Sunday, December 30, 2007

On the Chair

The smell of you, the citrus salt of your body as I come to focus, and know that now I can, now I can touch you, and I make sense. The sharp blue of your eyes as they blur, still blue in the blur, hints now instead of jabs, blurring because you're too close to see. Don't need to see you when you're this close, I guess. Just bodies and savory now. The heat of you in the magnet, over the barrier, into the wet. And there I need every part of you to flatten out and surround me, untouched parts bitter and indignant. Pull your hips closer, your arms tighter, your shins bent into my thighs.

The feel of the string in your sweatpants, the worm loosened and the soft cotton lowered over your ass. You say you want to wear dresses more, that being around these girls makes you feel like a lesbian, sitting on a chair with your legs apart, knots in your hair untangled in your fingers, but then I wouldn't have this loose softness to contrast your skin, and find your skin better, and feel it make contact with that on my thighs. It's soft before it's sticky, a glue between us, natural as the one in my mind.

I enter you awkward and bent, a pop of straightening inside. There. Your hands on my shoulders. There. Home. What do we do when we're not doing this? What's out there that's so fucking important? I don't even want to move, don't want to arch, don't want to feel myself leave you ever again.

You've put a picture of us on your radiator, to mingle with your oldest friends and your dead relatives. I balked when I saw it, ready to comment on it, but it's true that you've put my old friends and dead relatives in your shadow. My shoulders fell and I got a shot of that drug in my diaphragm. I can see it now, pressed into this chair by the weight of you. It opens like origami in my chest.

I didn't notice that you've started to move on me, your teeth in my shoulder, slippery and sharp. Sex jumps in me like a dog invited for a walk. In and you groan tight around me, out and you take it away. Fuck me. My neck bends back over the back of the chair, and I inhale quick, oxygen to red the blood. It pumps around me, curling my toes and shuddering the back of my shins against the crosspieces between the chair legs. The ball rolls uphill, spiky and suction-cupped. Fuck me.

My hands hold you to me by the backs of the neck and hips. I'm drawing my drug out of you, the wine of sex and mourning. It's meeting, its parts jigsawing together between us and the ball jumps the ramp, suicides off the other side of the hill. My eyes fill with stars and air and we meet, our bodies flattened and surrounding each other. No parts of us left untouched.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Midwinter Lights Holiday of Your Choice Present-Twelve Missing Sex Scenes

My So-Called Life-

You know how sometimes life is like a chocolate shake? You want to drink the shake right away and you suck real hard on the straw but it hurts so much. So you've gotta wait until it's warmer and wetter and it doesn't hurt so bad, you know? But then you've got this perfect time to drink the shake, when it's not too cold that it won't go through the straw and not so warm it's disgusting and starts seeping through the wax in the paper cup. So you try to get there and it's really hard. This is me, waiting for Jordan Catalano in the hallway. Because like, every day in the boiler room, when I press him into the railing above the furnaces and unzip his pants, I've got to plan just the right time to spit.

Your Lego Brand Toys-

"Bjarke, take me on the train to the police station! There, perhaps we will find an Astronaut or a Knight to make love to in a fabulous tres og ni!"

"I will, Søren, after I finish this game of football and drive the ambulance in circles. To get me in the mood first, take off your trousers."

"As you wish. Ahhhh! AAAAAHHHHH! Oh my God! The HORROR! The HORROR!"

On the Road-

Dean made me an egg sandwich. I told him it tasted like shit. He hit me. I beat him up. Then he let me fuck him in Cleveland.

The Talking Cats Video-

Left hand cat: Im in ur krotch, razin ur temperchur.
Right hand cat: Iz glad iz u.
Left hand cat: M'kay.
Right hand cat: U takes unother life wiz ur wilz!
Left hand cat: M'kay. M'kay.
Right hand cat: I can haz orgazm?
Left hand cat: M'kaaaay.
Right hand cat: Iz dun.
Left hand cat: I likes ur earwax.
Right hand cat: Ew.

The Democratic Debates-

Sen. Obama: I think the European Union as a whole has been a long-standing ally of ours, and through NATO we've been able to make some significant progress. Afghanistan, in particular, is an area where we should be focusing. NATO has made real contributions there.

Gov. Richardson: Take me.

Your shampoo bottle-

Lather, oh God, lather, yeah. Oh shit. Okay. Repeat. Oh just repeat. Repeat repeat REPEAT OH OH OH. Follow with Pantene Pro-V conditioner.


"Joshua seduced me."

