Thursday, November 29, 2007
Hot and Cold
You're not used to seeing your breath in the cold, so when you catch it the first time, you watch it, exhaling hard, seeing the cloud appear and billow, only to disappear immediately. You're distracted by this, though I have my hand in your jeans, making the breaths go faster through direct manipulation. The snow stays a few moments on your jacket too, and you stare at the flakes, stuck into the fabric like crystal grappelling hooks, holding and refracting the colors in the light before they give up and melt. Right before you touch them, you notice, like reaching for fish while snorkeling, right there, but untouchable. They get away. Your exhales get harder and faster now, and your eyes close for a moment, a few flakes landing in your eyelashes. You grab my shoulders for steadiness and open your jacket, take me inside of it. It's warm, humid, breathy in there, like the relief of stepping into a greenhouse in the winter. Your mouth is at my ear before I hear you crack, oh uh ohh, in my ear, the sweet slippery in the heel of my hand. You take a few moments, spots like the snowflakes themselves before your eyes.
Sugasm. It's like fucking a big fat candy cane.
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 #108? 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
Half-Nekkid Blow Job
” We could hear people walking past and talking so they’d be able to hear us as well.”
Masturbation on a Memory
“I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind.”
Reality Check: Handling Long Calls
“While I get my share of quick cummer calls I have several clients that like to talk for hours.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Christian Friis
Editor’s Choice
A Non-Monogamy Lexicon
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Bad Girl
The Driving Lesson
The First Date part one
Flirt
Late Meeting
Night Call
Over the tub
Saturday night special
Sweet Dreams
Sex Advice
Bringing It Up Gracefully
I Don’t Need Porn, I Get Real Sex!
Prince Albert for thanksgiving
NSFW Pics & Videos
Aria Giovanni sexy video
Catalina loves her New Black Silk Corset and Boots
Pornsaint Popwhore
WebMistress Feature Gallery: Flirting with the Camera
BDSM & Fetish
Big Fun in a Small Space
Double Dip Part 2
I don’t chase
Ideas of my own.
My Reformatory Birching
The Perfect Implement of Pain
Rope as a tool for Intimacy
She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile
YouPorn, MePorn
Sex News & Reviews
Fetish Film - Julie Simone’s Diary Of A Submissive (Bondage, Spanking, Femdom)
Five Sips of Darkness
Special Discount for Our Naughty Friends!
Sex Poetry
Tulips… His lips… Her lips…
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Me and My Vagina
Oh..oh…oh! My orgasm- A User’s Guide.
On Self Image and Confidence
An orgasm faker wannabe
Relationship Rules
Retail Therapy
Monday, November 26, 2007
Landscape
Petrovich wanted me to call him Peter. He wasn't Russian, he said, any more than he was American, so I might as well call him something I could fit in my teeth. That's the way he said it, "fit in my teeth," as if even his name was something that had to be gripped in the jaw and ripped off.
to: angelica@un.org
from:petro@sakhalinuniversitet.ru
Angelica,
The sun hasn't come up in days. We live through this time of year on large fires and quiet stories. Time doesn't seem to pass, like you're in jet lag forever, or still on the plane, following the darkness and hiding from the sun. We wait to land, squirming in our seats, looking for joy in the salt at the bottom of our bag of peanuts. Or that's how I would explain it, if I could, to my people here. My life has cleaved since I met you, and you're the only one I could talk to about peanuts.
It's quiet too. I want to yell.
Some of us think about the light of the sun on the ocean, see it when we blink, or imagine fresh berries, feel ourselves picking them as fast as we can put them in our mouths, but I think about a parking garage in New York City, the curls of your hair in the wind and across your cheek, the sounds of the street below as if they were pumped through the speakers of your car, and the odd silence when we closed the windows and the squeak of my knees on the seats.
The windows are good and rolled up, the sounds of the street caught between the glass and its seal on the door. I pause the recording and place the laptop in the other seat. He was there just a few weeks ago, and now I've got nothing but the slowly trailing cursor of a media player, his voice, at once Russian and not Russian, but if I close my eyes, he's there. He lives in the folds of my shirt in my arms, the grip of my feet in my shoes, the seam of my underpants, under my skirt and over my clit. I breathe, holding my throat in its knot, and press the space bar again.
When I can't bear to think of you, I think about the parking garage itself. I think of the spiraling floors and dizzy views, that merge of street and building. My mind scales the concrete and circles up faster and faster, and the red cars blend in with the blue and I see only the buildings swirl past. I open my eyes and see only the orange of a fire reflected in the snow or the stars that move so slowly you have to crawl to see them shift. Nothing moves here like it does in New York. Nothing blurs like cars in a parking garage.
Peter was born to a Nivkh tribe on Sakhalin in the northwest Pacific. No one has ever been able to decide who owns the thing. It's been passed between the Japanese, the Manchurians, the Russians and even the Koreans for as long as anyone's memory. It's full of blood and treaties and dubious claims and petty grudges. For now, it seems that it's part of Russia, which is at least stability, if not quite justice. Peter, like every other child, was removed from the care of his tribe and his parents as an infant, raised Russified, and hadn't given his real home more than a few battered thoughts since. It was only when the last, least suspicious invaders came into the Nivkh settlement without knocking, that Peter, Petrovich, returned. These invaders were the NGOs, non-governmental-organizations, culprits like the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife Fund.
Nothing smells like anything in the cold. That's what I miss the most out here. We can smell each other, and cooking, but other smells, grass and fruit and leaves rotting, dead animals and fresh flowers, all of that is frozen, and smells like nothing but the water that it's crusted within. Ice is sterile. It smells nothing like you.
You smelled like almonds and cinnamon and salt and lemon. I buried my face between your breasts and took it in like I could scar you into my nose, as if I could tattoo your scent within me. I'd never smelled a woman like you before. The Russian women and girls were taught that we were dirty. The women of the tribe smell of fish and wet animal. I hadn't gotten near them yet anyway. I was helpless there, in that parking garage. Maybe I would have had some wits about me if you smelled like ice, which is to say, nothing.
The Russian government is compensated by the NGOs for the amount of land that they cordon off from humanity. This was an all-around good idea to anyone with any sense until I met Peter. Humanity includes indigenous tribes, apparently, and people who have lived on nothing but the vast expanse of land around them are now being locked out of their homes, forced into cities without so much as a public park, and made to live on money and utilities instead. Peter came to New York, to the United Nations, to me, to put up a case in favor of thousands of people he'd never met, but who looked more than a little like him.
I was clumsy, but you were sure. I was rigid in fear and excitement for you. You found me inside. That I needed you, that I was scared, that my insides were calling for you, that my muscles wouldn't respond to the simplest commands was something that I tried to hide, but you knew of course. You kissed me, a touching of lips that I hadn't experienced before, nor am likely to have again. You opened my trousers, burned the skin of my chest in your fingers, took my hand to the inside of your thighs.
My voice is strained now. I know it. My English falls apart when I think of you, though my thoughts don't sit well in Russian either.
In the parking garage, 13b, fifth space from the door to the right and bent over my steering wheel, I'm there with Peter. His body is there, and it faces the brown bricks of the back of some old skyscraper again, locked into his seat. His hand is buried under his thigh, but I reach to it and slide my index finger into his palm.
They'd chosen me because my grandmother was Aleut, and I looked just a little bit like him.
I want to turn this recording off now, because my English is about to get worse and my words are about to fall away from each other. I leave it to you, Angelica, because I can't seem to do it, and won't be able to make myself edit this last part out before I find a way to email this to you. You may shut this off now. Do it now, if you want to.
Peter's eyes were pooled black shine in his face, his lips trembling, as I took him into the back seat of the my car, this car. He looked down on me the way that no man ever had before, or will again, with his guts up in his face, his whole life exposed, and even I wasn't too cynical to see it. I wrapped my body around him as if he were the still in the arctic, as if I'd seen him shivering on the ice, thrown out of his tribe without his clothes. I made love to him until I couldn't see the blue anymore on his lips.
Angelica, I'm going to say this and then I'm going to yell. I'm going to scream and howl and yell some more, and then I'm going to stop the recording and I won't send another.
Here it is. You were the only one. You still are the only one. You and that parking garage are all I think about. I love you. Now listen to the ice crack as I scream. That is your goodbye.
