We couldn't tie her to us, so we held hands with her, me and him. We decided to keep the blindfold on, the whole night looking like we were leading her to a birthday cake. She spent a lot of time, at first, grinning like we were. Martin was on some fantasy that I was a little jealous of her attentions and when he touched her, he grinned too, and snapped back like I had ordered him to or something. It was like that whenever he got a chance, when he thought I wasn't looking, he'd slide his fingers up and down her back and reach, his hand already cupped, toward her front. She'd perk up then, like the kitten that she was, begging to be petted, her back arched and her neck all out. Martin's face would light up like a morning glory and then he'd look at me and pull away. I'd take her hand to me when I felt the urge, on my nipple or my lips or my cock, my fingers pressed into the undersides of hers so she couldn't bend them, couldn't do anything but feel me, well, couldn't have any ideas of her own.
We propped her right up on the hood of my car in the parking lot of the town library and waited until it closed, when the men would trickle out of it, their eyes all full of paper and dust, and we asked, one by one, if anyone wanted to see her. Most said no, or didn't say anything, people don't see what they don't believe, but it was one man, whose head bent over his PDA like his neck was broken, a skinny kid with long, stringy blonde hair, who didn't even look to see if her hands were tied or not. He simply saw the situation and said "Yes." Martin lifted her shirt above her breasts, just the edges of his nails across the skin of her chest and she breathed like she was making to faint. She spread her legs apart on the hood of the car to keep from falling over. The kid, who was somewhere between seventeen and twenty-seven years old or some such, held quiet for a few seconds, his PDA at eye-level and rising to the side of his head. Martin got another look in his eye and turned toward her, stuck his tongue out and licked one of her nipples. The kid sprung a pole in his pants so quick he could've used it as a kick-stand. Martin's full of evil. It's why I asked him along.
Another one came around our way and I asked him to go ahead and have a look. This one was about our age, with a belly and a wedding band. His eyes went a little dark and he held his hand out, his eyes breaking for a nod of my approval, and raised her skirt just a little bit, leaving his fingers on her knee just a little too long. I kissed the back of her head and waited for him to leave. He kind of rocked there for a little while, his mind full of ideas and mixing them good, and he walked away quiet and business-like, to his car, which he sat in for a good while before driving off. I pulled her shirt down and nudged her off the car. She landed with her feet wide apart, slipping in the gravel before catching herself. Martin's hand went up under her skirt, though her legs snapped shut in a reflex. I could tell by the way that his face changed that she was wet. I wanted him to appreciate this, his short visit to the world of women who are actually turned on in his presence. He touched his belt briefly and took her hand again. The parking lot was drained of takers and we needed to move on.
We got surprising few looks at the grocery store. I suppose that late at night on a Tuesday you got the third-tier shift. The stocker-boys just kept to their canned peas as a woman, liquid with sex, was pulled past them by two determined men. We found no harassment in the wide-open spaces of the produce section, the fish shop and the butcher, their sections titled in wide, comfortable, italicized script, below, hard block letters to announce their absence. I walked us over to a roll of plastic bags and removed one, snapping it open as if to announce our presence. To who, I'm not sure.
I took one of those peppers, the ones that are just a little hot that curve on the end like a tongue, and told Abby to get herself off with it. We kicked her legs apart and let go of her hands. She backed into the edge of a large pile of potatoes and dipped the edge of the pepper into her pussy, then moved it forward and toyed real fast at her clit, which stood out under those fluorescents like a worm in the lettuce. She shook at her elbows and let out just a tiny moan before I stopped her. I put the pepper in the plastic bag, twisted the end tight and split her ass cheeks. She didn't know where I was going with it until it was popped in, sucked up into her and swallowed whole. She clutched a potato and went real red. Martin seemed real delighted with this and laughed like he'd found a way to suck his own asshole. Pure stinking evil, our Martin.
I took a bottle of water on the way out and explained that I'd eaten a pepper and wanted to pay for that too. Martin walked right behind me with Abby all blindfolded and her nipples up under her dress like peas fresh out of the pod, but it was the fact that I'd eaten a pepper that made this teenage girl with no part in her hair give me a dirty look.
"What kind of pepper?" she asked.
"Those short, red, curvy ones that look like backwards raindrops," I said. I figured this kind of talk would charm her a little, but she just rang it up, one Fresno pepper, large.
In the parking lot, I took her by her new tail and pulled her, and therefore, Martin too, across the street to a park. Just out of the blue of a floodlight down by some trees was a water fountain. Martin and I lifted her up by the insides of her thighs and sat her down on it, her pussy right up to the guard behind the spout. She took a little steadying, but settled finally before I pressed my thumb on the button and the water sprung up. It was cold. I could feel it where the leaks dribbled down my hand, but Abby's mouth wasn't tense like that because it was hurting her. She trembled and chattered just like she did sometimes when I fucked her, and sometimes when I walked in on her fucking herself. Martin, who'd surely never seen this kind of behavior before in a woman, wrapped his arms around her from behind and watched, a look of concern on his face. Well, it only looked like concern. It was probably just the concentrated curiosity of a baboon looking at its first soccer ball. I took her face by the cheek and watched her, her face stinging me with its beauty, all scrunched up like she was about to cry. Or sneeze. When her mouth drew open I let go of the button and watched her fall back into panting. I hit it again, punched little squirts on her like licks, each one making her back jolt, before I let the stream go and watched her come, good and hard and even groaning. Martin was fascinated. He clutched her like she was having a dangerous fit.
I pulled the pepper out by the tail, took it out of the bag and fed it to her, still up on the fountain, rubbing the seeds on her lips where I knew they'd burn. She bit and licked her lips after she was finished. They swelled up at the top of the ridge and she pouted. It was what she did best.
I was sorely tempted to declare that now would be the best time for Martin to stick his dick in her mouth, when it was all still full of pepper heat and would probably teach him some sort of lesson about people and how he is with them, but I'm just not that mean. Besides, Abby didn't know it was Martin that I took along with us, and his bitching and moaning would just plain give him away. Instead, I raised her skirt again and split her pussy lips, cold under my fingers, and let him get a good look at her. She swayed, but I pulled the collar of her shirt in my fist to hold her up. Martin stared at her and laughed quietly to himself, probably comparing what flesh God had put on his bones and how it compared to hers, all pink and smooth and elastic.
She said she was thirsty. I opened the bottle of water and held it to her mouth, tilting it just a little too high so most of it came out the sides. It went down her shirt and started to show in her sides, sticking the fabric to her.
Back in the Jeep and onto a two-lane highway, headed west and south, I told Martin to get in the tiny back seat with her and fuck her now, all out in the wind, her hair flapping in her face, her ass and her pussy exposed to everything and everybody. He jumped right back there and stripped her naked, handing me her clothes so I could put them in the storage compartment between the seats. He bent her over the seat and pulled his pants down just enough, put a condom on and pressed his knees forward between hers. From there it was just the back of Abby's thighs and Martin's ass in the rearview mirror, but for me, I was looking at the other cars timing the moment when they all realized what was going on, the short swerve and catch of their steering. I'd never had so much fun. An SUV came up close behind us and appeared to be in no hurry to pass, though I was going just five over the speed limit. I caught what looked like a male profile in the driver's seat and puffed myself up with pride.
When Martin finished and sat back down on the seat, I had a good look at Abby's pussy, all swollen and open right there in the rear view, flashes of wet reflecting in the headlights of oncoming traffic. That was it. I pulled the jeep over, put my flashers on and climbed right back there. I took her blindfold off, picked her up and hung her over the rollbar, facing the front, her feet resting on either of the front seats. Her pussy hung over the car like the missing overhead light. I pressed my face into it, smelled her sweet and salt and stuck my hand in my pants, cars whizzing past, crickets singing, the world mine, and rose on the thrill of it, Abby's big night out and mine.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
The Knot and the Pull
I can feel Austin from the other side of Owen, as if he's got some crazy knot attached to my chest and Owen is capstanned between us, a spinning, accommodating bisexual cog, cock in the wheel. Austin feels like those mornings when your heart is being squeezed high in under your breastbone and you're not sure whether it's good or bad yet, not awake enough yet, or maybe you haven't made up your mind. Austin takes Owen's hand to my breast and it's unsteady, unsure, and I'm not sure which one of them is making it so. My body is expanding and contracting, the whole thing, under the gravity of the hand, and when it touches, the circuit between the three of us closes and it's a shock, but still, an undecided one.
Neither Owen nor Austin has said a word and I'm just talking to keep up a stream of background noise, or maybe I'm just drunk. Owen is waiting for me to kiss him, because, as the girl, it is my responsibility to do so. Austin leaves Owen's hand for a moment and picks up his drink. The ice is still big and solid inside of it and makes for a rocky noise rather than a tinkle. It's sweating all the same, the translucent fog on the glass forming drips under his fingertips and falling, leaving a trail of clear behind that bends as he lifts it. I take the glass from him before he puts it down and hold it to Owen's lips. He takes a sip, Austin's drips and mine sliding to the end of the glass, rolling as I hold it and diving onto his shirt. I've got the angle wrong and some of the drink slips from the edge of the glass and out over the side of Owen's mouth. I lean forward without moving the glass and drink some too, before lowering it, feeling for the edge of the table with my thumb and pushing it away. I leave my mouth there and swallow the last of my sip, a great gulp that was waiting, dammed, on Owen's face. I cover it with my mouth and suckle it off of him. He freezes while I do this. It's only when my bottom lip slips between his that I feel his shoulders relax, the heel of his hand press into my nipple, feel his exhales on the side of my nose.
Owen's body is warm and dry and feels different, the way people always do when you touch them the first time, a different distribution of weight and skin and heat. Austin, whose body I could identify in a dark lineup at the bottom of the Arctic, starts to breathe in the way I understand, and yet he's different too, as if he's had a haircut or shaved his beard or I haven't seen him in years. He's different with this capstan between us, a cute boy on my couch with the reflection of a desk lamp twisting in his eye. He's got his arms around Owen as if he's behind him on a motorcycle. He turns and accommodates him, shifts his weight around on the couch, then loosens, falls back and watches for awhile, the tips of three fingers into the center of the balance of Owen's back.