The Wizard of Oz-

The Tin Man: Oh, Dorothy, this heart is telling me that I (twang sound of tin uncrumpling) love you.

Dorothy: Did I tell you which body part I asked The Wizard for?

Slaughterhouse Five-


Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time, and gotten his come stuck all over Bernard O'Hare.

Mystery Science Theatre 3000-

TV's Frank (on the screen): There's no need to tell Joel, Servo. This is just between you, me Dr. Forrester and our... needs.

Servo (also on the screen): Joel will never find out?

Dr. Forrester (also also on the screen): No. Now, just let Frank do what he needs to do with you.

Servo (screen): Okay, mmm, that feels... tingly.

Dr. Forrester (at home in the lab): Um, Frank? Why is A Night at the Crypt in this envelope? What are we showing Joel right now?

Joel: Worst movie ever.

The Mac ads-

PC walked in to find Mac on his iPod, his eyes closed, sitting at his laptop, but bobbing his head to something and hissing out a few jumbled lyrics, his head turning for dramatic effect. PC walked over to him, took the headphone out of his left ear and placed it in his own. It was All I Want is You by U2. Mac pushed his forefinger in his ear and slid the chord between his middle and ring finger until he found it against PC’s cheek. He stood up and swung around dramatically, lipsynching the words with his hand over his heart. PC giggled and started doing the same. Mac pressed into his own chest, mouthing “Yooooooo-ooooou,” kissed his fingers and turned them toward PC. PC kissed his own and pressed them into Mac’s palm. Mac clasped his hand, stretched it out and pushed their chests together. They danced out the rest of the song. Linux watched, a huge grin on his face, from the couch. The two of them swirled before him, breathing out the lyrics with the sound of their soles swishing against the floor.

Later, they shared hard drives. As Mac wasn't running Windows, no viruses were exchanged.

Your Monopoly pieces-

Dog: That's not a condom, Cannon, that's Thimble.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

The Lily Pin and the Train to Denver

Mrs. Kingston must have been the tallest woman that Mrs. Bee had ever seen. Mrs. Bee never thought about her own height. She had come to a halt at fourteen, when Miss Everly, standing with her heels firmly on the tiles, pronounced no deviation from the previous year. Her mark was carved just a little deeper, and left there, at a mysterious fraction somewhat between 5' and 5' 1". Mrs. Kingston, Mrs. Bee estimated, was at least as tall as Mrs. Bee's husband, but the final judgment would have to come when she could compare them.

"I'm six foot one inch tall," Mrs. Kingston declared, squaring her shoulders against any possible rumor. Mrs. Bee was meant to be affronted by this accusation of curiosity, but she found very quickly that she didn't have it in her.

"Ah," she found herself saying, nodding a little, as her mother might if told a terrible secret. "I'm happy that you eased my mind so quickly. I don't often notice the height of others." Mrs. Kingston smiled after a flirtation with incredulousness, and asked Mrs. Bee if she would join her for coffee in the lounge car.

"How long have you been married?" Mrs. Bee asked, arranging one heel behind the other and accidentally kicking the front one out. Mrs. Kingston, with the opposite problem, rotated her knees outside of the table.

"Two years," Mrs. Kingston said, and took a sip of her coffee. She'd burnt the roof of her mouth each time she had one. She hid this particular scorching behind a small grimace that Mrs. Bee interpreted as marriage criticism.

"Any children?" Mrs. Bee asked, more out of habit than interest.

"No," Mrs. Kingston answered quickly, and bounced her spoon on the edge of the saucer until it settled, hooked onto the lip.

"No luck?" said Mrs. Bee. The word "luck" rose and fell in one syllable, a statement or question, depending on what Mrs. Kingston wanted. Mrs. Bee was good at conversation, often found herself the repository of many secrets and asked the right questions in just the right ways to receive them. She'd lost interest in people's secrets recently, found them all banal and depressing, but her conversation went that way regardless. It was the only way that she knew to talk.

"Not quite," said Mrs. Kingston.

The tee sound at the end of Mrs. Kingston's "quite" hung in the air, moved on the momentum of the rest of the train. Mrs. Bee waited for it to disappear, then saw the two days ahead of her, her husband in one euphemistically named car or another, the landscape, some of interest, most not, chugging past, and Mrs. Bee herself, stirring another cup of coffee, wondering when it would be appropriate to request a brandy instead. She decided, and made her approach.