We yelled at once, me, windows rolled down, the echo and descent of my howl across the concrete, knocking into the brown brick building, the crushed and broken voice of Peter, Russian and not Russian in a little media player on my laptop, cracking the ice thousands of miles away. We yelled and screamed and crushed our throats in the vibration. Tears ran down my face and plopped down onto thighs in quiet splashes, but we yelled and yelled and stopped at last, listening to the last of it dissipate into our landscapes, these vast things that were never our homes. And then I sat and listened to him breathe, forty-five seconds of quiet in a media player, before the cursor stopped at the end.
to: angelica@un.org
from:petro@sakhalinuniversitet.ru
Angelica,
The sun hasn't come up in days. We live through this time of year on large fires and quiet stories. Time doesn't seem to pass, like you're in jet lag forever, or still on the plane, following the darkness and hiding from the sun. We wait to land, squirming in our seats, looking for joy in the salt at the bottom of our bag of peanuts. Or that's how I would explain it, if I could, to my people here. My life has cleaved since I met you, and you're the only one I could talk to about peanuts.
It's quiet too. I want to yell.
Some of us think about the light of the sun on the ocean, see it when we blink, or imagine fresh berries, feel ourselves picking them as fast as we can put them in our mouths, but I think about a parking garage in New York City, the curls of your hair in the wind and across your cheek, the sounds of the street below as if they were pumped through the speakers of your car, and the odd silence when we closed the windows and the squeak of my knees on the seats.
The windows are good and rolled up, the sounds of the street caught between the glass and its seal on the door. I pause the recording and place the laptop in the other seat. He was there just a few weeks ago, and now I've got nothing but the slowly trailing cursor of a media player, his voice, at once Russian and not Russian, but if I close my eyes, he's there. He lives in the folds of my shirt in my arms, the grip of my feet in my shoes, the seam of my underpants, under my skirt and over my clit. I breathe, holding my throat in its knot, and press the space bar again.
When I can't bear to think of you, I think about the parking garage itself. I think of the spiraling floors and dizzy views, that merge of street and building. My mind scales the concrete and circles up faster and faster, and the red cars blend in with the blue and I see only the buildings swirl past. I open my eyes and see only the orange of a fire reflected in the snow or the stars that move so slowly you have to crawl to see them shift. Nothing moves here like it does in New York. Nothing blurs like cars in a parking garage.
Peter was born to a Nivkh tribe on Sakhalin in the northwest Pacific. No one has ever been able to decide who owns the thing. It's been passed between the Japanese, the Manchurians, the Russians and even the Koreans for as long as anyone's memory. It's full of blood and treaties and dubious claims and petty grudges. For now, it seems that it's part of Russia, which is at least stability, if not quite justice. Peter, like every other child, was removed from the care of his tribe and his parents as an infant, raised Russified, and hadn't given his real home more than a few battered thoughts since. It was only when the last, least suspicious invaders came into the Nivkh settlement without knocking, that Peter, Petrovich, returned. These invaders were the NGOs, non-governmental-organizations, culprits like the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife Fund.
Nothing smells like anything in the cold. That's what I miss the most out here. We can smell each other, and cooking, but other smells, grass and fruit and leaves rotting, dead animals and fresh flowers, all of that is frozen, and smells like nothing but the water that it's crusted within. Ice is sterile. It smells nothing like you.
You smelled like almonds and cinnamon and salt and lemon. I buried my face between your breasts and took it in like I could scar you into my nose, as if I could tattoo your scent within me. I'd never smelled a woman like you before. The Russian women and girls were taught that we were dirty. The women of the tribe smell of fish and wet animal. I hadn't gotten near them yet anyway. I was helpless there, in that parking garage. Maybe I would have had some wits about me if you smelled like ice, which is to say, nothing.
The Russian government is compensated by the NGOs for the amount of land that they cordon off from humanity. This was an all-around good idea to anyone with any sense until I met Peter. Humanity includes indigenous tribes, apparently, and people who have lived on nothing but the vast expanse of land around them are now being locked out of their homes, forced into cities without so much as a public park, and made to live on money and utilities instead. Peter came to New York, to the United Nations, to me, to put up a case in favor of thousands of people he'd never met, but who looked more than a little like him.
I was clumsy, but you were sure. I was rigid in fear and excitement for you. You found me inside. That I needed you, that I was scared, that my insides were calling for you, that my muscles wouldn't respond to the simplest commands was something that I tried to hide, but you knew of course. You kissed me, a touching of lips that I hadn't experienced before, nor am likely to have again. You opened my trousers, burned the skin of my chest in your fingers, took my hand to the inside of your thighs.
My voice is strained now. I know it. My English falls apart when I think of you, though my thoughts don't sit well in Russian either.
In the parking garage, 13b, fifth space from the door to the right and bent over my steering wheel, I'm there with Peter. His body is there, and it faces the brown bricks of the back of some old skyscraper again, locked into his seat. His hand is buried under his thigh, but I reach to it and slide my index finger into his palm.
They'd chosen me because my grandmother was Aleut, and I looked just a little bit like him.
I want to turn this recording off now, because my English is about to get worse and my words are about to fall away from each other. I leave it to you, Angelica, because I can't seem to do it, and won't be able to make myself edit this last part out before I find a way to email this to you. You may shut this off now. Do it now, if you want to.
Peter's eyes were pooled black shine in his face, his lips trembling, as I took him into the back seat of the my car, this car. He looked down on me the way that no man ever had before, or will again, with his guts up in his face, his whole life exposed, and even I wasn't too cynical to see it. I wrapped my body around him as if he were the still in the arctic, as if I'd seen him shivering on the ice, thrown out of his tribe without his clothes. I made love to him until I couldn't see the blue anymore on his lips.
Angelica, I'm going to say this and then I'm going to yell. I'm going to scream and howl and yell some more, and then I'm going to stop the recording and I won't send another.
Here it is. You were the only one. You still are the only one. You and that parking garage are all I think about. I love you. Now listen to the ice crack as I scream. That is your goodbye.
We yelled at once, me, windows rolled down, the echo and descent of my howl across the concrete, knocking into the brown brick building, the crushed and broken voice of Peter, Russian and not Russian in a little media player on my laptop, cracking the ice thousands of miles away. We yelled and screamed and crushed our throats in the vibration. Tears ran down my face and plopped down onto thighs in quiet splashes, but we yelled and yelled and stopped at last, listening to the last of it dissipate into our landscapes, these vast things that were never our homes. And then I sat and listened to him breathe, forty-five seconds of quiet in a media player, before the cursor stopped at the end.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Flirt
“Come on. Let’s go see some skanks!” I yell in Jerry’s ear.
“Mitch, I’m just not really into strip clubs.”
“That’s because you’ve never been in one.”
“I’ve been in a strip club!”
“Skanks! Skanks! Skanks! Skanks!”
Jerry’s been really flirty with me lately, more than with the other guys. It took us all by surprise when they first sent him to us. We tore him up for weeks, little comments here and there, a few limp wrists in his direction, but then I guess he just charmed us to death, all of us. And our first real job, a three-alarm five kids on the west side, he was the strongest guy there, the smartest, the bravest. We saw him carry a little girl to her mother, and even though their house was gone, and they were petrified, he had them all laughing. The mom kissed him on the cheek and cried about something he said, squeezed his hand and looked at the rest of us the same way. After that, he was one of us, the most popular guy at the station, really. And something I thought I’d never see? When he flirts, we flirt back. Fucking insane.
I don’t think he’s, well I know he’s not completely gay. I’ve never seen a man flirt so efficiently and so effortlessly with a woman. All he has to do is ask them one question about themselves, anything, listen to the answer, make one little joke about it, preferably insinuating that they’re secretly naughty, and they’re hooked. Maybe this is just how he relates to people. Maybe all he knows is flirting. This morning, I woke up to him kissing me on the forehead again. It’s a little uncomfortable, especially with morning wood.
“Fine, whatever, but if you try to pay for something for me, I mean anything, that’s it. I’ll leave.”
“Fine, let’s go.”
“No lap dances.”
“No.”
“No private dances.”
“No.”
“No coochie in my face.”
“No.”
“’Cause those girls gross me out. They’re really just mean and just… gross.”