My shirt is curled in the grip of one of their fists and is pulled up, my breasts bouncing and the nipples cresting in the sudden cold. They leave the shirt in my armpits and Owen leans in again, the wool of his sweater catching and tickling my skin. Coldish and dry, as it always is with a new person, not the sweater that Austin has ever worn. Austin reaches around Owen's body and Owen makes room for it, arches back a little. Austin presses into my left breast above the nipple and curves it up to Owen's mouth. Owen's lips curl open and leave my mouth. He backs up enough for me to focus on him, see his face change at the offering before he looks up at my face again. He sits up more now, backing up a little and bending down, holding my eyes to him as long as he can as if he's bowing, and, his nose nudging Austin's thumb, presses lips to my nipple, containing the circuit again.
I'm aware that I'm frowning, that the worried frown of sex is on my face as I watch Owen, and Austin looks at me with the same worry, an exchange of looks as primal as one of smiles and yawns. Austin releases his thumb and rides down Owen's front, flips under the sweater and makes work of Owen's belt. He pulls it open and turns his hand to unlatch it, I can feel it on my stomach, and leaves the cold metal of the buckle against my belly. He's taking his time, counting on Owen's distraction to feel his entire body, commit it to muscle memory and smell. He slides Owen's jeans down and presses his cheek to his exposed ass. in the dimple at the side, the concave to Austin's convex.
Sweetness and comfort bubble into my panties, the slip of the lips apparent when my thighs twist to stay at Owen's mouth. I reach down my own front and twist the waist down, under my ass, over one knee and out of one leg. Owen wears a large, flat ring. I turn his hand down to me and rub it against me. My legs shake and the pants slide down more until they fall at my ankle, an unrecognizable lump at my heel, and then kicked out. I hadn't meant to kick them. I just had to kick. My eyes close and my mouth opens, with twitches in the corners. Austin sees this as an invitation and stands, drops his pants and socks his cock in his hand, turns my face and rubs my teeth with it. I taste it when my lips roll down, salty and smooth Austin, even here, even now, just slightly different with Owen in the room.
Austin teases my mouth, makes me leap for him, suck him down past the barrier of my teeth and lose him again. I feel his jolts and know he's cranking himself up, the tight and loose of his skin above the bulge and throttle of the meat of it. An inhale blurts in the back of my throat and I stop Owen's ring, wait for my body to settle, blink under it, saved and restoring my threshold. Austin's fingers go into my hair, tight toward the scalp and he holds my head in place. He presses index and forefinger over my bottom teeth and slides his cock in over them like rails, They too are dry and a little salty. I rest my tongue on them and press up in between, skate across his large vein. His vowels go from As to Os and he fucks only for as long as he can, practicing this tough-love brinksmanship with my tongue and cheeks.
I feel the strange arrangement of Owen's back against my ankle and against the couch. He's been watching, stroking the tip of his cock against the shin of my other leg across his lap. Austin bends over his lips and sucks in the bottom one, slips it out and sucks it lightly in again. My pussy is split, open, dripping, in the air between my thighs, locked into Owen's torso for friction. Owen's got the kind of eyes that turn down on the ends when he smiles or pants. They turn down now, his mouth agape and steaming the space in front of it. Austin pulls my right leg off of Owen's lap and pulls it, his hand cradling the thigh, to the side and down. My pussy now holds wide in front of them, steaming the air surely, like Owen's mouth. Austin removes both of Owen's arms from his front and presses them into the back of the couch. I take the one by me and hold it. Austin drops to his knees, his cock bouncing and turns his head, swallows the entire length of Owen in one swoop, the sword in the sheath. Owen trembles and catches it, holds and savors. Austin waits a beat and begins to bob.
I've never seen Austin do this, though he's confessed to having done it in the past. It's been one of those things that even as I need to think about it, my fingers trapping my clit and slipping their rails across it under the sheets, I haven't been able to. Watching it now, my boyfriend's head impaled on this man, the skin see-sawing between his lips, I can't think about anything else. If I tried to speak now, it would be like reading a word jumble phonetically. Austin too leaves his strokes to mere suggestions on himself, squeezing in between to keep himself blocked. Owen's head lolls on the couch. His lips move as if he's talking, but he's not, at least not to us. If he believes in God, I believe he's talking to Him. I steal Owen's hand from off of the back of the couch and carefully maneuver it to my pussy. I roll it, fold it and push it inside, up to his thumb. My clit stretches across the top like the bow in the twine holding the whole thing together. With caution, I touch it with my thumb.
Owen's beginning to thrust up, just little tenses in his thighs and ass at Austin's downstroke. Austin holds onto it and rides him like an Englishman rides a horse, matches it and dances along. I'm on my own rocks, trembling like I'm rolling in gravel. Owen's stomach tenses and his head straightens on his neck, puffing, puffing, puffing. I stand up and straddle his face, losing his hand for only a moment. His tongue curls out just in time and I claw at the wall behind the couch, coming, losing my footing, regaining it, coming hard and groaning against his face. I feel Austin pull at me again, open Owen up, his arms wrapping around my knees and ripping them into the crooks of his arms. Austin, I feel in vibrations on my buzzing, hypersensitive clit, light, then a pfft, then a higher hum, Austin.
Austin's hand comes up and hooks his thumb inside of my pussy, curls his fingers into the front of my pelvis and pulls me down until my face is even with Owen's. Owen kisses me absently, my funk on his lips. Austin's cock breaks in and he fucks the space in the kiss, fucks the burn and the electricity between them, holding our heads together. The pull becomes enormous and he stops, then slides slowly, little centimeters back and forth at a time until the taste and the slip-squish texture of his come fills our mouths, coats our teeth and settles under our tongues. Owen falls onto me like this exhausted and sweaty now, not dry, Austin behind him, seated, but slumped sideways onto Owen's back. And neither of them seem different anymore. They are familiar now and warm.
Neither Owen nor Austin has said a word and I'm just talking to keep up a stream of background noise, or maybe I'm just drunk. Owen is waiting for me to kiss him, because, as the girl, it is my responsibility to do so. Austin leaves Owen's hand for a moment and picks up his drink. The ice is still big and solid inside of it and makes for a rocky noise rather than a tinkle. It's sweating all the same, the translucent fog on the glass forming drips under his fingertips and falling, leaving a trail of clear behind that bends as he lifts it. I take the glass from him before he puts it down and hold it to Owen's lips. He takes a sip, Austin's drips and mine sliding to the end of the glass, rolling as I hold it and diving onto his shirt. I've got the angle wrong and some of the drink slips from the edge of the glass and out over the side of Owen's mouth. I lean forward without moving the glass and drink some too, before lowering it, feeling for the edge of the table with my thumb and pushing it away. I leave my mouth there and swallow the last of my sip, a great gulp that was waiting, dammed, on Owen's face. I cover it with my mouth and suckle it off of him. He freezes while I do this. It's only when my bottom lip slips between his that I feel his shoulders relax, the heel of his hand press into my nipple, feel his exhales on the side of my nose.
Owen's body is warm and dry and feels different, the way people always do when you touch them the first time, a different distribution of weight and skin and heat. Austin, whose body I could identify in a dark lineup at the bottom of the Arctic, starts to breathe in the way I understand, and yet he's different too, as if he's had a haircut or shaved his beard or I haven't seen him in years. He's different with this capstan between us, a cute boy on my couch with the reflection of a desk lamp twisting in his eye. He's got his arms around Owen as if he's behind him on a motorcycle. He turns and accommodates him, shifts his weight around on the couch, then loosens, falls back and watches for awhile, the tips of three fingers into the center of the balance of Owen's back.
My shirt is curled in the grip of one of their fists and is pulled up, my breasts bouncing and the nipples cresting in the sudden cold. They leave the shirt in my armpits and Owen leans in again, the wool of his sweater catching and tickling my skin. Coldish and dry, as it always is with a new person, not the sweater that Austin has ever worn. Austin reaches around Owen's body and Owen makes room for it, arches back a little. Austin presses into my left breast above the nipple and curves it up to Owen's mouth. Owen's lips curl open and leave my mouth. He backs up enough for me to focus on him, see his face change at the offering before he looks up at my face again. He sits up more now, backing up a little and bending down, holding my eyes to him as long as he can as if he's bowing, and, his nose nudging Austin's thumb, presses lips to my nipple, containing the circuit again.
I'm aware that I'm frowning, that the worried frown of sex is on my face as I watch Owen, and Austin looks at me with the same worry, an exchange of looks as primal as one of smiles and yawns. Austin releases his thumb and rides down Owen's front, flips under the sweater and makes work of Owen's belt. He pulls it open and turns his hand to unlatch it, I can feel it on my stomach, and leaves the cold metal of the buckle against my belly. He's taking his time, counting on Owen's distraction to feel his entire body, commit it to muscle memory and smell. He slides Owen's jeans down and presses his cheek to his exposed ass. in the dimple at the side, the concave to Austin's convex.
Sweetness and comfort bubble into my panties, the slip of the lips apparent when my thighs twist to stay at Owen's mouth. I reach down my own front and twist the waist down, under my ass, over one knee and out of one leg. Owen wears a large, flat ring. I turn his hand down to me and rub it against me. My legs shake and the pants slide down more until they fall at my ankle, an unrecognizable lump at my heel, and then kicked out. I hadn't meant to kick them. I just had to kick. My eyes close and my mouth opens, with twitches in the corners. Austin sees this as an invitation and stands, drops his pants and socks his cock in his hand, turns my face and rubs my teeth with it. I taste it when my lips roll down, salty and smooth Austin, even here, even now, just slightly different with Owen in the room.
Austin teases my mouth, makes me leap for him, suck him down past the barrier of my teeth and lose him again. I feel his jolts and know he's cranking himself up, the tight and loose of his skin above the bulge and throttle of the meat of it. An inhale blurts in the back of my throat and I stop Owen's ring, wait for my body to settle, blink under it, saved and restoring my threshold. Austin's fingers go into my hair, tight toward the scalp and he holds my head in place. He presses index and forefinger over my bottom teeth and slides his cock in over them like rails, They too are dry and a little salty. I rest my tongue on them and press up in between, skate across his large vein. His vowels go from As to Os and he fucks only for as long as he can, practicing this tough-love brinksmanship with my tongue and cheeks.