"How do you mean?" she asked, and looked at Mrs. Kingston's face for the first time. Mrs. Kingston, she found, was a handsome woman, not pretty, but distinguished, high in the cheekbone if dark in the eye. She had a curious, but intriguing, hairpin, in the shape of a lily that seemed to draw a line to her jaw. Mrs. Kingston settled her knees again, this time at a distance from the table so that they might stop banging into it.

"Now, Mrs. Kingston," Mrs. Bee continued, her face now quite young, leaning over the brown of the coffee, "I live in Wisconsin. I live in a large home looking over Lake Michigan. It's airy in the summer, cozy in the winter, and I've more than enough company in my circle of friends to keep me there until death."

Mrs. Kingston smiled and took another sip of the cup of brimstone.

"This is my first and last trip to the west. I'm only on this train for my sister-in-law's wedding and I won't do it again. You live in...."


"And I swear now to never run into you there. You may talk to me now, or never tell anyone anything."

Mrs. Kingston massaged the freshly irritated burn at the roof of her mouth with the flattened edge of her tongue. She looked at Mrs. Bee, her small, thin hands, the choker at her neck. Mrs. Bee's body was much like her own on a smaller scale, as if she were looking at a funhouse mirror. She wanted to tell her this, but didn't.

"I hate coffee," Mrs. Kingston said, and placed the coffee to the right of its saucer. She stared at it again and moved it again, all the way to the window, where pollen from the fresh daisy in the vase would surely fall in it.

"What time is it?" Mrs. Bee asked.

"Time for two brandies," Mrs. Kingston said.

"Excellent girl," said Mrs. Bee.

The brandies came, cornfields and crossings flew past, the daisy shook pollen into Mrs. Kingston's coffee cup and the two women's feet were on the floor, leaning into one another over their snifters. Within twenty miles, Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston were aware of the other's bedroom troubles, Mr. Kingston's lack of experience, Mr. Bee's fast dwindling interest. They made several statements of indignation, resignation and pointed misinformation before they made a pact.

In the name of science and the propagation of the species, the two women had each one an assignment. They stood up, gave each other a kiss on the cheek, a warm one, and set off to change for supper.

Mrs. Bee, on Mrs. Kingston's orders, placed an ordinary fountain pen in her purse, taking care that the cap was screwed on tightly. Under her corset and above her stockings, she went bare for the first time since she was a newborn. Fear gathered in her chest, felling dust bunnies and pulverizing gallstones. She could always back out, but she thought for a moment of how she would feel if Mrs. Kingston did the same, and made a new determination to face her risk.

Mrs. Kingston, on Mrs. Bee's orders, changed her clothes with a large handkerchief stuffed into her mouth. She blamed the brandy for the warmth in the base of her body, a poorly placed piece of track for her wayward knees. Saliva soaked the cloth, as Mrs. Bee had said it would, and her jaw got tired, as Mrs. Bee said it would, but she smiled at herself in the mirror, thought that the blush in her cheeks became her. Mrs. Kingston, like Mrs. Bee, had sworn off underpants for the next three days, as good as a blood oath between them.

The Bees and the Kingstons took supper at different times, Mr. Kingston's man, a friend of his father's man and as green as Mr. Kingston himself, slow to make the reservations. Mrs. Kingston supped early and was glad of it, feeling that she'd lose her nerve if she had to wait long. Mr. Kingston made his best stab at conversation, found himself pouring forth, his wife smiling and blushing at everything he said. He'd never seen her like this, so pretty and attentive, so fascinated with his drudgeries. He fell more in love with her instantly, hoped that he could find the courage to ask her to be with him that night. When they stood, her height, only an inch above his, mattered not at all to him for the first time. He squeezed her hand and took their dessert back to the room, two éclairs and two glasses with a small decanter of port.

The Bees supped lightly, Mrs. Bee suggesting that it was the heavy meals that were keeping her husband up at night. He reacted as she'd hoped, humored her, found her in the mood for attention, and gave it to her dutifully. She could feel the loose material, soft, if you went with the grain, across her mound. It pulled at the hair there and brushed it, lovingly, caressed it straight and let it bounce into curls again. She felt quite exposed there, no sensible covering, the air and all free of obstacles to her intimacy. Her toe snapped off of the floor again at the weight of her crossed ankle and it went to her husband's ankle. She left it there until he blushed, snapping an escargots fork to the linen. She did not relent, as her upbringing, fully in control of her muscles most days, would oblige her to. She rubbed his ankle in the thin sole of her dress slippers until he grew accustomed to it, then hooked his heel, looking for all the world as if she were engrossed in her sorbet, the predessert for cleansing the pallet, and pulled his foot to the inside of her thighs.