I hold the blackened out door open for him. He enters in front of me, strutting, to prove he can, and takes a table near the front, the end of the catwalk stopping at only a respectable distance from us. A girl is there, spinning around a pole in the bottom half of a bathing suit. The music, a techno remix of “I See You Baby” by Groove Armada. She’s taking a literal interpretation of the song, shaking her ass each and every time it’s suggested, from various angles, one of which is completely spread eagled face down on the floor.
Jerry watches her and bites his lip.
“You doing alright?” I ask him.
“Yeah, fine.”
“I mean really, you should be taking notes.”
“What?”
“What you should be doing at the firehouse.”
“I knew you all were watching me slide down that pole,” he says, and delivers it perfectly, not a wince or a grin. I’m happy he’s relaxing anyway. What I don’t acknowledge, but what does pop up in my mind at this moment, is an image of Jerry slipping down the pole, his shirt raising against the brass. Unaccountably, it stirs me a little, and I look back up at the girl, who looks right back at me.
The waitress comes by.
“Hi,” I say, “I’ll have a Seven and Seven and Jerry will have a….” I turn to get his order, but almost whack him in the face with my chin. He’s leaning over me, holding my armrest.
“What kind of beer do you have?”
She goes over the list, Jerry nodding in front of my face the whole time. I sit up in my chair, as far back in the seat as I can get. “I’ll have a Corona,” he says, and puts on that wide smile that he reserves for children, management and service employees. The waitress melts to my left, an involuntary smile crawling up her beautiful neck to her cheeks. Going back to his seat, Jerry pushes against my right thigh for balance.
“And two shots of Jack Daniels,” I say to her when he’s out of earshot.
She nods and walks away.
What’s there to say about a strip club? You’re there, looking at women doing things they wouldn’t normally do, you keep up a banter with the guys you’re with about anything but the stripper, you drink, and before you realize it’s happening, you’re staring at a girl, moving in slow motion, incredibly turned on, a hard on in your pants like red steel, and the only thing to do then is leave.
It can’t be like this with Jerry, though I thought it would be. I thought if I could see the guy in him, see him down a beer and make a joke about the difference between a circus and a sorority house, the flirting would seem to stop. Even if it went on, I would know that it was okay. It was a bonehead, macho bullshit idea that I would expect out of anyone but me, but here I was trying it, and it wasn’t working. We’re such good friends, but somehow, the idea of talking about sex with him has been put off so long, it seems unnatural. Like talking to your great-aunt Lucy about who’s hotter, Katherine Heigl or Angelina Jolie.
The shots and drinks come, along with some hope. He looks at them and smiles at me, apprehensive, but picks his up anyway.
“To coochie!” I announce, only loud enough for him to hear.
“To keeping it out of my face!” he answers, just as loud.
We drink, and the burn and warm nausea is offset by the Seven and Seven. After the first drink is downed, he loses his ability to ignore the show altogether. After the second, and another shot, he’s looking at me as much as the girls. After another round, I don’t care. I order a lapdance for myself, though she offers one for Jerry at half-price, I jump in with a no, just me, thanks. He watches it like a movie, looking at me, looking at her, looking down, then at my face and hers. He might as well be shoving popcorn in his mouth.
The truth is, I don’t mind it at all. I should have the willies, but I don’t. It’s like we’re finally getting somewhere, Jerry and me, like we’re finally going to know each other. I pay her by hand when she’s done, exhale and turn to Jerry.
“So, you can’t touch them, right?” he asks.
“Right, but they can touch you.”
“And do they, I mean, usually?”
“They would touch you, I guarantee it.” I smile at him, to see if the compliment hit. It did. He smiles back, and toasts me, the round of shots that had been forgotten on the table.
“To lapdances,” he says, and lets a cackle out into his whiskey. He finishes it, pops it down and kisses me on the cheek while I’m still swallowing. I’m blushing. The hard, simple notion of kissing him back rises in my mind. I slap it away, but a drunk slap, no follow-through and no idea whether I made contact or not. Nope, it’s still there.
Another round and another girl asks Jerry if he’d care for a lapdance. He says no, but he’ll pay for one for his friend Mitch right here. You don’t mind, do you, Mitch? It’s kind of fun, right?
She’s a very cute girl with very fake tits and a silent kind of motherliness about her. She looks over at Jerry a couple of times as she moves above me. His chair is right up against mine now. She reaches over to stroke his cheek. He looks at me when she does, not flinching, but letting his mouth open. I put my right hand on his thigh.
“Do you want to kiss him?” she asks in my left ear.
“Yes.”
As soon as I say it, I know it’s true. Probably had been for a while. The strippers were for my distraction, not his. She moves my hand up to his crotch and I feel it, hot and loose and hard in his pants. My hand flinches, but she holds it there. Jerry inhales deeply and looks ahead of him, shaken, then at her, scared, finally at me, petrified. I look back at him and let my eyes coast down his body and back up at his face. His eyes, his velvet eyes falling into mine. The girl lets go of my hand and smiles at me, kisses me quickly but deeply on the mouth and slides off of my knees. Jerry goes for his wallet and I take my hand off of him, but I see it as he leans back for an angle in his pocket, a thick bulge that no longer fits in his pants.
He gives her a few bills of some kind, leaves forty for the waitress and says, “Let’s go.”
In New Orleans, in The French Quarter at least, there are no alleys, no inlets, no doorways, nothing that isn’t closed off by a thick iron gate, nowhere for a man to kiss a man, to feel a man’s cock against him. He looks around after a couple of blocks of wandering and kisses me anyway, up against a wall under a fire escape, Jerry’s tongue and lips, his hand on my chin, arm holding mine down, those things that it never occurred to me to want, though I did. I have. I do. We hail a cab and get in, apart from each other above our chests, below, my hand around him through his pants, my thumb pressed into the tip. Crossing Canal Street, into downtown, through a traffic circle with a statue of a man on a horse, under an underpass to St. Charles, trolley tracks and trees, restaurants, liquor stores, beautiful houses, ugly new buildings, our driver silent as we are, Jerry’s hand pulling at my thigh. We stop. He pays the driver. We stumble out. His apartment, a third of an old house. He opens the door to his place, lets me in and pushes me to the floor.
We’re breathing through a little space formed between the ends of our lips, the sides of our noses pressed against each other, a numb feeling building in my legs.
“Have you ever fucked a man before, Mitch?” he asks, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and going to mine.
“No.”
“But it’s everything you hoped so far, right?”
He’s done it, hooked me just like the girls. I laugh, and he goes in on my neck. Just where it meets the shoulder, he bites, and I unbuckle his belt. He turns onto his back and takes his pants off, his cock hitting his stomach with a flopping noise.
“In my bag, under the sink and fucking hurry.”
I get it, put it next to him and go down on him, shoving him into my mouth, his hand smacking the bag repeatedly. “No, shit, I’ll come, I’ll fucking come…. I want you up here, come on, Mitch, put this on and fuck me.” He hands me the condom and I put it on, never completely taking my mouth off of him. He hands me the lube and I kneel up, over him, my fingers wet and in him now, never thought it would be so easy, his back arching and his thighs back in his hands. Little squeaks out of him.
“I’m ready. Come on, I need you.”
I press my cock down, pushing his knees to my chest and enter him slowly.
“That’s it,” he says, “more.” I go in further, slippery but squeezed. “Yes,” he says. “Good good good good, oh fuck!” I’m pumping a little now. The muscles in his neck pull against themselves. Me, I’ve never felt anything even close, just trying really hard to keep going, to feel this, to see this man I’ve spent so much time with bent against the floor, teeth clenched. I’m grinding into him, watching his dumbfoundingly pretty face change, feeling him change. “Oh shit,” he says. “I can’t stop it, it’s… it’s… oh fucking MITCH!” He slowly rises and shakes against me, a few pops of come out of him, his knees digging into me, his eyes closing.
I come into him like a concrete block hitting the ground and bouncing, then kiss him on the cheek, charmed like a man who’s just been dragged into a fire and carried out.
“Mitch, I’m just not really into strip clubs.”
“That’s because you’ve never been in one.”
“I’ve been in a strip club!”
“Skanks! Skanks! Skanks! Skanks!”