I feel the strange arrangement of Owen's back against my ankle and against the couch. He's been watching, stroking the tip of his cock against the shin of my other leg across his lap. Austin bends over his lips and sucks in the bottom one, slips it out and sucks it lightly in again. My pussy is split, open, dripping, in the air between my thighs, locked into Owen's torso for friction. Owen's got the kind of eyes that turn down on the ends when he smiles or pants. They turn down now, his mouth agape and steaming the space in front of it. Austin pulls my right leg off of Owen's lap and pulls it, his hand cradling the thigh, to the side and down. My pussy now holds wide in front of them, steaming the air surely, like Owen's mouth. Austin removes both of Owen's arms from his front and presses them into the back of the couch. I take the one by me and hold it. Austin drops to his knees, his cock bouncing and turns his head, swallows the entire length of Owen in one swoop, the sword in the sheath. Owen trembles and catches it, holds and savors. Austin waits a beat and begins to bob.
I've never seen Austin do this, though he's confessed to having done it in the past. It's been one of those things that even as I need to think about it, my fingers trapping my clit and slipping their rails across it under the sheets, I haven't been able to. Watching it now, my boyfriend's head impaled on this man, the skin see-sawing between his lips, I can't think about anything else. If I tried to speak now, it would be like reading a word jumble phonetically. Austin too leaves his strokes to mere suggestions on himself, squeezing in between to keep himself blocked. Owen's head lolls on the couch. His lips move as if he's talking, but he's not, at least not to us. If he believes in God, I believe he's talking to Him. I steal Owen's hand from off of the back of the couch and carefully maneuver it to my pussy. I roll it, fold it and push it inside, up to his thumb. My clit stretches across the top like the bow in the twine holding the whole thing together. With caution, I touch it with my thumb.
Owen's beginning to thrust up, just little tenses in his thighs and ass at Austin's downstroke. Austin holds onto it and rides him like an Englishman rides a horse, matches it and dances along. I'm on my own rocks, trembling like I'm rolling in gravel. Owen's stomach tenses and his head straightens on his neck, puffing, puffing, puffing. I stand up and straddle his face, losing his hand for only a moment. His tongue curls out just in time and I claw at the wall behind the couch, coming, losing my footing, regaining it, coming hard and groaning against his face. I feel Austin pull at me again, open Owen up, his arms wrapping around my knees and ripping them into the crooks of his arms. Austin, I feel in vibrations on my buzzing, hypersensitive clit, light, then a pfft, then a higher hum, Austin.
Austin's hand comes up and hooks his thumb inside of my pussy, curls his fingers into the front of my pelvis and pulls me down until my face is even with Owen's. Owen kisses me absently, my funk on his lips. Austin's cock breaks in and he fucks the space in the kiss, fucks the burn and the electricity between them, holding our heads together. The pull becomes enormous and he stops, then slides slowly, little centimeters back and forth at a time until the taste and the slip-squish texture of his come fills our mouths, coats our teeth and settles under our tongues. Owen falls onto me like this exhausted and sweaty now, not dry, Austin behind him, seated, but slumped sideways onto Owen's back. And neither of them seem different anymore. They are familiar now and warm.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Sugasm: Matin', Fornicatin', Salivatin'
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 #125? 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
In Which Penny Enjoys Her Bath
“In the bathroom, I flipped on the heater and shed my clothes.”
Just passing through
“I twitched under her stare.”
Kegal exercises on wet Monday afternoon
“Do you know what it’s like, to be buggered?”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
WP/PHP Guru?
Editor’s Choice
More Traveling…
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.)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Face - The Fall Of Eliot Spitzer
Let me clarify something…
On being a slut.
Regulating Prostitution and its various business models
Would You Pose Without Clothes?
Sex Humor
Lusty Leprechauns
BDSM & Fetish
Black Panties (a story)
Earning myself a spanking
A fun weekned
Goodness Gracious
HNT - Hidden Nipple Thursday
Riding the Wave
The Spiritual Significance of Spanking
Submissive?
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Anniversary Contest Winners
Call for submissions: Theory and Practice
Dana DeArmond Stripped Of Her Name During Slave Training With Julie Night
Euphoric Tendencies - a review
Gianna Lynn Endures Water And Suffocation Bondage Underwater On Waterbondage.com
Get a Personal Shopper for Your Genitals
My First Review on Adult DVD Talk!
Pushers
San Francisco Fetish Ball 2008 Photos and Review
Erotic Writing and Experiences
A black shemale sucked my cock in Amsterdam
Captivating the college girl part one
Clandestine
Close Your Eyes
In His Pants
Leopard print: you just can’t beat it
Northern lights and sleepless nights
Wet Vagoo
You’re my pornstar (part 3)
Sex Advice
How Women Can Learn to Have an Orgasm with Intercourse
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Dahlia Grey by Andrew Blake
Exotic Jewel
Half-Nekkid in the Shower
Her Intentions Fall to the Floor
How do you like my cock?
Pornsaint Kimberly Kane
Spring Garden
Sunday, March 16, 2008
In His Pants
Cameron was in Syd's room again, studying his posters and letting his fingers dip and swish in Syd's laundry. Two tickets to the Bloc Party show, stapled right into his lathe and plaster. Cam had watched him do it, still sweaty and hoarse from the show, and wiping his nose with his sleeve, Syd climbing his single bed and bouncing before he threw his weight on the stapler, legs apart, shins bulging through his jeans. They exhaled together when he threw himself off the wall and the bed in one push, and Cam, finding nothing to add and pulling his t-shirt down in the front begged off for the night. He hid in his room and listened to Syd on his laptop, straight porn as always, and tried as best he could to hear the swick swick noise. He never could, but imagined it as clear as if it were at his lips in the dark.
And Syd was at work, stocking shelves in a coop grocery store. He never told anyone that he eats Slim Jims all day. They'd never guess. He's got the body of a pure grass juice drinker. Cam felt his fingers catch on the elastic strip of a blue-grey pair of boxed briefs, and he told himself to stop, before he reminded himself that he wouldn't think that anymore. He felt the letters of the designer pass his fingerprints and pulled at them, plucked them out of the pile of laundry. They came to his nose in a loose bundle, and he smelled Syd's cock for the first time. What was left of it, anyway, resonating in this shell that once touched him.
Cam was painfully erect, swollen and frustrated in the middle of the room, though he was unencumbered by clothes, his skin seemed to press into him oppressively. He dropped the underwear from his nose to his cock and rubbed the material against it. His face flushed with fantasy and friction, the soft cotton across his skin, the force of his hand behind it. As if Syd were there, dry humping him, struggling for his own satisfaction in his own cage.
Cam switched underwear to bare hand on his cock, back and forth, the underpants too subtle, his cock too familiar, his body riding the sensations like a skier on moguls. He almost dropped them several times, his other hand going limp in the concentrated ecstasy, then had to break out of it to grip. He finally dropped one end to his knees and stepped into them, pulled them up. He was embraced at last, surrounded by Syd, tight and affectionate. Cam's hand, shaking more, entered the underwear and stroked slowly. His other hand wandered the stretch of cotton, pulling at the leg to feel the tightness across his balls, at the waistband to pinch the tip of his cock.
"Syd," he said, "fuck you. Fuck you, Syd."
He held some of the material across the edges of his fingers and began to stroke faster, his knees apart, faster, faster. Syd. Do it. His other hand leaned back and found the edge of Syd's desk, the laptop shut on top of it. He almost knocked over his bottle of lube. He rolled it into his hand and clutched tight. He thought of Syd there, the swick swick sound, imagined his lips. The whole room smelled of sex, then. Cam twisted the cotton around the tip of his cock and came into the wad, into his roommate's underwear, and they were his and him, belonged to Cam. When Syd wore them in the future, Cam would be in them, with him.
And Syd was at work, stocking shelves in a coop grocery store. He never told anyone that he eats Slim Jims all day. They'd never guess. He's got the body of a pure grass juice drinker. Cam felt his fingers catch on the elastic strip of a blue-grey pair of boxed briefs, and he told himself to stop, before he reminded himself that he wouldn't think that anymore. He felt the letters of the designer pass his fingerprints and pulled at them, plucked them out of the pile of laundry. They came to his nose in a loose bundle, and he smelled Syd's cock for the first time. What was left of it, anyway, resonating in this shell that once touched him.
Cam was painfully erect, swollen and frustrated in the middle of the room, though he was unencumbered by clothes, his skin seemed to press into him oppressively. He dropped the underwear from his nose to his cock and rubbed the material against it. His face flushed with fantasy and friction, the soft cotton across his skin, the force of his hand behind it. As if Syd were there, dry humping him, struggling for his own satisfaction in his own cage.
Cam switched underwear to bare hand on his cock, back and forth, the underpants too subtle, his cock too familiar, his body riding the sensations like a skier on moguls. He almost dropped them several times, his other hand going limp in the concentrated ecstasy, then had to break out of it to grip. He finally dropped one end to his knees and stepped into them, pulled them up. He was embraced at last, surrounded by Syd, tight and affectionate. Cam's hand, shaking more, entered the underwear and stroked slowly. His other hand wandered the stretch of cotton, pulling at the leg to feel the tightness across his balls, at the waistband to pinch the tip of his cock.
"Syd," he said, "fuck you. Fuck you, Syd."
He held some of the material across the edges of his fingers and began to stroke faster, his knees apart, faster, faster. Syd. Do it. His other hand leaned back and found the edge of Syd's desk, the laptop shut on top of it. He almost knocked over his bottle of lube. He rolled it into his hand and clutched tight. He thought of Syd there, the swick swick sound, imagined his lips. The whole room smelled of sex, then. Cam twisted the cotton around the tip of his cock and came into the wad, into his roommate's underwear, and they were his and him, belonged to Cam. When Syd wore them in the future, Cam would be in them, with him.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Sugasm-Providing that Twang in Your Naughties
So I'm at work and I shouldn't, but I go on over to the Sugasm because I've got to and there I am right there on the top line and I go "Creak!" and I don't explain it to anyone but I just kind of grin a lot and think, "Hey, you all think I'm just some boring cubicle dweller, but I'm really a pervert and I've got the link to prove it!" And I think things like, the certified pervert now reaches for a pen, and, the certified pervert now staples documents together, and, you see, even though she's a pervert, she can also name folders really boring things with only single entendres all day, but she really is a pervert, as proven by this here link.
Thank you, fellow perverts. May we win over the world together.
Thank you, fellow perverts. May we win over the world together.
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 #123? 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
Sex and love; anger and appeasement
“And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely.”
The Tetrised Luggage
“Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat.”
You never know who we are
“People tend to have an idea of who can/does talk about sex.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The Media vs. Pornography
Editor’s Choice
Red Assed Mouthsoaping for His Lies
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
The Best $1.50 I Ever Spent
A Big Hole in Her Crotch
If only he was naughty more often…
“Is it Any Wonder?”