In the room, Mr. Kingston's face and neck were red from the port and the way Mrs. Kingston looked in her dress. He imagined her in the corset and wondered that they'd been married three years and he'd never seen it. He mused that he might have the bravery to stumble upon her once, at her vanity in the morning or disrobing at night. He smiled, noting that he'd had the decanter in hand for at least a minute without attempting a pour when Mrs. Kingston's hand curled around his fingers, replaced the stopper inside of it, set it down and knelt before him.

The train changed tracks, a steady rhythm to distract him before his trousers were unbuttoned at the fly and the waist and dropped, a thud here at the final selection of tracks, a whistle, his underclothes dismantled, the train speeding up, the touch of his wife's lips, here in the light, a warm, soft sensation, there in his cock, and the friction of tight silk. His cock stole all of the blood from his body. He watched her, both eyebrows raised, watched his wife engulf him. Then he swallowed, face slack, and gripped the washbasin at his back. The train gently swayed, but he rumbled, and spilt his seed into his wife's throat. He winced that she must be repulsed, but a final sucking kiss on the end of his cock contradicted him. Mrs. Kingston stood up and poured the port with a shaking hand.

As the train switched tracks, Mr. Bee took his ankle back and scowled, half meaning it, at his wife. She let some sorbet drip on the side of her mouth from the spoon and licked it in.

"Mrs. Bee," said Mr. Bee, "are you having some trouble with your liquids tonight?"

"I've an idea of how to manage them, Mr. Bee, but you shall have to lend me a bit of license to do so."

Mr. Bee's head cocked a bit and he opened his mouth to speak for a moment. "You sluttish woman," he mouthed, his after-dinner coffee cup blocking intrusive eyes.

Mrs. Bee looked shocked for a moment, and stirred her sorbet until the frozen parts had melted with the solids.

Mr. Bee mocked leading his wife down the hallway after dinner, his hand on the back of her arm, but she'd gone in another direction from their berth, swinging through car after car until she'd found one locked. At this, she pulled her fountain pen out. Mrs. Kingston had taken note that all of the "locks" on the train were opened by the porters using the backside of fountain pens, and had made this part of her dare. She pushed the fountain pen into the lock and slid the door open, the first luggage car. Mr. Bee waited for the door to shut behind him, tested it for fastness, and lifted his wife's skirts above her waist.

"You are a sluttish little bitch, aren't you, Mrs. Bee?"

He searched the room, a lit match before him, until he found a spare coal shovel, flat and black from soot. He returned to his wife, bent her over a large crate, handed her the box of matches and told her to keep one lit until he was finished. Mrs. Bee lit one. She received a slap on the bottom for her troubles. There were three more, each of more stinging intensity, until the flame came down to her fingers. Her husband waited and blew it out. She lit another. It distracted her from the pain. There was another spank.

"You are a filthy, sluttish woman."

Another spank.

"Your backside is black and filthy now, like you."

Another spank. The second match burned down to her fingers, but her husband did not blow it out. It burned her instead.

"Light another."

She dropped the second, watching the dull red as it fell to the floor, and lit another. Mr. Bee pulled her arm behind her back so her hand, the match in the air, lay over her waist, illuminating her small, smooth body, all filthy like an ill-behaved child. He unbuttoned his trousers, bent his knees, though her legs dangled above the floor, and screwed her, fucked her. He watched this match too go out at her fingertips and watched the red coal fall on her skin. She trembled and clenched his cock inside her. He pumped his seed inside of her, clenched so hard as he was, as the coal on the match went out on her skin, and smelled the smoke.

The women met for luncheon the next day, as they had planned, and shared their stories, watching the satisfying shock and blush rise in the other's face. Though they felt sure that much of what they said couldn't be heard by others above the clacks and clicks of the wheels on the tracks and the crashing of plates, Mrs. Kingston asked a porter for a pencil and stationery so that they might pass it in notes.

"It tasted awfully strange," wrote Mrs. Kingston. "I thought it would be sweet, but there was an odd taste, some bitter chemical."

Mrs. Bee nodded and shrugged. She wrote, "Yes, that's what Mr. Bee tastes of too, but I don't find it off-putting, really."

Mrs. Kingston read this and shrugged as well. She wrote, "What did Mr. Bee call you?"

Mrs. Bee wrote it down and passed it on. Mrs. Kingston hid a laugh behind her hand and clasped Mrs. Bee's hand. The two of them sat and laughed for a few moments, and Mrs. Bee's hand curled up to enclose the other. "I'm glad we've met," she said.