Jerry’s been really flirty with me lately, more than with the other guys. It took us all by surprise when they first sent him to us. We tore him up for weeks, little comments here and there, a few limp wrists in his direction, but then I guess he just charmed us to death, all of us. And our first real job, a three-alarm five kids on the west side, he was the strongest guy there, the smartest, the bravest. We saw him carry a little girl to her mother, and even though their house was gone, and they were petrified, he had them all laughing. The mom kissed him on the cheek and cried about something he said, squeezed his hand and looked at the rest of us the same way. After that, he was one of us, the most popular guy at the station, really. And something I thought I’d never see? When he flirts, we flirt back. Fucking insane.
I don’t think he’s, well I know he’s not completely gay. I’ve never seen a man flirt so efficiently and so effortlessly with a woman. All he has to do is ask them one question about themselves, anything, listen to the answer, make one little joke about it, preferably insinuating that they’re secretly naughty, and they’re hooked. Maybe this is just how he relates to people. Maybe all he knows is flirting. This morning, I woke up to him kissing me on the forehead again. It’s a little uncomfortable, especially with morning wood.
“Fine, whatever, but if you try to pay for something for me, I mean anything, that’s it. I’ll leave.”
“Fine, let’s go.”
“No lap dances.”
“No.”
“No private dances.”
“No.”
“No coochie in my face.”
“No.”
“’Cause those girls gross me out. They’re really just mean and just… gross.”
I hold the blackened out door open for him. He enters in front of me, strutting, to prove he can, and takes a table near the front, the end of the catwalk stopping at only a respectable distance from us. A girl is there, spinning around a pole in the bottom half of a bathing suit. The music, a techno remix of “I See You Baby” by Groove Armada. She’s taking a literal interpretation of the song, shaking her ass each and every time it’s suggested, from various angles, one of which is completely spread eagled face down on the floor.
Jerry watches her and bites his lip.
“You doing alright?” I ask him.
“Yeah, fine.”
“I mean really, you should be taking notes.”
“What?”
“What you should be doing at the firehouse.”
“I knew you all were watching me slide down that pole,” he says, and delivers it perfectly, not a wince or a grin. I’m happy he’s relaxing anyway. What I don’t acknowledge, but what does pop up in my mind at this moment, is an image of Jerry slipping down the pole, his shirt raising against the brass. Unaccountably, it stirs me a little, and I look back up at the girl, who looks right back at me.
The waitress comes by.
“Hi,” I say, “I’ll have a Seven and Seven and Jerry will have a….” I turn to get his order, but almost whack him in the face with my chin. He’s leaning over me, holding my armrest.
“What kind of beer do you have?”
She goes over the list, Jerry nodding in front of my face the whole time. I sit up in my chair, as far back in the seat as I can get. “I’ll have a Corona,” he says, and puts on that wide smile that he reserves for children, management and service employees. The waitress melts to my left, an involuntary smile crawling up her beautiful neck to her cheeks. Going back to his seat, Jerry pushes against my right thigh for balance.
“And two shots of Jack Daniels,” I say to her when he’s out of earshot.
She nods and walks away.
What’s there to say about a strip club? You’re there, looking at women doing things they wouldn’t normally do, you keep up a banter with the guys you’re with about anything but the stripper, you drink, and before you realize it’s happening, you’re staring at a girl, moving in slow motion, incredibly turned on, a hard on in your pants like red steel, and the only thing to do then is leave.
It can’t be like this with Jerry, though I thought it would be. I thought if I could see the guy in him, see him down a beer and make a joke about the difference between a circus and a sorority house, the flirting would seem to stop. Even if it went on, I would know that it was okay. It was a bonehead, macho bullshit idea that I would expect out of anyone but me, but here I was trying it, and it wasn’t working. We’re such good friends, but somehow, the idea of talking about sex with him has been put off so long, it seems unnatural. Like talking to your great-aunt Lucy about who’s hotter, Katherine Heigl or Angelina Jolie.
The shots and drinks come, along with some hope. He looks at them and smiles at me, apprehensive, but picks his up anyway.
“To coochie!” I announce, only loud enough for him to hear.
“To keeping it out of my face!” he answers, just as loud.
We drink, and the burn and warm nausea is offset by the Seven and Seven. After the first drink is downed, he loses his ability to ignore the show altogether. After the second, and another shot, he’s looking at me as much as the girls. After another round, I don’t care. I order a lapdance for myself, though she offers one for Jerry at half-price, I jump in with a no, just me, thanks. He watches it like a movie, looking at me, looking at her, looking down, then at my face and hers. He might as well be shoving popcorn in his mouth.
The truth is, I don’t mind it at all. I should have the willies, but I don’t. It’s like we’re finally getting somewhere, Jerry and me, like we’re finally going to know each other. I pay her by hand when she’s done, exhale and turn to Jerry.
“So, you can’t touch them, right?” he asks.
“Right, but they can touch you.”
“And do they, I mean, usually?”
“They would touch you, I guarantee it.” I smile at him, to see if the compliment hit. It did. He smiles back, and toasts me, the round of shots that had been forgotten on the table.
“To lapdances,” he says, and lets a cackle out into his whiskey. He finishes it, pops it down and kisses me on the cheek while I’m still swallowing. I’m blushing. The hard, simple notion of kissing him back rises in my mind. I slap it away, but a drunk slap, no follow-through and no idea whether I made contact or not. Nope, it’s still there.
Another round and another girl asks Jerry if he’d care for a lapdance. He says no, but he’ll pay for one for his friend Mitch right here. You don’t mind, do you, Mitch? It’s kind of fun, right?
She’s a very cute girl with very fake tits and a silent kind of motherliness about her. She looks over at Jerry a couple of times as she moves above me. His chair is right up against mine now. She reaches over to stroke his cheek. He looks at me when she does, not flinching, but letting his mouth open. I put my right hand on his thigh.
“Do you want to kiss him?” she asks in my left ear.
“Yes.”
As soon as I say it, I know it’s true. Probably had been for a while. The strippers were for my distraction, not his. She moves my hand up to his crotch and I feel it, hot and loose and hard in his pants. My hand flinches, but she holds it there. Jerry inhales deeply and looks ahead of him, shaken, then at her, scared, finally at me, petrified. I look back at him and let my eyes coast down his body and back up at his face. His eyes, his velvet eyes falling into mine. The girl lets go of my hand and smiles at me, kisses me quickly but deeply on the mouth and slides off of my knees. Jerry goes for his wallet and I take my hand off of him, but I see it as he leans back for an angle in his pocket, a thick bulge that no longer fits in his pants.
He gives her a few bills of some kind, leaves forty for the waitress and says, “Let’s go.”
In New Orleans, in The French Quarter at least, there are no alleys, no inlets, no doorways, nothing that isn’t closed off by a thick iron gate, nowhere for a man to kiss a man, to feel a man’s cock against him. He looks around after a couple of blocks of wandering and kisses me anyway, up against a wall under a fire escape, Jerry’s tongue and lips, his hand on my chin, arm holding mine down, those things that it never occurred to me to want, though I did. I have. I do. We hail a cab and get in, apart from each other above our chests, below, my hand around him through his pants, my thumb pressed into the tip. Crossing Canal Street, into downtown, through a traffic circle with a statue of a man on a horse, under an underpass to St. Charles, trolley tracks and trees, restaurants, liquor stores, beautiful houses, ugly new buildings, our driver silent as we are, Jerry’s hand pulling at my thigh. We stop. He pays the driver. We stumble out. His apartment, a third of an old house. He opens the door to his place, lets me in and pushes me to the floor.
We’re breathing through a little space formed between the ends of our lips, the sides of our noses pressed against each other, a numb feeling building in my legs.
“Have you ever fucked a man before, Mitch?” he asks, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and going to mine.
“No.”
“But it’s everything you hoped so far, right?”
He’s done it, hooked me just like the girls. I laugh, and he goes in on my neck. Just where it meets the shoulder, he bites, and I unbuckle his belt. He turns onto his back and takes his pants off, his cock hitting his stomach with a flopping noise.
“In my bag, under the sink and fucking hurry.”
I get it, put it next to him and go down on him, shoving him into my mouth, his hand smacking the bag repeatedly. “No, shit, I’ll come, I’ll fucking come…. I want you up here, come on, Mitch, put this on and fuck me.” He hands me the condom and I put it on, never completely taking my mouth off of him. He hands me the lube and I kneel up, over him, my fingers wet and in him now, never thought it would be so easy, his back arching and his thighs back in his hands. Little squeaks out of him.