More Cock Worship
Pavlovian Training of a Submissive Phone Sex Slut
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Anniversary Contest
Braces and Medical Fetish Movies From Beauty And Braces
Getting to the Bottom of DickHats.com
Plastic Bag Suffocation And Forced Orgasms On Hogtied
Shot at Home’s 100% Authentic, Homemade, Amateur Video
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Audacia Ray Returns!
Defending the sex-positve element of Feminist Carnival #53
Nora Roberts Doesn’t Write Porn!
Robot Love
Some thoughts as I navigate through the waters of non-monogamy
Sperm Donor
Sex Work
Thoughts On Dominating; My Dos & Don’ts
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Amber’s Wedding Day Confession (Continued)
The best leopard print lingerie ever
Found Out
Fucking girlfriend’s brother
HNT - Caught pt 2
‘Ho, me?
Hot Screeching Excerpt - Things That Go Hump In The Night
How to perfectly ruin your panties
Masturbatory Thoughts
Mental Infidelities - The Voyeur
My New York Indiscretion: Part Two
Night Swimming
The Week In Sex: Wednesday Night
You Shouldn’t Rub The Lamp…
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Apple HNT
Catalina loves Rollo
Erotic Photoshoot
Faye Valentine in tight blue sweater
The first blowjob porn film I ever made
Hottie Jordan
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Tetrised Luggage
The ground is all little atoms of lights in vast voids. Traveling at five hundred miles an hour, you would think they would shoot past as if we were on the ground. But they don't. You just see more of them up here, sliding past like the minute hand on a clock. I can feel the spark between him and me. It doesn't pass anymore than the towns do, but seems to gather in the space between us, in the sticky skin touching on the armrest.
My tray table is open, a book open on top of it. The first paragraph is something about seventeenth century slang. I've read it three times, but find that my eyes only slip over the words. I'm thinking about him, what I'd say if he said something.
A note folded in thirds lands on the book. "What are you wearing under those clothes?"
Our flight was delayed. We sat in a bar of a town we'd never been to, and now still wouldn't be able to say we had. The conversation turned quickly, and we ignored our blushes, becoming each other's anthropology projects and confessors.
"It's been forever. My last girlfriend held out on me and I've just been too depressed to get back in there."
"How long?" I asked him.
"Two years."
He laughed and so did I, but it was forced. I was supposed to buck him up, tell him it's only a matter of time, that he was good-looking enough. Should be fighting them off.
"How many times do you jerk off a day?"
"Three. I'll blow a hole through my next condom, I know it."
I smile at the note, begin to look for a pen, but just as I lean forward, one drops into the fold of the book. I write, "The usual. Skin, tits and naughty triangle. You?"
"What about you?" he continued, stirring his drink. Every seat in the bar was filled, the spaces between them with tall, black suitcases all Tetrised together.
"It's um...," it had been a year, "a few months, I guess."
He looked me over, a quick size-up in a slow blink, his straw folded over the lip of his glass. He held his breath for just a second and inhaled before looking away.
"I'm thinking about you," the note reads. "It shows."
My blush is overwhelming and beams from my forehead to my neck, pure boil. No matter what I write back, he knows. He takes the note back before I can respond, writes more and replaces it on my book. "Can I touch you?"
The whine of the plane measures a few seconds, the towns replacing one another underneath us. I can hear myself breathe, feel the air nozzle above my face flit my bangs against my face. I pick up the pen and begin to write. I only get to the Y before his knuckles are brushing the inside of my knee. I don't flinch, but inside, my body jolts. Heat pours up my skin, mixing with the blush on my face.
Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat. I lean forward to check the seats opposite. One empty, two asleep. His lips flip and pinch my earlobe. My heart thuds against my breastbone. I want to feel him, the reason he had to inch forward in his seat. I check again across the aisle and move his hand up. I hear him now, a bang of an exhale. And my body, sensing the force of someone's else's hand, blacks out the periphery and hooks itself onto him.
I shut the lights off over us and look for a moment out of the window. The moon, in the shape of a spinach pie, is blinding and quiet. Our lights flash back at it, like the wing is frantically waving hello. His fingers press into me. I reach across and lay my palm on his abdomen. He reaches up and lowers his tray, then raises the armrest between us. I follow down under the plastic board and find him, a frustrated, caged erection in a tight pair of jeans. I pick apart the button between my ring finger and pinkie and unzip him against the flat of my hand, the zipper teeth pointed into my skin. He jolts and scoots up more.
My body falls into its tense concentration, his hand going above my skirt before it falls again under the material. Its fingers slip and lose themselves in me. I think I must be imagining that he's there. But he must be. I'm shaking.
My hand wraps around his cock and straightens him out so that it rests against the bottom of his tray. He's breathing quickly through his nose, alternately shallow and deep. I look at his face for a moment and find him open-mouthed, watching my chest pump. His fingers snake against me, twist and flutter. My toes bend in my socks, crush into the legs of the seat in front of me.
We work each other for a few minutes, our bodies flying along with the plane, the force of gravity against our weights changing here and there, the blood confused and shifting. My neck bends and grinds into my seatback. My mouth opens and I force back everything but a single gasping inhale. Time stops for a while, unmeasured by towns or clocks or the hiss of the airplane.
His arm pulls around my neck and when he comes, he only says, "I miss you," and pumps shots against the bottom of the tray. In my ecstasy, the continuing high of the orgasm, I know immediately what he means.
"I miss you too."
We sleep, a man and a woman alone in the crowded plane, our heads bent into each other, our hands across our empty laps.
My tray table is open, a book open on top of it. The first paragraph is something about seventeenth century slang. I've read it three times, but find that my eyes only slip over the words. I'm thinking about him, what I'd say if he said something.
A note folded in thirds lands on the book. "What are you wearing under those clothes?"
Our flight was delayed. We sat in a bar of a town we'd never been to, and now still wouldn't be able to say we had. The conversation turned quickly, and we ignored our blushes, becoming each other's anthropology projects and confessors.
"It's been forever. My last girlfriend held out on me and I've just been too depressed to get back in there."
"How long?" I asked him.
"Two years."
He laughed and so did I, but it was forced. I was supposed to buck him up, tell him it's only a matter of time, that he was good-looking enough. Should be fighting them off.
"How many times do you jerk off a day?"
"Three. I'll blow a hole through my next condom, I know it."
I smile at the note, begin to look for a pen, but just as I lean forward, one drops into the fold of the book. I write, "The usual. Skin, tits and naughty triangle. You?"
"What about you?" he continued, stirring his drink. Every seat in the bar was filled, the spaces between them with tall, black suitcases all Tetrised together.
"It's um...," it had been a year, "a few months, I guess."
He looked me over, a quick size-up in a slow blink, his straw folded over the lip of his glass. He held his breath for just a second and inhaled before looking away.
"I'm thinking about you," the note reads. "It shows."
My blush is overwhelming and beams from my forehead to my neck, pure boil. No matter what I write back, he knows. He takes the note back before I can respond, writes more and replaces it on my book. "Can I touch you?"
The whine of the plane measures a few seconds, the towns replacing one another underneath us. I can hear myself breathe, feel the air nozzle above my face flit my bangs against my face. I pick up the pen and begin to write. I only get to the Y before his knuckles are brushing the inside of my knee. I don't flinch, but inside, my body jolts. Heat pours up my skin, mixing with the blush on my face.
Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat. I lean forward to check the seats opposite. One empty, two asleep. His lips flip and pinch my earlobe. My heart thuds against my breastbone. I want to feel him, the reason he had to inch forward in his seat. I check again across the aisle and move his hand up. I hear him now, a bang of an exhale. And my body, sensing the force of someone's else's hand, blacks out the periphery and hooks itself onto him.
I shut the lights off over us and look for a moment out of the window. The moon, in the shape of a spinach pie, is blinding and quiet. Our lights flash back at it, like the wing is frantically waving hello. His fingers press into me. I reach across and lay my palm on his abdomen. He reaches up and lowers his tray, then raises the armrest between us. I follow down under the plastic board and find him, a frustrated, caged erection in a tight pair of jeans. I pick apart the button between my ring finger and pinkie and unzip him against the flat of my hand, the zipper teeth pointed into my skin. He jolts and scoots up more.
My body falls into its tense concentration, his hand going above my skirt before it falls again under the material. Its fingers slip and lose themselves in me. I think I must be imagining that he's there. But he must be. I'm shaking.
My hand wraps around his cock and straightens him out so that it rests against the bottom of his tray. He's breathing quickly through his nose, alternately shallow and deep. I look at his face for a moment and find him open-mouthed, watching my chest pump. His fingers snake against me, twist and flutter. My toes bend in my socks, crush into the legs of the seat in front of me.
We work each other for a few minutes, our bodies flying along with the plane, the force of gravity against our weights changing here and there, the blood confused and shifting. My neck bends and grinds into my seatback. My mouth opens and I force back everything but a single gasping inhale. Time stops for a while, unmeasured by towns or clocks or the hiss of the airplane.
His arm pulls around my neck and when he comes, he only says, "I miss you," and pumps shots against the bottom of the tray. In my ecstasy, the continuing high of the orgasm, I know immediately what he means.
"I miss you too."
We sleep, a man and a woman alone in the crowded plane, our heads bent into each other, our hands across our empty laps.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Fold over the corner and put it under your mattress. It's 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 #121? 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
The Ache of Desire Unsatisfied
“J groaned in my ear, and I nearly pulled down his zipper then and there.”
Unexpected
“Tingles of electricity were set coursing up and down that side of my body.”
Part(y)ing shots
“I placed both my hands on the tiled wall in front of me, clammy and cold, holding myself up.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
The “Best way to make him felt hot”
Editor’s Choice
Who Is A Sex Worker?
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
The administration of pain
Calm
Cock Blogging
Cuckold
Expect the unexpected
Happy hunting
I got quoted in Bitchy Jones!
A Lying Husband’s Spanking and Mouthsoaping
So Hard It Hurts
Vegas Squeeze Toy
Sex Poetry
Lick
The Sweetest Fruit: An Ode to Cunninglingus
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Navigating the Shoals of Infidelity
Silent Sex
Statute of limitations for rape
Tales from the Floor: Pure Njoy-ment
What is fasionable today?