"I'm very pleased myself. I don't normally talk to strange women on trains."

"I'm not strange anymore, am I, Mrs. Kingston?" said Mrs. Bee, warmly.

"No," said Mrs. Kingston, "you're a...." Mrs. Kingston folded the paper and pointed at what Mr. Bee had called her the previous evening.

The two women finished their luncheon, Mrs. Kingston asking that it be put on Mr. Kingston's bill, and they walked arm in arm through the train, silently, and comfortably so, until Mrs. Bee mentioned that this was their last day on the train. Mr. Bee and herself would be alighting in Denver. Mrs. Kingston drew Mrs. Bee's arm in tighter and kissed her on the cheek, then briefly on the mouth. The two women stood for a moment and contemplated this, then Mrs. Bee drew Mrs. Kingston down along the hallway a car more.

"This is our compartment," Mrs. Bee said, and opened the door, "though I daresay Mr. Bee won't be back from his card game for quite some time. Would you care to come in?"

Mrs. Kingston didn't answer, but leaned into Mrs. Bee's mouth again. She kissed swiftly and deeply, catching Mrs. Bee in a wave of heat, before she could find her senses and open her door. Upon its closure, with the two women inside, Mrs. Bee pulled her bunk down and placed Mrs. Kingston at its edge. She sat. Mrs. Bee leaned and Kissed Mrs. Kingston for a few more minutes, affection and sadness within it, and broke it off to speak.

"You have reminded me of spontaneity and fearlessness. I have one more lesson, this one for you to pass to your husband. Lift your skirts for me?"

Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston marveled at her legs revealing themselves, the flesh of them, the curves and the organic intimacy. Mrs. Bee parted Mrs. Kingston's legs, dropped her hand between them and found the place, the secret one.

Mrs. Bee had found this place when her mother's maidservant, under orders to punish her for the slight of showing for supper ten minutes late, had bent her over her knee. She cried as the maidservant paddled her with the back of a mirror and her mother, satisfied with listening to the sounds of the slaps, left the room. The maid pulled her skirts up higher, her underpants down lower, for the girl was seventeen at the time, and rubbed the younger Mrs. Bee with her thumb in the secret place, all the while paddling away at her backside. Mrs. Bee was married and moved out within six months, but she never forgot the secret place, nor the kind maidservant, who would never have spanked her without orders to do so.

Mrs. Bee put her thumb on Mrs. Kingston's secret place and kissed her gently. She found it warm and then wet, and soon enough found Mrs. Kingston's breathing heavy, her mouth distracted. "There," Mrs. Bee said, and pushed some fingers inside as she rubbed. "There now." Mrs. Kingston's face came to rapture, then exhaustion, her body in convulsions before she grew still.

"Teach that to your husband," said Mrs. Bee, "and I will remember you."

Mrs. Kingston took a few moments, unable to form words for crying, laughter and shock. Instead, she stood, removed the jeweled hairpin, the one in the shape of a lily, and put it in the hair of her funhouse mirror self, exactly as it was on her.

"Let your husband find you when her returns tonight, doing what you just did to me," Mrs. Kingston said.

"Mr. Kingston should take you from behind tonight," Mrs. Bee said.

The two women regarded each other, nodded and parted.

Sunday, December 9, 2007


Does it make any sense, the way that some words boil inside of you, and you want more than anything to say them? You eat your breakfast with a smile on your face and you answer an email and you go see a movie and they’re there, those fucking words are there and they just hover at the back of your throat, under your uvula, in that place where that wad of phlegm sits first thing in the morning before you cough it out. M mmmm mmm. There they are under the mound of thickened spit, and you want to cough them out too, like an itch to be scratched or a piece of dust on the side of your nose that you can just make out in your field of vision. Get rid of it, you think, it’s abnormal.

They’re like mosquito bites, really, because when you say them, you feel better right away, sure, but then a few seconds go by and you need to say them worse than before. You can keep on scratching that mosquito bite all day long, you know, those really awful ones you get on your toes, and they’ll only get worse. They’ll only get way itchier and you’ll scratch and scratch, that wide-eyed look on your face that makes you look like some crazy janitor type, ranting about secret chemical dumps in the clouds, and you can’t be very attractive then. She’s gotta look at you and see you putting those damn words out there faster and faster, rocking in your chair and swirling a finger through a lock of your own hair and think, “This guy’s gone to Mars for a picnic!” and you have, for all the good it’s doing for you. You see, you can scratch an itch away by turning it into pain, drawing blood and ripping the skin off, but there’s nothing you can do with those damn words.