“I’m ready. Come on, I need you.”
I press my cock down, pushing his knees to my chest and enter him slowly.
“That’s it,” he says, “more.” I go in further, slippery but squeezed. “Yes,” he says. “Good good good good, oh fuck!” I’m pumping a little now. The muscles in his neck pull against themselves. Me, I’ve never felt anything even close, just trying really hard to keep going, to feel this, to see this man I’ve spent so much time with bent against the floor, teeth clenched. I’m grinding into him, watching his dumbfoundingly pretty face change, feeling him change. “Oh shit,” he says. “I can’t stop it, it’s… it’s… oh fucking MITCH!” He slowly rises and shakes against me, a few pops of come out of him, his knees digging into me, his eyes closing.
I come into him like a concrete block hitting the ground and bouncing, then kiss him on the cheek, charmed like a man who’s just been dragged into a fire and carried out.
Crank Up the Sugasm
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 #107? 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
5 Advanced Deep Throat Techniques
“Suck your man’s penis into your throat, and, while it is deep in, start to hum.”
MILF = Men I’d Like to Fuck
“He knows my body p e r f e c t l y and knows exactly how to make me squirm with pleasure and always knows the right thing to say.”
Reconciling Desire & Reality (part 2)
“The excitement of sharing her, the excitement of my arousal THEORETICALLY should mean a heightening of our own sex life.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Our fearless leader tells me he’s crazy busy so I’m presenting one from the vaults.
The Six Types of Porn Movie (and How To Get Into Them)
Editor’s Choice
Primed
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Sex News & Reviews
The End of the Mile-High Club
Fetish Film - Squealer (BSDM, Master, Shibari)
My controversial, nipple-baring Dirty Girls book cover
NEW Culture Shocking Designs!
Sex Toy Review: Mini Bullet One Touch Vibrator
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Am I born as a Whore?
Floral HNT
He’s Horny and She’s Easy
The Humble Handjob
I’ll assume i’m on the naughty list
Minus One
Obsessive Compulsive Slut
Re-discovering myself
So, doc, when can we…
Virgin Extraordinaire
Sex Poetry
Now and Zen
BDSM & Fetish
The **** machine
Erotica: Mind Games
Generic Pussy?
Get the contract signed- part two: vital lessons
Just a Few Naked Pics of Amy’s Perfect Body
Naked Service
What a Saturday
What is a Daddy Dom? Pt. 2
Sex Advice
Six ways from Sunday - Cowgirl (reversed or otherwise)
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Bad Girl
Betrayal
Dark Cold Moons
Dichotomy
Halloween
Icing on the Cake
Like Me
The Main Course
Multi-tasking
Second Time Around
Sex Party in the Hood
Stressed Wanking
Sex Humor
Fuck’n Fun
Untitled No. 1
Sex Work
Reality Check: Eating Food
NSFW Pics & Videos
Day trip to porno town
Hannah Hilton Sexy Bikini pics
Lisa wants a spanking
Sanctum
Self-portrait in Boots
A Hot Femdom / Slave Boy Strap-On Scene
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Like Me
There was a time when you were my roommate, when the door across the hall was warm with your mystery, and the bang of a hanger on the doorknob would make me sit up straight, arrange my clothes, bury my big toe under the little ones so you couldn’t see that it was curved wrong. You’d walk into the living room, rubbing your eyes, your blonde hair always straight up from the pillow, and you’d light a cigarette and regard me through the blur of morning. As it was, we’d usually been out just a few hours before.
When you sat like that in a pair of loose boxers, always blue striped, I’d try not to let you see me look, would pretend to stare at your cigarette as you leaned forward. Always down the left leg, all the way to the break where your groin muscle dipped in between the front and the back of the thigh. I wondered sometimes if you saw me looking.
I saw it in action that one time, do you remember? Of course you do. That time I came in and found you at your computer when I said I’d be out and forgot my I.D. I didn’t make a sound, but watched you for a long time, watched the bend in your neck, the pull inward of your shoulders. I was there long enough to feel a part of it, as if it were suddenly natural enough for me to drop my own pants, kick them to my room and come back, fingers deep inside of my wet pussy, and if you noticed, I felt you’d do nothing but smile. I didn’t tell you how long I watched. I don’t know how long I watched. I remember backing down the hallway until I hit that creaky patch and heard a rumble in your room.
I’d dream at night that you would come to my bed, the old twin I used to have that made the bedroom seem so small. It squeaked when I moved, bounced enough to throw me off if you jumped on it, and I’d lay there and wait for you, bracing the edge in my fingers I was so sure it would happen. I believed you’d come to me, tears in your eyes, telling me that you’d noticed that I was the one, that I could never accept it, you know, but that you had to tell me anyway. I’d wrap your arm around me and you’d kiss my neck and I’d feel that wet on my neck from your eyes. And it was the kiss. It was all about that kiss you’d give me. In my bouncy bed, waiting for you, I’d lift a thigh and find myself streaming, wet enough to lubricate the entrance of a magnum of Champagne. I didn’t even think of sex until the end, before that, it was only a kiss.
We never dated anyone, you or me. We never talked to anyone. We’d screen calls like an SS officer and with as much respect. One night, drunk and driving home from the clubs, you were chatty, and told me how much you wanted to find someone just like me. I sat there, just like me, and kept my hands at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel.
When you sat like that in a pair of loose boxers, always blue striped, I’d try not to let you see me look, would pretend to stare at your cigarette as you leaned forward. Always down the left leg, all the way to the break where your groin muscle dipped in between the front and the back of the thigh. I wondered sometimes if you saw me looking.
I saw it in action that one time, do you remember? Of course you do. That time I came in and found you at your computer when I said I’d be out and forgot my I.D. I didn’t make a sound, but watched you for a long time, watched the bend in your neck, the pull inward of your shoulders. I was there long enough to feel a part of it, as if it were suddenly natural enough for me to drop my own pants, kick them to my room and come back, fingers deep inside of my wet pussy, and if you noticed, I felt you’d do nothing but smile. I didn’t tell you how long I watched. I don’t know how long I watched. I remember backing down the hallway until I hit that creaky patch and heard a rumble in your room.
I’d dream at night that you would come to my bed, the old twin I used to have that made the bedroom seem so small. It squeaked when I moved, bounced enough to throw me off if you jumped on it, and I’d lay there and wait for you, bracing the edge in my fingers I was so sure it would happen. I believed you’d come to me, tears in your eyes, telling me that you’d noticed that I was the one, that I could never accept it, you know, but that you had to tell me anyway. I’d wrap your arm around me and you’d kiss my neck and I’d feel that wet on my neck from your eyes. And it was the kiss. It was all about that kiss you’d give me. In my bouncy bed, waiting for you, I’d lift a thigh and find myself streaming, wet enough to lubricate the entrance of a magnum of Champagne. I didn’t even think of sex until the end, before that, it was only a kiss.
We never dated anyone, you or me. We never talked to anyone. We’d screen calls like an SS officer and with as much respect. One night, drunk and driving home from the clubs, you were chatty, and told me how much you wanted to find someone just like me. I sat there, just like me, and kept my hands at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The deep healing herbal infusion called Sugasm.
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 #106? 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
Bonbon
“I feel him start; then he groans into my mouth, a deep helpless sound, and I know I’ve got him.”
Domme virginity lost
I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. You know that, don’t you, sweet boy?”
Reality Check: Lessons Learned From Clients
“From my conversations I’ve learned a number of things that have helped me, educated me and surprised me.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Belladonna Likes Heroin
Editor’s Choice
Each Mirror has two sides
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
NSFW Pics & Videos
Anetta Keys - Mischief In Mind
Carmella Bing - Keeping It Hardcore
Erica Campbell nude by Andrew Blake
The Hottest Babes… Right Here, Right Now
How to behave after sex
Jade | Mirage
Sex News, Reviews & Advice
At least he’s not going blind!
Lust, Caution review
NEW Gender Bending Designs
Orgasm - Do You Fake It?