Why Christianity hates sex (possibly)
WWYD: Presidents Day Edition
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Action Girls’ Latest Erotic Photo Galleries
The Beauty Of Nature
Hot Wax at LSM with Madeline
Mizuki Horii
Nikki Nefarious Has Taken, And Modeled, The Hottest Photograph Ever (Altered Aperture)
Redhead Submissive Tied Up In Box (Fetish, shibari, catalinaloves.com)
Suzie Carina - Hotel Room
Vivid.com: Briana Banks, Monique Alexander, Nadia Styles & Sunny Leone
Sex Work
Catalina loves Couples (D/s)
Sex Advice
How to Bend Over Your Boyfriend and Make Him Like It
The Ultimate Sex Position?
Erotic Writing and Experiences
After the gaurd 2
Blue Air
The Cam Lover screwed a hot black escort in London - Part 2
Catalina loves Great Cookies
Eternal Kiss…An Erotic Paranormal Tale
The magic dinner party
Excerpt - The Party Crasher
The Naughty Dentist - Part One
Phantom Stirrings
The therapy session
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Contest Teaser
Harmony Rose Dominates Glory Hole Perv And Fucks Him With Strap-On (Bondage, Femdom, Captivemale.com)
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Blue Air
Patrick and I had been eyeing the smoke machines all night. It was a large stage, but it seemed like they might have been just a little overkill. Most of them sat idle all night, just one or two giving out controlled blasts during the more atmospheric songs of each band. They hissed, and a few seconds later, like the lightest water, smoke would flood out onto the stage. It would be kicked around until it stubbornly blended with the air, giving definition to the stage lights.
We hung around stage right, finding ourselves restless back at the ropes, done with poker and the other roadies. It was crowded here too, but we found a space with a limited view behind an upstage scrim, free of techs, producers, hangers-on and bands. Just us, a row of smoke machines and the languid drummer of Reel and Rout, his efficient, complicated but slow percussion work hypnotizing the crowd. It was their third song, had gone on at least five minutes already, but showed no signs of revving up or halting. It just traveled, back and forth across the stage, like the smoke, until it blended with the air.
Then they all went off, eight smoke machines let out a long blast, like the coming of a dust storm, you didn’t know how thick it was until you were in it. Eight horizontal mushroom clouds flew out, engulfing the drummer, flowing down the stage. We lost sight of the ground, then the air above it, then anything at all. Patrick put his hand on my shoulder so we knew which way was up. I heard two more hissing bursts and the world disappeared into blue-grey, highlighted only occasionally by the purple, red or green beam of a Fresnel. We’d be in the cloud for a while, the plastic, dry smell of the smoke, the disorientation and the song getting louder under it, all of it mixing with the air.
“This is really weird,” I said to Patrick, but the words were sucked into the music and never heard from again. I felt him pull my shoulder and just made out his features as he pulled me toward him, my face down to him, the smoke dissipating and escaping between our mouths. I felt his breath and then his lips, the sweet tickle of his mouth on mine, then the muscles behind it, moving in my mouth. The music and the smoke blended into this sex, and it was all just his body moving into me. All part of the same conspiracy. We twisted into each other, the warmth of his skin under his shirt and his smell, the taste of salt on him and meat and lemon sour.
I opened my eyes and saw a halo of light around him, reflected off of him into the cloud, you could just make out his fuzzy body glowing in the lights. He opened his too and smiled at me, before his lashes flopped down again and he pulled me tighter, a strong bundle of a man in my arms, his back muscles in my fingers and his slow, delicious dance over my lips. His tongue swept back and forth around my mouth now, vibrating its tastebuds across my teeth and against my own. His breaths throbbed in my mouth, each one a call down, down into him. And I fell as I was asked to.
My arms swirled around his back and finally one dropped, per the suggestion of his back muscle, to the gentle rise of his ass, and I pushed his pelvis into me, as if I knew that the music would swirl up just then. It was there, the steel in his pants against my groin and we rubbed into each other, this suddenly all that mattered, a few pointless cries escaping my throat. His hand came up the side of my face into my hair and he pulled my head sideways, pushing deeper into my mouth. When would the smoke begin to clear? When would we have to stop? When would that drumbeat, the light cymbal crash in 7/4 time simplify itself and end the song?
The machines blasted again, the blur of the world reinforced. A blue light descended on his face and I saw beads of sweat forming, reflecting like opals across his face and in his hair. He looked around and saw that there was nothing to see, took me down to the floor by the shirt, sitting up, our legs intertwined. We pulled each other close again and knelt up partway, our cocks into each other’s hips, grinding, his mouth on my neck. A bite and a nibble and the fog entered my head. It brought sting and heat and a low humming sound. The music, all blending into itself and passing through my body as one wave.
Patrick’s arm came down between us, his tongue staying in my mouth as he backed up a little. There were some sharp movements and pants and his hand, holding me tight on the back of the neck. He pulled his body back all together and shoved my head down, just enough time to get my mouth open before he guided his cock into my mouth and shuddered. He continued to hold my neck, the music building again only to fall into chaos, he fucked my mouth, my fingers dug into the folds behind his knees. Another hiss and another blast, the oily blue dust filled the space between us again and all I could see was his cock. All I could feel was the strain of my jaw and his hand sternly holding me in place. The taste of musty precome and the smell of dirt. My right hand slipped out and he took it, placed it onto the floor.
He began pacing himself, each movement into my throat a little smoother, though he punctuated it at the end, a fierce shiver and twitch. The song continued forever, rising and breaking, rising and breaking. I took his hips up to me and sped him up. We fought each other for a while, my hands on his pelvis, his hand on my neck, and he gave in. I deep-throated him tightly and he fell apart a little. I left him that way for a second and redoubled on him. His back went to the ground, his body pulled up into an arch culminating at my lips.
There were timpani then, and the voice of the singer returned in the distance. I held Patrick up by the ass and he quaked, his body at a halt under me, though it held the slightest vibration. I took his hand and his fingers wrapped under themselves. He came, the choking, numbing shots in my mouth. I drained him slowly, not letting up until he took my face by the cheeks and forced me off of him. I picked him up by the shoulders and kept him in place on his knees. I stood up, unzipped my pants, spit in my hand and opened his mouth with my thumb. I let the tip of my cock rub his lips as I jerked myself off. He tried to get on it, but I held him back. He let his tongue dart out and my head drew back. “Aw fuck!” I yelled, though it was gone as soon as I let it out. “Goddammit, OH!” I let go of his shoulder and could just make out through the cloud my come squirting onto his tongue, under his teeth, blue in the light. I knelt down myself, my hand on his face, our noses together, the smoke dissipating just as I got my pants zipped up. We sat next to each other, cross legged behind the scrim, leaning our shoulders together as the song crashed into entropy, and ended randomly, just as the drummer appeared back through the air.
We hung around stage right, finding ourselves restless back at the ropes, done with poker and the other roadies. It was crowded here too, but we found a space with a limited view behind an upstage scrim, free of techs, producers, hangers-on and bands. Just us, a row of smoke machines and the languid drummer of Reel and Rout, his efficient, complicated but slow percussion work hypnotizing the crowd. It was their third song, had gone on at least five minutes already, but showed no signs of revving up or halting. It just traveled, back and forth across the stage, like the smoke, until it blended with the air.
Then they all went off, eight smoke machines let out a long blast, like the coming of a dust storm, you didn’t know how thick it was until you were in it. Eight horizontal mushroom clouds flew out, engulfing the drummer, flowing down the stage. We lost sight of the ground, then the air above it, then anything at all. Patrick put his hand on my shoulder so we knew which way was up. I heard two more hissing bursts and the world disappeared into blue-grey, highlighted only occasionally by the purple, red or green beam of a Fresnel. We’d be in the cloud for a while, the plastic, dry smell of the smoke, the disorientation and the song getting louder under it, all of it mixing with the air.
“This is really weird,” I said to Patrick, but the words were sucked into the music and never heard from again. I felt him pull my shoulder and just made out his features as he pulled me toward him, my face down to him, the smoke dissipating and escaping between our mouths. I felt his breath and then his lips, the sweet tickle of his mouth on mine, then the muscles behind it, moving in my mouth. The music and the smoke blended into this sex, and it was all just his body moving into me. All part of the same conspiracy. We twisted into each other, the warmth of his skin under his shirt and his smell, the taste of salt on him and meat and lemon sour.
I opened my eyes and saw a halo of light around him, reflected off of him into the cloud, you could just make out his fuzzy body glowing in the lights. He opened his too and smiled at me, before his lashes flopped down again and he pulled me tighter, a strong bundle of a man in my arms, his back muscles in my fingers and his slow, delicious dance over my lips. His tongue swept back and forth around my mouth now, vibrating its tastebuds across my teeth and against my own. His breaths throbbed in my mouth, each one a call down, down into him. And I fell as I was asked to.
My arms swirled around his back and finally one dropped, per the suggestion of his back muscle, to the gentle rise of his ass, and I pushed his pelvis into me, as if I knew that the music would swirl up just then. It was there, the steel in his pants against my groin and we rubbed into each other, this suddenly all that mattered, a few pointless cries escaping my throat. His hand came up the side of my face into my hair and he pulled my head sideways, pushing deeper into my mouth. When would the smoke begin to clear? When would we have to stop? When would that drumbeat, the light cymbal crash in 7/4 time simplify itself and end the song?
The machines blasted again, the blur of the world reinforced. A blue light descended on his face and I saw beads of sweat forming, reflecting like opals across his face and in his hair. He looked around and saw that there was nothing to see, took me down to the floor by the shirt, sitting up, our legs intertwined. We pulled each other close again and knelt up partway, our cocks into each other’s hips, grinding, his mouth on my neck. A bite and a nibble and the fog entered my head. It brought sting and heat and a low humming sound. The music, all blending into itself and passing through my body as one wave.
Patrick’s arm came down between us, his tongue staying in my mouth as he backed up a little. There were some sharp movements and pants and his hand, holding me tight on the back of the neck. He pulled his body back all together and shoved my head down, just enough time to get my mouth open before he guided his cock into my mouth and shuddered. He continued to hold my neck, the music building again only to fall into chaos, he fucked my mouth, my fingers dug into the folds behind his knees. Another hiss and another blast, the oily blue dust filled the space between us again and all I could see was his cock. All I could feel was the strain of my jaw and his hand sternly holding me in place. The taste of musty precome and the smell of dirt. My right hand slipped out and he took it, placed it onto the floor.