I mean, does it make any sense? Did our monkey ancestors press their tongues to the roofs of their mouths and find that they absolutely must go up to one of their baboonettes and screech out just those three screeches? No. It makes no sense at all. It makes sense that we can’t help but say “Look up! Fucking coconut dropping on your head!” or “Big tiger just over that hedge!” but there’s no emergency with those three words. There’s no immediate warning to howl out or dangerous argument to be contradicted. In the big scheme of things, the basic one with the food and water and shelter bit, those words don’t help anyone at all, so why are they so intense? Why do they paralyze you, make you blubbery and soft, unable to aim so much as your own piss into a toilet? They’re a mental illness, is what they are.

She lays in bed in front of me, her skin spotless and soft, curved against the mattress in the lamplight. I’m sure she’s asleep until she turns her palm back to me, her fingers thin and long. Just when I feel like I’m looking at a picture of her, she turns interactive and I take her hand and lay behind her. She cups it, girl-skin and comfort, coming home. She rubs the scar on my palm with her thumb for a while, as if asking me a question. I don’t answer. She takes my hand to her pussy, presses my middle finger into the wet and the red heat. My mouth goes to her ear because that’s where it’s got to go and I hold it open, tongue against my lower front teeth, and I fight.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

All aboard the Sugasm! No really. Just get on top of me.

Who kicks ass? Vixen. And it's her time of year too. Top of the sled, as always, as far as I'm concerned.

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 #109? 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

From virgin cocksucker to blowjob queen

” I love to play and tease with my hand and tongue, lightly licking, sometimes using my panties or another soft fabric to run across the shaft.”


“Oh yes, I’ve seen it all before, I know what you’re here for.”

Old Friends

“His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The Count

Editor’s Choice

Hot and Cold

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.)

BDSM & Fetish

Cuffed Off Guard

Dream #10

Mattress Navigation


More ideas of my own.

Naughty girl confesses

Or just submitting… (Part 3 about S)

PART 2 -She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile

Pre Game: Sex Camp, Antici….pation

So Delicious

Sex Poetry

Haiku Festival of Erotic Power and Rope

Sex News & Reviews

5 Naughty Gift Sets to Get for Christmas

Feminists Make Better Mates

Fetish Film - Outpatient (Latex, Bondage, Breathplay, Femdom, Spanking)

Intern Sex Toy Review - The Turbo Stroker

Kama Sutra Bliss

NEW Kinky Designs!

Toying With Pleasure - Jamye Waxman

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Emotional Sex is Too Much Work - Who Does She Think She Is?!

More Precious Than Flattery

One way, not the other - why don’t women get eaten out more?

Potential, Real

Sex Advice & Interviews

4 Advanced Cunnilingus Techniques

5 tips to being a sexy ‘cougar’

“Dancing With Werewolves” an Interview with Spanking Superstar Niki Flynn

Erotic Writing and Experiences

The Alley: Man working abroad

Almost a Zipless Fuck


HNT: Rehabilitation IV - The Return of the Cake!


In the Laboratory

The list of notches on my bedpost


More MILF (Men I’d Like To Fuck)


Sugarbutch Star: Jefferson


A train experience

What it feels like for a girl…who wants to make another girl come

NSFW Pics & Videos & Audio

Audio: Red Wine Seduction

A Busy HNT

Leg Language by Andrew Blake

Peek-a-Boo Map

Pornsaint Kayla Jane Danger

Tiang Fang - White

Veronica (MC Nudes)

Monday, December 3, 2007

The Missing Sex Scene-We Three Kings

This is seriously blasphemous, so if you are sensitive to that sort of thing, don't read this.

Melchior had been traveling from his kingdom, going west, west, west for months when he again found himself rigid as bamboo. “It’s the myrrh,” he mumbled to himself, reassuring, he supposed, to a Confucianist, but getting damned inconvenient. The traveling had been fine, miraculously speedy and strangely weather-free. Even in the Himalayas, the “Abode of Snow,” he was warm, and path of dry and smooth forever opened itself in front of him. Here in the desert, even at night it was warm and comfortable. It seemed that the traveling would only go faster had he not brought the myrrh, had he not found himself seeing mirages of beautiful women, their robes opening to him, the scent of the flower of their flesh drifting over the strangely comfortable desert to his nose.