Pierced for Play
Pjur Eros BodyGlide Original Silicone Lubricant Review
Top 7 Horror Porns
Erotic Writing and Experiences
At Your Service
Boy
Catalina loves (Polyamorous) Fantasies - Part II
Confessions: Babysitter
Encounter 2, Part II: All About Jane
Having her cake
How zep got me my first feel of tit
“I’m not having sex with you in here.”
A Letter…
Sexual Initiation
Splick
Symplexity Presents: The Friendly Skies
An Unexpected Opportunity
Sex Work
In the Heart of Real America: How Porn Made Me a Patriot
BDSM & Fetish
About last night…
Beat Me Baby: A Step in Submission!
Bitch in heat
Dirty, Filthy, Nasty Instructions
Feeling a Twitch
Goofiness
I Will So Whip Your Ass
A Little Fantasy I Wrote For The Mrs.
Masturbation Fantasies
Men are dogs: a fantasy
On Hands and Knees
Re-Education Part 2: A Fantasy
Revisiting the piss slit
Shame, Shame, Shame; Shame of Fools
Whippings in the eighteenth century
Sex Poetry & Recipes
Cooking With Mandy: Get Your Ass In the Kitchen Slut and Spend Some Quality Time With Your Husband Pasta with Shrimp
Friday Poem: Hot Boobs and Spam
Then
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
“As Long As Your Vagina Looks Good…”
Ethical Adultery
Femme vs. Feminine
The Full Body Project, or Fat Can be Sexy, Part 2
Need, Want, Love
Return to sender
Sleepy HNT
Today is “Mom the Minx(’s)” Birthday
You Are So Sexy
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Splick
He sits in a fog that matches his towel. I make out two brown nipples over what looks, from here, a good fifteen feet of mist in between us, like perfect, unmottled skin. A gift to the world in his own packaging, a box of goodies wrapped in a flat stomach and strong thighs. I've been trying to make eye contact with him, unseizing, unblinking. Though he's caught me twice, I haven't looked away, and his smile, the slightest turn of lip in the steam, hasn't shaken my confidence.
My bag rings. My stare turns into a pout, a distant intruder to make me look hard to get. I make eye contact again and cock my head apologetically before getting the phone. He looks unimpressed, ready to wave a hand in dismissal at me, but I smile fully before he can.
"Hello."
"Hey, sweetie. Just calling to see how your meeting went today."
"I don't know, really," I mumble into the fog and the distant techno thump. The phone, noise-cancelling, only passes on my voice. "I thought it went alright. Everything worked, anyway." My conquest now faces me dead on and taps his foot impatiently, looking at the phone, then my eyes, then my towel. "I'll find out tomorrow, I guess."
"Well, it's a relief your fucking PowerPoint didn't blow up, then," she said. "How's the hotel?"
"Typical hotel room, I guess. Two beds. One desk. One movie channel. WiFi."
There's a long pause in the conversation. The conquest digs his knuckles into his bench, looks at me for confirmation, then stands up.
"I've been missing you," she says.
"I miss you too. Been awhile since we were apart like this, huh?"
The conquest walks, all casual and confidence, to me, his feet spreading across the floor. I can do nothing but watch.
"It's been awhile, yeah," she says. The conquest, now less of a conquest and more like my winnings, leans into me and breathes into the non-phone ear.
"Who is that on the phone?" he says.
"My bed is all cold and empty, honey," I say, loud enough.
"The boyfriend," he says. His mouth is hot. He follows with his teeth and nibbles my ear.
"I've been thinking about you all night. I want to do it by phone, okay?"
My gasp answers her. "Put on that babydoll I bought you."
"Oooh. Your man's a dress-up boy, huh?" he says, then runs the back of his fingers down my sides and up my chest.
"Do you have it on?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, panting a little. I can just hear it, the two of them in either ear. He pulls back and straddles my lap, looking over my body and ending at my eyes.
"That's a good girl," I say, pointing my chin at "girl."
He leans in again. "The wife!" he says.
"Now," I continue, "raise that thing for me. I want to see that pussy."
The man looks affronted in a joking way and unknots his towel at the hip. His cock is half up, slightly curved at his thigh. I stare at it.
It really had been a long time.
"Can you see it?" she asks.
"Yes. Now touch yourself. Start slow." The man takes my free hand and puts it on his cock. I'm hypnotized, distracted and falling. I pull it absently, but not from lack of interest, from fascination, as if I'd never seen one before. "Are you wet?"
"Yes. I'm soaking. I want you."
I begin to stroke him earnestly, as if his were mine. Mine is strapped down under terrycloth, edging between thigh and hip. He hasn't looked yet.
"Play with your tits for me."
The man's head is bent back, his neck strong and smooth but for an arête of an Adam's Apple. His lips are open, swollen, as if I'd been sucking on them. His fingers on his left hand sweep his stomach and pinch his nipple. I let go of him for a moment, take his right hand and place it on my towel's knot.
"Do you have it in your hand?" she asks. "Are you stroking it?"
"Yes baby. I want to be inside you."
He unknots my towel with fumbling fingers and finds my cock. My head slams back.
"You are," she says. "I'm fucking myself."
She's got a dildo, a rubbery, translucent one, slightly smaller than me. I imagine it plunging inside of her and stroke the guy faster. He opens my bag. I shoot him a serious look until he fishes a bottle of lube from it. I'm so dizzy I never would've remembered. He flips open the cap, pours a generous amount on him and my open hand, then me, and returns to me, full duty.
"God, that's good," I gasp.
"I want to hear it," she says. "Put the phone next to it."
I exhale, lower the phone to my cock and lean into the man. He kisses me deep, darting a tongue and rubbing my lips with it. I listen for the sound of our hands on each other and hear it in the haze. Splick splick splick. I bring the phone up, the man's mouth leaving mine in steam. My wife is breathing quickly, catching and releasing each breath. "Did you hear it?" I ask her. My body is starting to rumble. So is my captor's.
"Yes baby. You're fucking me so... good."
"You're so ready. You're so beautiful." I look at him as I say this. He smiles, then returns to shaky pleasure.
"Just keep fucking me. My clit is on fire."
The man leans forward and puts one hand on the wall behind me. He's humping my legs.
"Are you ready to come?" I ask.
"Yes."
He humps faster, his stomach curling hard. I slip down his cock and hold for a moment, then up again, a little more with each stroke. I feel a tickle deep inside. "I'm ready," I say.
He fucks my hand and strokes me with the same hard rhythm.
"Ohhh, God," she says. "Ohhhhh, God. Oh! Oh fuck! OH!"
He comes, grasping tight on my cock, trembling, shooting out one, two, three on my stomach. His arm gives and he falls into my lips, breathing my exhales. I don't mean to, but I bite his lip and jerk forward, coming hard, pulling something deeper than usual, coating his stomach, moaning. Moaning loud.
My bag rings. My stare turns into a pout, a distant intruder to make me look hard to get. I make eye contact again and cock my head apologetically before getting the phone. He looks unimpressed, ready to wave a hand in dismissal at me, but I smile fully before he can.
"Hello."
"Hey, sweetie. Just calling to see how your meeting went today."
"I don't know, really," I mumble into the fog and the distant techno thump. The phone, noise-cancelling, only passes on my voice. "I thought it went alright. Everything worked, anyway." My conquest now faces me dead on and taps his foot impatiently, looking at the phone, then my eyes, then my towel. "I'll find out tomorrow, I guess."
"Well, it's a relief your fucking PowerPoint didn't blow up, then," she said. "How's the hotel?"
"Typical hotel room, I guess. Two beds. One desk. One movie channel. WiFi."
There's a long pause in the conversation. The conquest digs his knuckles into his bench, looks at me for confirmation, then stands up.
"I've been missing you," she says.
"I miss you too. Been awhile since we were apart like this, huh?"
The conquest walks, all casual and confidence, to me, his feet spreading across the floor. I can do nothing but watch.
"It's been awhile, yeah," she says. The conquest, now less of a conquest and more like my winnings, leans into me and breathes into the non-phone ear.
"Who is that on the phone?" he says.
"My bed is all cold and empty, honey," I say, loud enough.
"The boyfriend," he says. His mouth is hot. He follows with his teeth and nibbles my ear.
"I've been thinking about you all night. I want to do it by phone, okay?"
My gasp answers her. "Put on that babydoll I bought you."
"Oooh. Your man's a dress-up boy, huh?" he says, then runs the back of his fingers down my sides and up my chest.