He began pacing himself, each movement into my throat a little smoother, though he punctuated it at the end, a fierce shiver and twitch. The song continued forever, rising and breaking, rising and breaking. I took his hips up to me and sped him up. We fought each other for a while, my hands on his pelvis, his hand on my neck, and he gave in. I deep-throated him tightly and he fell apart a little. I left him that way for a second and redoubled on him. His back went to the ground, his body pulled up into an arch culminating at my lips.
There were timpani then, and the voice of the singer returned in the distance. I held Patrick up by the ass and he quaked, his body at a halt under me, though it held the slightest vibration. I took his hand and his fingers wrapped under themselves. He came, the choking, numbing shots in my mouth. I drained him slowly, not letting up until he took my face by the cheeks and forced me off of him. I picked him up by the shoulders and kept him in place on his knees. I stood up, unzipped my pants, spit in my hand and opened his mouth with my thumb. I let the tip of my cock rub his lips as I jerked myself off. He tried to get on it, but I held him back. He let his tongue dart out and my head drew back. “Aw fuck!” I yelled, though it was gone as soon as I let it out. “Goddammit, OH!” I let go of his shoulder and could just make out through the cloud my come squirting onto his tongue, under his teeth, blue in the light. I knelt down myself, my hand on his face, our noses together, the smoke dissipating just as I got my pants zipped up. We sat next to each other, cross legged behind the scrim, leaning our shoulders together as the song crashed into entropy, and ended randomly, just as the drummer appeared back through the air.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Angel and Cicely
It's possible that you've noticed that I'm not writing as much. I've got a lot of excuses, but the main one is that I'm pregnant. This site and all of you have been on my mind just as much, if not more. I'm very excited to be pregnant, but some of you will know what all of this stuff does to your head. The details are pretty revolting, and I'll leave them off the keyboard. I've considered taking a break, but in the end, I just don't want to. Please be patient with me, and I'll be back to full speed as soon as I can.
For those who are curious, I'm due in late May or early June. Love from me and my big belly. Now, onto the smut.
The bristles of the brush fan and curve, spreading Coca-Cola red across Angel's toenail. Her arm stretches lengthwise against the skin of her thigh, her knee up in her chin. She's glad she lives alone, finally, her father married off to a sweet enough legal secretary down in Connecticut. Her apartment is small, just one large main room, one large closet, a tiny bathroom and a kitchen against one wall. To her left, about two blocks away, snow is falling into the tracks that she and Cicely had made, her pink rubber boots slipping chevrons into the white. Angel smiles and finishes her big toe. Her hand is shaking a little, but she keeps the brush steady with her forearm pressed against her shin.
When Angel closes her eyes, she sees Cicely every time, her black hair in a spiky but poised boy-haircut, her chin like a weight in a wide sling, her eyes bending over her lips, dark blue with a darker blue ring at the edges of the iris. Cicely smiles at her when Angel closes her eyes, her face just above hers, pressing her hand down on the frisbee in the snow. She smells the ice now, wet but dry. Angel had fallen, her sneakers soaked through and slippery. Cicely had grabbed her arm to stop her, but fell too, tripped on Angel's legs on the way down, and landed between them.
Angel had one thought when Cicely fell between her thighs, a tongue she must have in there, and what she'd done with it with girls.
Angel blushes and pecks a few more brushes against her little toes, aware, faintly, of a swelling between her legs, more aware of the ATM receipt on the coffee table on her left, the phone number on it, and her cell phone next to that. It's very early in the morning. She's not supposed to call Cicely for hours, to awkwardly make some sort of date with her, or try to figure out if it is one. She's pacing herself with her toes. They take time, their busy work distracting enough to keep her from scooping up the phone, punching the tiny keys with her left thumb and asking Cicely if she wants to come over for breakfast. Angel's heart pumps at the thought of Cicely in here, her physical body sitting on the sofa at Angel's back, while Angel licks this nail polish onto her toes, her naked pussy out here in the air and light.
Shh, she thinks, and moves onto the other foot.
Cicely lies awake in her three-bedroom apartment half a mile down the road. She's been dissecting everything that Angel said to her the day before, trying to remember what was promised, how the phone numbers were exchanged and what the reason was. Her roommate, Vince, snores soothingly from his room, her other roommate, Jacob, already on the phone with his girlfriend. She can hear him talk in vibrations in the walls, so close to real words, but without consonants, like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. Cicely's hand lays between her thighs absently, a comforting press in every once in a while, Angel's face under her in the snow, pink lips and blonde hair against the white. She's never liked blondes before, thinks of them cliché and stupid. She makes the executive decision not to change her mind on this just yet. Angel will chicken out, she knows it, the minute Cicely puts her hand on her cheek. Why is it always up to her to make the first move? Her mind drifts for a moment to the social politics of straight girls, before she fishes it out of that green pond and puts her eyes back on the prize, imagines Angel's breasts cupped in her hands, warm and light and sensitive.
God, it's early. Cicely stares at her cell phone and imagines what it's like when it rings, so she can prepare herself for it. The phone seems to swell in anticipation of it, the rounded plastic like a fresh bar of soap, ready to clatter on her dresser, if cell phones would only do that, unexpectedly loud.
Cicely decides to get breakfast. She needs to be out on the street, in the real world, where the phone is simply the thing that her mom calls. She throws a sweater over her shoulders, no need to wear a bra, then dark blue jeans and her boots.
The slush is frozen, the thick, flattened ice sheets much easier to walk on this morning. Angel can keep her head up, imagine Cicely's fingers on the nape of her neck, basic contact. Her hair stands up as if it's happening.
The diner looks bright against the grey sky and streets, as if it's nighttime. Inside, the waitress seats her next to a table with a girl with spiky boy-hair. The girl turns. Angel drops her newspaper and picks it right back up again. She sits down across from Cicely and they stare at each other, their fingers fondling the silverware.
"Did you order?" Angel asks finally.
"No."
"Let's go."
Angel leaves a couple of dollars on the table, looking at Angel the whole time, and they escape together, out into the snow and the sidewalk, parking meters and cars coated with white. When they're out of the sightlines of the diner windows, Angel presses Cicely into a lamp post, turns her head and kisses her. Cicely's lips are soft, without the sharp points of a man's stubble or the aggression behind them. Cicely's hand touches Angel's neck, not to grab her or manipulate her, but just to feel the instant high of her skin on her fingertips, the fine blonde hair between them. Angel wants to tell her about thinking about her this morning, about sitting on her dusty floor naked, about her failed relationships, her first period, her love of office supplies, her father and his new wife, but she simply opens her lips and presses them into Cicely, and swells inside, all this information passing just now between them in this energy, and the sweat on their upper lips.
"You want this?" Cicely says. Angel says she does and almost claps her hand over her mouth afterward. She's been feeling that swollen spread in her jeans, the seams of her underwear at once becoming oppressive and meaningless. She sees a ponytailed woman with two kids approaching on the sidewalk and pulls her hands away. Cicely looks hurt, sliding into pissed off, and Angel says, "Come home with me."
Cicely kisses her again anyway, though she noticed the woman and the children too. She toys with each of Angel's lips individually and sighs. A girl sigh. Angel notices the difference. Her underwear passes from oppressive to an offense. She pulls Angel's waist around a building, presses her into the lacquered brick and wraps herself around her. Cicely sighs some more, little gasps and coos. Angel's mind turns to hands and buttons, the satin of Cicely's skin, the mystery of her panties. Her eyes have been closed, so she hasn't noticed that Cicely has stopped and has been looking at her face, and cupping her cheek, wondering that she hasn't run away.
Cicely takes Angel's left wrist in her hand and kisses the inside of it, the heat of the blood below the skin, and puts it under her sweater, both of them blushing. Angel's hand touches thumb to nipple first, and flinches, but exhales her last giggle. She presses her forearm flat inside so that she can be closer and presses in. She holds her breast between thumb and forefinger and weighs it. This is it, she thinks, this is what all those boys have wanted.
"Come home with me," Angel says again, this time less of a beg and more of a mantra.
"Yes," Cicely says.
Angel's hand slides to Cicely's upper thigh and pulls her as she turns back to the sidewalk. It's awkward and Cicely slips away. Angel regains once more and again and finally picks her up behind her, throws her on her back and carries her laughing toward her apartment. Cicely's lips bury themselves in Angel's neck. It's only half a block anyway.
In Angel's apartment, her keys missing their hook, Cicely steps shyly into the messy living room. Angel takes a moment in the hallway and looks at her, imagines what she'd only really begun to imagine the day before, what Cicely's thighs looks like, how they'd feel shaking against the sides of her head. She approaches her and holds her hand out to her back, close, but not touching. She doesn't know what to do, but won't admit it. She mimics Cicely's curves with her hand and finally settles on the edge of her sweater, falling over her sides. She takes both ends and lifts, Cicely just lifting her arms, letting her do it. Her back is stunning, a French curve from shoulders to ass. A crevice in the middle, for what? Angel runs her hands along it, turning them as she goes, the fingertips at the point of the shoulderblade, the heel of her hand over the dip beyond them, the back of her hands nestling at the crook.
Cicely bends slightly to take off her jeans. She slides them down, steps out of them and returns to a full stand. Now there is everything before Angel, the curve of the back completed by the suspension of her ass, the fat at the inside of her thighs, the line from the back of the thigh to the back of the knee. Angel wraps her arms around her, this breathing living sculpture in her tiny apartment. Snow starts to fall outside, fat, cottonball flakes that take forever to fall.
"I'm glad I'm here," Cicely says.
Angel's right hand drops down Cicely's skin and slips into her pussy. Cicely gasps, but doesn't flinch. Cicely is wet, and this flatters Angel to pieces. Her other hand takes her breast. She simply holds it. Cicely smells like warm bread and butter. Angel rubs, her fingertips wrinkling in the moisture. Cicely simply shivers and bucks, her ass bending into Angel's front.
Angel is bowled over by the power, the sensual suffering and peace she is causing. She has lost herself completely in the mix, become Cicely, and breaks and shivers with her, the way she tears up watching others cry. The snowfall hypnotizes her too, brings her deeper, pulls her away. When Cicely comes, her stomach muscles and legs convulsing, Angel moans with her too, and holds until she's sure that she, Angel, is done.
"Stay," she says to Cicely, almost biting into her shoulder. Cicely nods and walks over to the window, looks out into the snow and the wind, smiles and throws it open.
For those who are curious, I'm due in late May or early June. Love from me and my big belly. Now, onto the smut.