He walked away from the sleeping Caspar, tucking his erection under the belt of his robes, taking a flask of peanut oil with him. He’d just met Caspar that morning, his story similar, if shorter, of a star and a strange, beautiful creature dropped from the heavens telling them to follow it. The two of them agreed with a nudge to the ribs that they would have crossed the earth on all fours barking like a dog if that fantastic creature would have asked them to. They laughed, but it was a forced laugh. They were completely serious. She’d appeared in visions to them both for ages, her breasts levitating in the air, her golden hair like silk, you could feel it through the atmosphere. She was the atmosphere when she was there, really. Both of them had dropped to their knees because they wouldn’t hold them anymore when she came to them. The angel, for that’s what they’d decided she was, had made them pure desire, made them hump the air, their eyes half-shut, clutching their crotches like young boys late for the emptying of their bladders.

“She’s a great fertility goddess from the West,” they agreed, to end the conversation less awkwardly.

Melchior climbed a rise and took a few steps, sliding on his heels in the sand, down the other side. He tried not to close his eyes for a moment until he was out of sight of the oasis, though he couldn’t hide from the star. He fell into the sand, exhausted from crushed desire, and quickly opened his robe. He cleared his hands of sand, opened the bottle of oil and coated himself with it. He gasped at his own touch, feeling the first shock of satisfaction and more lust, and twisted his cock between forefinger and thumb. He did not use his other fingers, hadn’t used them for all these months. The tease was transcendent. He began to pump himself and at last closed his eyes, letting the vision of the Western fertility goddess enter his mind unabated.

Caspar woke as he had every night for these two weeks, feeling prickles from the stars above, as if they were far-off suns, each of them with their with their own gods and powers. It was as if they each wanted to touch him, caress him, land on his skin and mate with him in some dance that they’d all memorized through the ages. It was a strange and chaste fantasy, but he chose it over the vision of the angel descending to his cock, her own light and wonder too powerful to be conceived by his addled mind. It had been two weeks since he’d been visited by her and his life had become transformed. Since that indescribable dream, as palpable as any of his other memories but many times their effect, he’d been uprooted from his home, taken from his bed and his many wives, to chase this one goddess’s suggestion. He’d tried to give it more importance in his mind, credit it with something more substantial than a beautiful woman landing at the foot of his couch as he quietly ate supper, but that’s all it was. That he’d rolled to the floor, blinded by her and in paroxysms of pleasure and helplessness, was too unexplainable to be acknowledged, even to himself.

Yet, here Caspar was, on his back, titillated by the very stars again, an erection full and vigorous as the moon itself not so much paralyzing his body as imperiously filling it with vigor. The erection wasn’t of the standard kind that he’d felt in other weeks, before he’d met her. It was all-encompassing, his cock like a boulder and just as deniable. He left the oasis with a small bottle of cooking oil and climbed a hill to be alone, his knees tingling under the heavy-but-light of his body, his cock, too hard to have more than slightest bob in his walk, fighting his robes for relief.

Melchior heard the zip-zip of two feet in the sand and wrote it off as the friction of his own elbow. Though he’d had no reason to notice before, he saw now that sound didn’t carry in the sand the way that it did across normal soil or with the surprising accuracy of water. He allowed himself some noises, some small moans and yips, settling in for the long ride.

That was the other matter. These erections took ages to wear away. Melchior and Caspar had both noticed that they could ride the ecstasy just before the culmination for what seemed like hours, bodies rigid and arms light in the haze, their mouths drooping with dumb joy, joy to the world.

Caspar’s head was muddled, and he knew it. He’d climbed the ridge at the top of a small dune and found Melchior, grey in the moonlight, his robe open and his back arched, his hand pleasuring himself and didn’t balk, didn’t rush away, didn’t so much as quietly save them both the embarrassment and climb back down to the oasis. He lay down instead at Melchior’s side, pushed his hand off of him and replaced it with his own.

Melchior trembled hard at his ministrations, nearly choking at his bodily shock and the lack of mental shock. He reached inside Caspar’s robe and found him too, wracked with his own massive need, and stroked it furiously, just the thumb and forefinger as he had on himself. Caspar looked upon this strange king with the almond-shaped eyes and suddenly adored him, under some spell of the fertility goddess, he fell in his mind onto Melchior’s body, pressed his lips to his own and shared this bliss with him. He knew then that he was meant to, that this journey was not sacred alone.

“It’s the myrrh,” mumbled the Confucianist through his quivering lips. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”

The Muslim shook his head. “It’s the goddess,” he said, “Aphrodite herself.”