"Do you have it on?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, panting a little. I can just hear it, the two of them in either ear. He pulls back and straddles my lap, looking over my body and ending at my eyes.
"That's a good girl," I say, pointing my chin at "girl."
He leans in again. "The wife!" he says.
"Now," I continue, "raise that thing for me. I want to see that pussy."
The man looks affronted in a joking way and unknots his towel at the hip. His cock is half up, slightly curved at his thigh. I stare at it.
It really had been a long time.
"Can you see it?" she asks.
"Yes. Now touch yourself. Start slow." The man takes my free hand and puts it on his cock. I'm hypnotized, distracted and falling. I pull it absently, but not from lack of interest, from fascination, as if I'd never seen one before. "Are you wet?"
"Yes. I'm soaking. I want you."
I begin to stroke him earnestly, as if his were mine. Mine is strapped down under terrycloth, edging between thigh and hip. He hasn't looked yet.
"Play with your tits for me."
The man's head is bent back, his neck strong and smooth but for an arête of an Adam's Apple. His lips are open, swollen, as if I'd been sucking on them. His fingers on his left hand sweep his stomach and pinch his nipple. I let go of him for a moment, take his right hand and place it on my towel's knot.
"Do you have it in your hand?" she asks. "Are you stroking it?"
"Yes baby. I want to be inside you."
He unknots my towel with fumbling fingers and finds my cock. My head slams back.
"You are," she says. "I'm fucking myself."
She's got a dildo, a rubbery, translucent one, slightly smaller than me. I imagine it plunging inside of her and stroke the guy faster. He opens my bag. I shoot him a serious look until he fishes a bottle of lube from it. I'm so dizzy I never would've remembered. He flips open the cap, pours a generous amount on him and my open hand, then me, and returns to me, full duty.
"God, that's good," I gasp.
"I want to hear it," she says. "Put the phone next to it."
I exhale, lower the phone to my cock and lean into the man. He kisses me deep, darting a tongue and rubbing my lips with it. I listen for the sound of our hands on each other and hear it in the haze. Splick splick splick. I bring the phone up, the man's mouth leaving mine in steam. My wife is breathing quickly, catching and releasing each breath. "Did you hear it?" I ask her. My body is starting to rumble. So is my captor's.
"Yes baby. You're fucking me so... good."
"You're so ready. You're so beautiful." I look at him as I say this. He smiles, then returns to shaky pleasure.
"Just keep fucking me. My clit is on fire."
The man leans forward and puts one hand on the wall behind me. He's humping my legs.
"Are you ready to come?" I ask.
"Yes."
He humps faster, his stomach curling hard. I slip down his cock and hold for a moment, then up again, a little more with each stroke. I feel a tickle deep inside. "I'm ready," I say.
He fucks my hand and strokes me with the same hard rhythm.
"Ohhh, God," she says. "Ohhhhh, God. Oh! Oh fuck! OH!"
He comes, grasping tight on my cock, trembling, shooting out one, two, three on my stomach. His arm gives and he falls into my lips, breathing my exhales. I don't mean to, but I bite his lip and jerk forward, coming hard, pulling something deeper than usual, coating his stomach, moaning. Moaning loud.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Daring Young Men
Demetrios hung onto the trapeze, timed his breathing and lost himself in his exhale. He became concentration, the look in his eyes too far away for any audience to see. Otherwise, one might accuse him of faking. He tested the slip of his hand, a small cloud of chalk billowing between calluses and the bar, and reset them. There was silence in the tent. I wanted to scratch my toes in the dust to break it, but he began. Tight, formed like a boomerang and just as rigid, Demetrios and the trapeze descended a curve, a perfect one, unbroken by weakness in the arms. He turned into back-end splits, his feet pointed east and west, his arms slightly bent, taking his weight easily, the trap close to the bulge of his cock in his practice sweats. Your average father, distracted by the cotton candy left on his pants by his jaded six-year-old, or the six-year-old himself, would never notice the form in Demetrios’s swing, wouldn’t take note of his hands as they switched him out of the splits into a pike and back into a catcher’s lock, waiting for me, if I were to be there then, the trap caught tight in the triangle of his knees.
I didn’t actually have to be there then, and neither did Demetrios. We could spend our night separate from each other, seeing whatever town we were in, but we were here instead, because this is where our lives were, the whistle of the air in our ears, the familiar shape of the bar, the ever-changing pull of gravity our only homes. And with each other, the excuse that we’ve got to remember everything about our moves before they happen paralleling so easily with the way we finish each other’s sentences, communicate only in our shoulders, leave words out of our mouths, the lips more about our bodies than our minds. We knew each other very well, though our pasts were never examined, our motives never investigated. We simply knew what was going to happen next because we knew it.
He pulled out of the catcher’s lock and swung himself back into an arc. My subconscious, playing on the same trigonometry that would have taught me how to calculate an arrow into the breast of a wild turkey, counted the right time for launch. I flew, purely on muscle memory, with a few swings, into a backend plange and knew that he would be ready to catch again, knew his thumb and the thick muscle that runs the other side of his palm would be enough to hold and hook me. The air battered my eardrums as I flew free to him, my hands twisting, and I was stopped without breaking the swing. We used to laugh when we’d do this, surprised that we’d never dropped each other, but now I simply pulled myself up to him, with the help of his biceps, and kissed him upside down, the toast we always made to each other. Job well done. Even when we were performing it happened in our minds.
I swung us into larger dips and heights, enough room to play around a little. He swung me up and I held onto the rope in my ankles, then down with a flip to grasp the launching board in my fingers. I tuned us around a few times, twisting the trapeze hand over hand, and let us go, my hands out, rolling like a vertical wheel at the air. We laughed and swung some more, seeing tent, light, tower, ladder, floor, net, ladder, seats, tower. I closed my eyes sometimes, though it made me a little seasick, just to prove to myself that this had nothing to do with sight.
Twenty minutes passed, thirty, and it was time to head for the ground, like two kids who had to give up playing when the street lights came on. I let go of Demetrios and fell into a suicide landing on the net, jumping up in time to get out of his way, and walked, walked instead of flew, in the bulges of the net to the ground, firm and disappointing, though my head was still in the air. I waited for him and he walked right past me, to the little practice rig on the side. In a prestidigitatious move, he was upside down on this one too while I blinked. He hung and crossed his arms, the slight squeak in the rig the only sound, his head about five feet above the mat. I moved to him and examined his face. The air turned to gravity between us and I pushed his shoulder. He swung, the slightest squeak, and came back. I pushed again and he swung some more, silent and stoic. I let him keep time like that for a while and watched him, until his hands moved up to his sweatpants, untied the cord, let his shirt drop over his shoulders. I approached slowly, looking at the ripples of his body, the balance of muscles, my appreciation growing in my own sweatpants. He pulled his knees closer to each other, the material falling on the corner of the muscles in his thighs, and reached out when I was in range, grabbed me by the cock, though I whined, and pulled his own sweats up under the bar.
His cock pointed at his chin, mine at the same. I winched the bar lower so that his was in reach of my mouth, his head now just a few feet above the ground. I made adjustments until I had the right angle and turned my head, sucking the tip of him into me now, sucking the sweet part of the shaft and then forward onto the veins. He reached for me, but I wouldn’t let him touch, letting go of his cock when it was necessary, trying to distract him with my mouth when it wasn’t. My fingers played at his thighs, turned the hair wrong and slipped between them. I twisted him inside of my mouth as if he had to be screwed in, then set myself, my feet where they needed to be with his cock at the back of my throat. He tried to caress my thigh, but I wouldn’t let him. I waited for him to settle, put one hand on his pelvis, another on his chest and pushed.
His cock pushed air and saliva in and out of my mouth with the momentum, making squishing sounds that seemed to echo against the canvas. Then came his moans, little popping exhales in his nose. I met the rhythm of his pendulum with my jaw and pumped him hard and deep. He gave up trying to touch me and simply watched. I untied my own drawstring, pulled the sweatpants down and let my cock hang free in his sightlines, occasionally touching his nose or chin. He kissed when he could, but I pushed him harder when he did, swinging him out of reach. I held for a moment, let him drop out and spit in my hand. I combined it with the pre-come and cupped the underside of my cock for a moment, the warm enclosure of it, and finally wrapped my hand around it, my thumb at the ridge, squeezing for his view.
