turn me on as much as it hurt me.”
Interview With Deborah Jeane Palfrey, AKA The DC Madam
“I wanted to see coverage treating sex workers as just that-workers.”
Rough Sex - with pictures
“She bites, she writhes, she moans, she claws- none of which she can remember after.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Keep Britain Tidy, Gimp
Editor’s Choice
In Her Mind, the Pigeons Were Always Fucking
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Bear
Homosexual myths
Sexual powerlessness
That Thorny Bisexual Thing….
Weird things happen every day
BDSM & Fetish
Asking For A Caning
Bully (working title)
The Challenge, part 1
Command
Every blog should have a slave…
Half-Nekkid Tattoo 2
Happy HNT - Tit flash in a boat
Heel!
Overpower, part 2
Request, granted
Sex Poetry
Heaven is a place
Tonight I’m going to
Vodka Confessions
Sex Audio & Podcasts
Musical Intro #2: sexual nostalgia (Mixed Media.)
Nobilis Erotica 29 — Someone New
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Catalina loves Penelope and Odysseus
Devil’s Last Dance (PJ story)
The Dream
Film
I’m A Woman Man: Episode 5 - Hands
The Most Famous Cock in the World
My slum goddess
Vignette: 3 #2
Sex News
The Birth of The Eye of Venus
Errotica archives
Which One of My subs Is This???
Sex Humor
Kink In The Mainstream - Family Guy In Texas
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Black
Britney Caught topless with a Stranger in Hotel Pool
Half-Nekkid and Proud to Be Me
Half-Nekkid Thursday: Begging to Be Spanked
Red Handed Porn
Zurich (nsfw)
Sexy Mandy courtesy of How About Now?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