The bristles of the brush fan and curve, spreading Coca-Cola red across Angel's toenail. Her arm stretches lengthwise against the skin of her thigh, her knee up in her chin. She's glad she lives alone, finally, her father married off to a sweet enough legal secretary down in Connecticut. Her apartment is small, just one large main room, one large closet, a tiny bathroom and a kitchen against one wall. To her left, about two blocks away, snow is falling into the tracks that she and Cicely had made, her pink rubber boots slipping chevrons into the white. Angel smiles and finishes her big toe. Her hand is shaking a little, but she keeps the brush steady with her forearm pressed against her shin.
When Angel closes her eyes, she sees Cicely every time, her black hair in a spiky but poised boy-haircut, her chin like a weight in a wide sling, her eyes bending over her lips, dark blue with a darker blue ring at the edges of the iris. Cicely smiles at her when Angel closes her eyes, her face just above hers, pressing her hand down on the frisbee in the snow. She smells the ice now, wet but dry. Angel had fallen, her sneakers soaked through and slippery. Cicely had grabbed her arm to stop her, but fell too, tripped on Angel's legs on the way down, and landed between them.
Angel had one thought when Cicely fell between her thighs, a tongue she must have in there, and what she'd done with it with girls.
Angel blushes and pecks a few more brushes against her little toes, aware, faintly, of a swelling between her legs, more aware of the ATM receipt on the coffee table on her left, the phone number on it, and her cell phone next to that. It's very early in the morning. She's not supposed to call Cicely for hours, to awkwardly make some sort of date with her, or try to figure out if it is one. She's pacing herself with her toes. They take time, their busy work distracting enough to keep her from scooping up the phone, punching the tiny keys with her left thumb and asking Cicely if she wants to come over for breakfast. Angel's heart pumps at the thought of Cicely in here, her physical body sitting on the sofa at Angel's back, while Angel licks this nail polish onto her toes, her naked pussy out here in the air and light.
Shh, she thinks, and moves onto the other foot.
Cicely lies awake in her three-bedroom apartment half a mile down the road. She's been dissecting everything that Angel said to her the day before, trying to remember what was promised, how the phone numbers were exchanged and what the reason was. Her roommate, Vince, snores soothingly from his room, her other roommate, Jacob, already on the phone with his girlfriend. She can hear him talk in vibrations in the walls, so close to real words, but without consonants, like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. Cicely's hand lays between her thighs absently, a comforting press in every once in a while, Angel's face under her in the snow, pink lips and blonde hair against the white. She's never liked blondes before, thinks of them cliché and stupid. She makes the executive decision not to change her mind on this just yet. Angel will chicken out, she knows it, the minute Cicely puts her hand on her cheek. Why is it always up to her to make the first move? Her mind drifts for a moment to the social politics of straight girls, before she fishes it out of that green pond and puts her eyes back on the prize, imagines Angel's breasts cupped in her hands, warm and light and sensitive.
God, it's early. Cicely stares at her cell phone and imagines what it's like when it rings, so she can prepare herself for it. The phone seems to swell in anticipation of it, the rounded plastic like a fresh bar of soap, ready to clatter on her dresser, if cell phones would only do that, unexpectedly loud.
Cicely decides to get breakfast. She needs to be out on the street, in the real world, where the phone is simply the thing that her mom calls. She throws a sweater over her shoulders, no need to wear a bra, then dark blue jeans and her boots.
The slush is frozen, the thick, flattened ice sheets much easier to walk on this morning. Angel can keep her head up, imagine Cicely's fingers on the nape of her neck, basic contact. Her hair stands up as if it's happening.
The diner looks bright against the grey sky and streets, as if it's nighttime. Inside, the waitress seats her next to a table with a girl with spiky boy-hair. The girl turns. Angel drops her newspaper and picks it right back up again. She sits down across from Cicely and they stare at each other, their fingers fondling the silverware.
"Did you order?" Angel asks finally.
"No."
"Let's go."
Angel leaves a couple of dollars on the table, looking at Angel the whole time, and they escape together, out into the snow and the sidewalk, parking meters and cars coated with white. When they're out of the sightlines of the diner windows, Angel presses Cicely into a lamp post, turns her head and kisses her. Cicely's lips are soft, without the sharp points of a man's stubble or the aggression behind them. Cicely's hand touches Angel's neck, not to grab her or manipulate her, but just to feel the instant high of her skin on her fingertips, the fine blonde hair between them. Angel wants to tell her about thinking about her this morning, about sitting on her dusty floor naked, about her failed relationships, her first period, her love of office supplies, her father and his new wife, but she simply opens her lips and presses them into Cicely, and swells inside, all this information passing just now between them in this energy, and the sweat on their upper lips.
"You want this?" Cicely says. Angel says she does and almost claps her hand over her mouth afterward. She's been feeling that swollen spread in her jeans, the seams of her underwear at once becoming oppressive and meaningless. She sees a ponytailed woman with two kids approaching on the sidewalk and pulls her hands away. Cicely looks hurt, sliding into pissed off, and Angel says, "Come home with me."
Cicely kisses her again anyway, though she noticed the woman and the children too. She toys with each of Angel's lips individually and sighs. A girl sigh. Angel notices the difference. Her underwear passes from oppressive to an offense. She pulls Angel's waist around a building, presses her into the lacquered brick and wraps herself around her. Cicely sighs some more, little gasps and coos. Angel's mind turns to hands and buttons, the satin of Cicely's skin, the mystery of her panties. Her eyes have been closed, so she hasn't noticed that Cicely has stopped and has been looking at her face, and cupping her cheek, wondering that she hasn't run away.
Cicely takes Angel's left wrist in her hand and kisses the inside of it, the heat of the blood below the skin, and puts it under her sweater, both of them blushing. Angel's hand touches thumb to nipple first, and flinches, but exhales her last giggle. She presses her forearm flat inside so that she can be closer and presses in. She holds her breast between thumb and forefinger and weighs it. This is it, she thinks, this is what all those boys have wanted.
"Come home with me," Angel says again, this time less of a beg and more of a mantra.
"Yes," Cicely says.
Angel's hand slides to Cicely's upper thigh and pulls her as she turns back to the sidewalk. It's awkward and Cicely slips away. Angel regains once more and again and finally picks her up behind her, throws her on her back and carries her laughing toward her apartment. Cicely's lips bury themselves in Angel's neck. It's only half a block anyway.
In Angel's apartment, her keys missing their hook, Cicely steps shyly into the messy living room. Angel takes a moment in the hallway and looks at her, imagines what she'd only really begun to imagine the day before, what Cicely's thighs looks like, how they'd feel shaking against the sides of her head. She approaches her and holds her hand out to her back, close, but not touching. She doesn't know what to do, but won't admit it. She mimics Cicely's curves with her hand and finally settles on the edge of her sweater, falling over her sides. She takes both ends and lifts, Cicely just lifting her arms, letting her do it. Her back is stunning, a French curve from shoulders to ass. A crevice in the middle, for what? Angel runs her hands along it, turning them as she goes, the fingertips at the point of the shoulderblade, the heel of her hand over the dip beyond them, the back of her hands nestling at the crook.
Cicely bends slightly to take off her jeans. She slides them down, steps out of them and returns to a full stand. Now there is everything before Angel, the curve of the back completed by the suspension of her ass, the fat at the inside of her thighs, the line from the back of the thigh to the back of the knee. Angel wraps her arms around her, this breathing living sculpture in her tiny apartment. Snow starts to fall outside, fat, cottonball flakes that take forever to fall.
"I'm glad I'm here," Cicely says.
Angel's right hand drops down Cicely's skin and slips into her pussy. Cicely gasps, but doesn't flinch. Cicely is wet, and this flatters Angel to pieces. Her other hand takes her breast. She simply holds it. Cicely smells like warm bread and butter. Angel rubs, her fingertips wrinkling in the moisture. Cicely simply shivers and bucks, her ass bending into Angel's front.
Angel is bowled over by the power, the sensual suffering and peace she is causing. She has lost herself completely in the mix, become Cicely, and breaks and shivers with her, the way she tears up watching others cry. The snowfall hypnotizes her too, brings her deeper, pulls her away. When Cicely comes, her stomach muscles and legs convulsing, Angel moans with her too, and holds until she's sure that she, Angel, is done.
"Stay," she says to Cicely, almost biting into her shoulder. Cicely nods and walks over to the window, looks out into the snow and the wind, smiles and throws it open.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Feedback
There was the camera at the top of the screen, centered and patient, a green light next to it. I could look at it askance, but not straight on. I couldn't face the strangers, even if I wanted to. Below were three simple boxes on a white background. One: What I looked like. Two: What they looked like, because precious few were ready to turn on their cameras. There were 442 people watching at first, a faceless and incomprehensible number. Were they enough to fill the seats in a small theater? A large restaurant? How many people work in my company? How many work under me? When I watched, I didn't turn my camera on either, though I'd imagined they could see me, or just the parts of me I wanted them to see. A finger and a clit.
Finally, there was the third box, the one I wanted to see the most, though I knew that if we were successful, no one would be able to type. This one was a stream of thoughts, stupid and flattering, or childish and painful. I would imagine that they wouldn't be able to agree, that some would demand that I play with my tits while other would ask me to press up on my arms.
It turns out that people are used to a leader, and let one person do the talking for them, a man named dirtyhands. It was a leader's name, I gave them that.
dirtyhands
massage her tits
And Ryan's hands, thick and callused, came around my sides and kneaded my nipples. I watched our backward reflection on the screen and waited for the next order. My skin looked alien in the picture, spotless and blurry, the navel barely discernable, the large, dark nipples not much more than shadows between Ryan's fingers. I tried to pull one of his hands down between my legs, but he wouldn't budge. This wasn't about me. I went myself, so distracted that I hadn't noticed how wet I'd become, how sensitive and shaken. Ryan's hands seemed to dwarf me, as if we were in a fisheye. I leaned back so they could see me rub.
3497 users online
489 users watching
dirtyhands
show her your cock
Ryan came around me so that he was facing the camera. He took the hand in my crotch and wrapped it around his cock. I twisted it, showed it to be flexible as girl hands are, thin, fragile and helpless. My fingers were still wet and I slid up and down lightly, an innocent entering a strange cave, touching the unfamiliar. Ryan said, because our microphone was on too, "Do you like that?"
dirtyhands
tell her to suck it
"No faces," Ryan said.
dirtyhands
have her face you
I wasn't allowed to see their profiles, didn't think that I'd want to, but I began to wonder who dirtyhands was. No matter.