Balthasar had seen the oasis reflecting in the moonlight from a mile or so behind him. He’d been traveling at night, though the sun had not been bothering him. At night, he could keep better track of the star that the strange, translucently white woman had planted in his mind. She’d told him that he would be meeting two other kings and that they would seem as strange and wonderful to him as herself. He did not see how this was possible, bent over in the dust of his own hut, the shaft in his robes mimicking the one he held in his right hand, that of his reign. She was ugly, he’d thought at first, insubstantial and blinding white, but his body had reacted, transgressed his mind, with a sandstorm of lust. He fell before her and clutched his cock as if it were magnetized to his hand. He didn’t like doing this in front of a strange woman, but she only smiled at him. Another wave of the storm crossed his body at her smile and his head swirled in the wind. Her words skipped his ears altogether and landed directly in his soul. Star, kings, savior, north.

When she left, he called for his wife. When she entered the hut, wiping some dust off of her nose and confused, he brought her to the floor, pushed her knees apart and mounted her like an antelope. He thrust into her for what seemed like an hour, without soreness or dissipating energy, he fucked her, good and hard and primal, his face drawn and slack, his head swarmed with stinging need and joy. Joy to the world.

In the morning, not sated, but recharged, he made plans to head out, filled his sacks with gold and food, saddled his ass and waited until sundown before he set out.

The terrible rush was hitting Balthasar again as he arrived at the oasis. He dismounted his ass and found himself hunched over, as he had been too many times over the past forty days, not becoming for a king. His heels made zip-zip sounds in the sand. He saw a fire and two blankets, two more beasts tied to a tree and knew that he was about to meet the other kings. He didn’t want to disturb them, not in his condition, and tied his ass to a tree just over the ridge from the camp. He opened a saddlebag, retrieved a small bottle of oil for his skin and followed the crest of the ridge, descending when he would find privacy.

The two men looked like ghosts to him in the moonlight, though not as shockingly as the angel had. He saw them twist in the sand and thought that they might have been bitten by a snake or were in the pains of thirst. He began to rush to them, his mind full of the prayers taught to him by his shaman, when he approached close enough to see their hands. They were pleasuring each other.

His mind reeled at the selfishness of the two men, wasting their seed on the desert floor and each other, until he remembered that there were no women around, that they were as guiltless as he, who’d dropped enough seed in the desert behind him to make it grow lush as a jungle. He fell, as he had so many times in forty days, to his knees and poured the skin oil into his palm. He watched the men, the voice of the angel whispering more lust into his mind. “They will seem as wondrous and strange as myself,” she said. When his hand made contact with his cock, he crushed a long groan in his mouth. It escaped his nose instead as a whine, a single, drawn whistle of ecstatic love.

“Go to them,” the angel whispered. “They know the way too, and will share their journey with you.”

He shuffled through the sand on his knees, the structure of his very bones pulling his body to them. He could hear them now, their strained breaths and wet kisses, the flapping skin of their hands on each other. The smaller one with the straight hair bent forward then and pushed the bearded one flat on his back. He crawled between the bearded one’s knees and took his cock in his mouth, suckling it with concentration and deep need.

“Ah!” Balthasar let out before he could help it. The two men looked up at him and found his shape in the sand. They did not look shocked, embarrassed or even unprepared for him. The bearded one reached out for him, and Balthasar’s knees zip-zipped to his side. He felt a small culmination in destiny, felt his cock descend Caspar’s mouth as if he were a key all these forty days, dangling for a lock.

The three kings moved as one under the stars, pushing and pulling into each other, swifter and stronger at the same pace, a swash and a backwash of the waves of the sea here in the sand. Balthasar reached until he found the leg of the straight-haired one, Melchior, wrapped his hand between his thighs and pulled him to his mouth. The light of the desert grew stronger, brighter, whiter, more focused on the triangle that had formed between their bodies. It was the star descending the gap. The three became thoughtless, weightless, focused and filled with holy bliss. Their cocks each smelled of spices, tasted of honey, moved with the ease of a fish in a river.

The angel appeared above them again, though they did not open their eyes to her. She hovered above them and pulsed, the star in her hands, beaming pure bliss from the center of her stomach, where her navel would be. The kings grasped each other’s legs tightly in their fists and felt creation, joyful creation of the death of death. It was here now, they knew, it was come.

“Alleluia!” sang the angel, declared the angel, and the three men, no longer kings, but under the guidance of a greater being, came in torrents, frankincense, myrrh and gold, precious into each other’s bodies. It pumped and pumped and pumped and they drank it, the last food they would eat on their journey, and fell to their backs, each man’s head on another’s thighs.

And the angel led them all to sing, their bodies straining to set off,

“King and God and sacrifice;
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Sounds through the earth and skies.”