My mouth went back to him and the tent seemed to collapse upon us, the air itself the pressure of canvas walls and ceiling, the two of us closed into each other. I sucked him into my mouth again and swung him only slightly now, just enough to bring tension, friction, the back of my tongue swinging itself on the tip of him. My hand quickly made me ready, but I studied his body, Demetrios’s familiar shakes and gestures, the buzz of his cock that I knew better than he did. I felt us both at the bottom of the arc and pulled us up, gasping, groaning to the peak. I pulled two fingers out of my grip and opened his lips with them. His teeth gaped into a gasp, his orgasm, I could feel it in a drop in his pelvis. I put the tip of my cock against the roof of his mouth and we went rigid for a moment, a high note in my chest, and then broke, released, drawing each other’s come in, an exchange of joy and salt and love for each other, our arms around each other’s backs, holding and jolting. My eyes had been closed here too, forever, it seemed, and I had the world mapped in the gestures of one other man, my guide and my source of gravity.
I didn’t actually have to be there then, and neither did Demetrios. We could spend our night separate from each other, seeing whatever town we were in, but we were here instead, because this is where our lives were, the whistle of the air in our ears, the familiar shape of the bar, the ever-changing pull of gravity our only homes. And with each other, the excuse that we’ve got to remember everything about our moves before they happen paralleling so easily with the way we finish each other’s sentences, communicate only in our shoulders, leave words out of our mouths, the lips more about our bodies than our minds. We knew each other very well, though our pasts were never examined, our motives never investigated. We simply knew what was going to happen next because we knew it.
He pulled out of the catcher’s lock and swung himself back into an arc. My subconscious, playing on the same trigonometry that would have taught me how to calculate an arrow into the breast of a wild turkey, counted the right time for launch. I flew, purely on muscle memory, with a few swings, into a backend plange and knew that he would be ready to catch again, knew his thumb and the thick muscle that runs the other side of his palm would be enough to hold and hook me. The air battered my eardrums as I flew free to him, my hands twisting, and I was stopped without breaking the swing. We used to laugh when we’d do this, surprised that we’d never dropped each other, but now I simply pulled myself up to him, with the help of his biceps, and kissed him upside down, the toast we always made to each other. Job well done. Even when we were performing it happened in our minds.
I swung us into larger dips and heights, enough room to play around a little. He swung me up and I held onto the rope in my ankles, then down with a flip to grasp the launching board in my fingers. I tuned us around a few times, twisting the trapeze hand over hand, and let us go, my hands out, rolling like a vertical wheel at the air. We laughed and swung some more, seeing tent, light, tower, ladder, floor, net, ladder, seats, tower. I closed my eyes sometimes, though it made me a little seasick, just to prove to myself that this had nothing to do with sight.
Twenty minutes passed, thirty, and it was time to head for the ground, like two kids who had to give up playing when the street lights came on. I let go of Demetrios and fell into a suicide landing on the net, jumping up in time to get out of his way, and walked, walked instead of flew, in the bulges of the net to the ground, firm and disappointing, though my head was still in the air. I waited for him and he walked right past me, to the little practice rig on the side. In a prestidigitatious move, he was upside down on this one too while I blinked. He hung and crossed his arms, the slight squeak in the rig the only sound, his head about five feet above the mat. I moved to him and examined his face. The air turned to gravity between us and I pushed his shoulder. He swung, the slightest squeak, and came back. I pushed again and he swung some more, silent and stoic. I let him keep time like that for a while and watched him, until his hands moved up to his sweatpants, untied the cord, let his shirt drop over his shoulders. I approached slowly, looking at the ripples of his body, the balance of muscles, my appreciation growing in my own sweatpants. He pulled his knees closer to each other, the material falling on the corner of the muscles in his thighs, and reached out when I was in range, grabbed me by the cock, though I whined, and pulled his own sweats up under the bar.
His cock pointed at his chin, mine at the same. I winched the bar lower so that his was in reach of my mouth, his head now just a few feet above the ground. I made adjustments until I had the right angle and turned my head, sucking the tip of him into me now, sucking the sweet part of the shaft and then forward onto the veins. He reached for me, but I wouldn’t let him touch, letting go of his cock when it was necessary, trying to distract him with my mouth when it wasn’t. My fingers played at his thighs, turned the hair wrong and slipped between them. I twisted him inside of my mouth as if he had to be screwed in, then set myself, my feet where they needed to be with his cock at the back of my throat. He tried to caress my thigh, but I wouldn’t let him. I waited for him to settle, put one hand on his pelvis, another on his chest and pushed.
His cock pushed air and saliva in and out of my mouth with the momentum, making squishing sounds that seemed to echo against the canvas. Then came his moans, little popping exhales in his nose. I met the rhythm of his pendulum with my jaw and pumped him hard and deep. He gave up trying to touch me and simply watched. I untied my own drawstring, pulled the sweatpants down and let my cock hang free in his sightlines, occasionally touching his nose or chin. He kissed when he could, but I pushed him harder when he did, swinging him out of reach. I held for a moment, let him drop out and spit in my hand. I combined it with the pre-come and cupped the underside of my cock for a moment, the warm enclosure of it, and finally wrapped my hand around it, my thumb at the ridge, squeezing for his view.
My mouth went back to him and the tent seemed to collapse upon us, the air itself the pressure of canvas walls and ceiling, the two of us closed into each other. I sucked him into my mouth again and swung him only slightly now, just enough to bring tension, friction, the back of my tongue swinging itself on the tip of him. My hand quickly made me ready, but I studied his body, Demetrios’s familiar shakes and gestures, the buzz of his cock that I knew better than he did. I felt us both at the bottom of the arc and pulled us up, gasping, groaning to the peak. I pulled two fingers out of my grip and opened his lips with them. His teeth gaped into a gasp, his orgasm, I could feel it in a drop in his pelvis. I put the tip of my cock against the roof of his mouth and we went rigid for a moment, a high note in my chest, and then broke, released, drawing each other’s come in, an exchange of joy and salt and love for each other, our arms around each other’s backs, holding and jolting. My eyes had been closed here too, forever, it seemed, and I had the world mapped in the gestures of one other man, my guide and my source of gravity.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Have you had a Sugasm yet? It's made of vodka, Bailey's, 151 and a secret, personal ingredient.
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 #104? 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
Urgent
“Feel the electricity from my fingers as I peel the damp cotton of your panties away from your sex, as I ease them to one side.”
The Man From Del Monte Says…Yes, Yes, Oh God! YESSS!
“She let her lips and tongue explore me all over.”
Traveling the road, Sharing a load, Side by side
“I guess this is not very sexy, my ranting about politics while playing with your cock.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
The US Constitution Erotic Coloring Book
Editor’s Choice
Dinner Date: Part 1
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Sex Poetry
It’s about priorities…
Orgasm - O-Vision
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Fantasy Football
Halloween…
In Need - Original Illustrated Erotica
Indian Summer
New Underpants
The Pied Piper
Tight
Touch Me Babe
A walk in the Woods
Sex & Politics
Love Your Body
Abstinence Only Sex Ed On the Ropes?
NSFW Pics & Videos
Emilia
Happy HNT!
HNT the Menstrual Edition
I Feel Myself
Sinful Invitation
Sugar and Spice
Sex News & Reviews
2257 No More? Let the amateur porn flow!
Asian Woman Bound, Tickled and Forced To Cum
DamNation w/ The Reverend Bob Levy
NEW Super Sexy Designs!
Sex Toy Review : Under the Bed Restraints
Welcome to “Birds are smart” by Penny
BDSM & Fetish
Anal Training Part 2 -The Entering
Anniversary Present: A Fantasy
Cyber or real!?
Disobedience
Don’t stop until I stop you
Face Slapping II
Flying
Hand Signals
L is for Look it Up
The Petting Zoo: Sex Camp, Day Two
Princess or Pervert?
Stiletto Mistress
Sex Work
Reality Check: Getting Sick
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Disclosure Dilemma
HNT - Half Naked Thighs
I Want to Fuck All of My Friends
A Prelude to an Eclectic Slut
Some Things Are Not Possible
Why was the sex so good?
Why We Aren’t Really Swingers (part 1)
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