I backed up, straddled the laptop and bent over. Ryan's cock slid into my mouth easily, and I twisted and pulled, licked and tightened my lips around him. Saliva dripped out of the corners and onto the sheets. He smelled the same, felt the same. The sheets were our sheets.
Ryan said, "He wants you to touch yourself. Split yourself good first. Let them see you."
I did as they said, though it was too much rocket fuel. While my hands had been away, my pussy had turned to hard rubber in melted ice cream. I stuck my fingers inside instead.
Ryan said, "He likes it."
I could feel my muscles crush my fingers, suck them in. Ryan pulled out of my mouth.
"Talk to him," Ryan said.
"I want you in my pussy. Stick it in me."
"Turn around," Ryan said.
"No."
"Just keep your face up," he said, holding me by the chin.
I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want this liquid pouring out of my pussy. I didn't want to want to come.
"No."
He pushed my knees back on the sheets and placed the laptop in front of my knees. "They can't see your face."
I reached out for the camera, wanted to put my thumb over the lens.
"Do it," Ryan said, putting my fingers back between my legs and rubbing them. I closed my eyes. I'd seen the number. 578. I heard Ryan breathe. He was out of the camera range.
Miles of people were watching me, some just watching, some just starting to play. Some were couples. Some were women. I saw them come, felt their eyes on me, little fiber optic lines through the lens of my camera.
"Are they fucking you?" Ryan said.
I said nothing. Tingles were turning to heat in me.
"Are they fucking you?"
"Yes."
I opened my eyes and faced them. Only five had their cameras on. dirtyhands lay limp. I'd only just noticed.
"What?"
Ryan bent me over the laptop and pushed his thumbs inside me. I came, not there, not in my body, watching myself come like the camera watched me. I writhed and bucked and yelled.
"Goodnight, all," Ryan said, and quit the browser. dirtyhands had logged off.
Finally, there was the third box, the one I wanted to see the most, though I knew that if we were successful, no one would be able to type. This one was a stream of thoughts, stupid and flattering, or childish and painful. I would imagine that they wouldn't be able to agree, that some would demand that I play with my tits while other would ask me to press up on my arms.
It turns out that people are used to a leader, and let one person do the talking for them, a man named dirtyhands. It was a leader's name, I gave them that.
dirtyhands
massage her tits
And Ryan's hands, thick and callused, came around my sides and kneaded my nipples. I watched our backward reflection on the screen and waited for the next order. My skin looked alien in the picture, spotless and blurry, the navel barely discernable, the large, dark nipples not much more than shadows between Ryan's fingers. I tried to pull one of his hands down between my legs, but he wouldn't budge. This wasn't about me. I went myself, so distracted that I hadn't noticed how wet I'd become, how sensitive and shaken. Ryan's hands seemed to dwarf me, as if we were in a fisheye. I leaned back so they could see me rub.
3497 users online
489 users watching
dirtyhands
show her your cock
Ryan came around me so that he was facing the camera. He took the hand in my crotch and wrapped it around his cock. I twisted it, showed it to be flexible as girl hands are, thin, fragile and helpless. My fingers were still wet and I slid up and down lightly, an innocent entering a strange cave, touching the unfamiliar. Ryan said, because our microphone was on too, "Do you like that?"
dirtyhands
tell her to suck it
"No faces," Ryan said.
dirtyhands
have her face you
I wasn't allowed to see their profiles, didn't think that I'd want to, but I began to wonder who dirtyhands was. No matter.
I backed up, straddled the laptop and bent over. Ryan's cock slid into my mouth easily, and I twisted and pulled, licked and tightened my lips around him. Saliva dripped out of the corners and onto the sheets. He smelled the same, felt the same. The sheets were our sheets.
Ryan said, "He wants you to touch yourself. Split yourself good first. Let them see you."
I did as they said, though it was too much rocket fuel. While my hands had been away, my pussy had turned to hard rubber in melted ice cream. I stuck my fingers inside instead.
Ryan said, "He likes it."
I could feel my muscles crush my fingers, suck them in. Ryan pulled out of my mouth.
"Talk to him," Ryan said.
"I want you in my pussy. Stick it in me."
"Turn around," Ryan said.
"No."
"Just keep your face up," he said, holding me by the chin.
I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want this liquid pouring out of my pussy. I didn't want to want to come.
"No."
He pushed my knees back on the sheets and placed the laptop in front of my knees. "They can't see your face."
I reached out for the camera, wanted to put my thumb over the lens.
"Do it," Ryan said, putting my fingers back between my legs and rubbing them. I closed my eyes. I'd seen the number. 578. I heard Ryan breathe. He was out of the camera range.
Miles of people were watching me, some just watching, some just starting to play. Some were couples. Some were women. I saw them come, felt their eyes on me, little fiber optic lines through the lens of my camera.
"Are they fucking you?" Ryan said.
I said nothing. Tingles were turning to heat in me.
"Are they fucking you?"
"Yes."
I opened my eyes and faced them. Only five had their cameras on. dirtyhands lay limp. I'd only just noticed.
"What?"
Ryan bent me over the laptop and pushed his thumbs inside me. I came, not there, not in my body, watching myself come like the camera watched me. I writhed and bucked and yelled.
"Goodnight, all," Ryan said, and quit the browser. dirtyhands had logged off.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Tell
There's a fat spider in the corner of the ceiling, a highway robber between the vent and the yellow light. I'm afraid of spiders, terrified of watching them move, the way they seem to glide without legs, zooming then creeping. Between dicks I've watched this thing, at least two inches long, and begged it to keep still. I can't climb up on the toilet seat to kill it, even if I could pull together those kind of guts. I can't put my face over the stalls. I'd get the crap beaten out of me, if I wasn't arrested. I hold this guy, a shorter one, but veiny, trimmed, the young ones are, in my thick glove, hand hidden inside, and hold him steady in my mouth, forever bargaining with the spider. I'm so distracted that I don't notice him coming, miss the sounds and the trembling ankles. I'm ready to ask for one more from the spider, but it could be hours. My fingers stroke, but the spider has made me go dry. I wait for the man to leave, then total silence, then head for my car in the lot.
"I just can't watch that stuff," Debra said. "It's just... blech." She chased two shaved pieces of red cabbage in her salad to a different part of the plastic bowl. All over the room, women in sensible sweaters and huge hair pointed at each other with their forks or finger foods, movement on top of the cropped beige carpet and the beige wallpaper, flat in the fluorescent. Men sat back in their chairs, knees apart, like fathers at PTA meetings.
Casey blinked at me, then turned to Debra. "What, two men kissing? Big deal," she said. "I'm a fag hag," she said proudly, but blushed, and rearranged herself in the chair.
"I read somewhere that fag hags are all lesbians," Debra said. Casey didn't look at her, but put her sandwich down and left her mouth open in case she came up with the gumption to respond. They were waiting for me to say something. I peeled my orange and stacked the strips on top of each other, even little triangles rocking back and forth.
My eyes close and I'm back on my knees in the men's bathroom, one cock or the other slipping through my lips. The man comes again and again, losing everything to his dream. My legs are bent against the floor on the futon couch, the shades closed, the pads of my fingers kneading me.
"What's your name?" the guy asks. I can see his hands buttoning his jeans. I dodge in case he looks. "Dude, what's your name?"
My back arches on the futon and my eyes go crossed and blank. Waaa uh. Uh. UH.
George grips my hand and takes a deep sip of his bottled water. It's a hazy night, people's sweat seeming to cause the halos on the streetlights. Sticky men pass us and size George up. He ignores them. I wonder if I've ever sucked any of these guys off or if George is right, I've only sucked straight men with a fantasy. "Hhhhuuuuhhh!" George says, as if he's just noticed the First Lady making out with a girl. "We've gotta go to Deliveries in Rear tonight!"
"No!" I say, and I mean it.
"Yes! Come on." He takes me tightly by the hand and pulls me up the sidewalk. His hands are smallish, not painfully large to hold like my other ex-boyfriends' or thin and poky like my older sister's. They fit.
The bouncer exhales pointedly when I hand him my ID, shakes the flashlight over it and hands it back to me quickly. He looks deep into the club as if he has a secret tell for the entire staff, like a baseball coach, a noserub and neck twitch indicating "fucking girl in here."
I was sick of swimming and decided to jump from one end of the pool to the other just to keep moving. My toes touched the bottom on the deep end, my face well under and I leapt up and forward, emerging into the cold air, and crunched down again. A boy wouldn't get out of my way and I was forced to tread for awhile. I didn't know him, and the way he smiled at me made me nervous.
"What?" I said.
"You're a boy," he said.
"I'm not! I'm a girl!" I said and swum around him.
I jumped again a few more times, splashing gloriously from the water with each one. The boy was there again. I looked for friends, neighbors, but remembered I'd come alone.
"Don't lie. You're a boy."
"I'm a girl!"
I dove and jumped a few more times, a little too fast. Water bubbled in my loose terrycloth suit and pulled it down too much. He ruined my thing, this boy. He was there again. I tried to swim around him, but he blocked me.
"You're a boy!" he said.
George takes me straight to the back of the club, his one eye lazy from drinking. "You order," he says, and socks a twenty in my hand.
I can't look around. The bar is dark but for sharp beams of light that you only see if you're looking straight at them. I see blurs of men in small groups, the special shine of skin. Others cruise, watching the groups with their backs against load-bearing poles. I want to be a spider, to watch them as anything but a woman, but I'm conspicuous here as Queen Victoria. I decide that going to the bar will keep my eyes busy.
"I'm a girl! God!" I said to the boy. He smiled at me as if I were falling for some sort of bait. "What do you want?" I asked.
The bartender is slim and short with a faux-hawk. He clashes with the leather-men.
"What will this lesbian be ordering this evening?" he asks, repulsed.
"This girl wants two Ketel and cranberries."
"Does the lesbian want a twist?"
The boy almost lost himself in victory. "Prove to me you're a girl," he said.
"No! Go away!" I looked at the lifeguard, but he was busy watching older girls directly under him. They were talking to him and he smiled, holding the whistle in his mouth absentmindedly.
"The girl doesn't, no."
"Good!" the bartender says, and slaps the drinks down on the service mat so that much of the liquid splashes out. He looks at me up and down and rolls his eyes. "That'll be sixteen-fifty for the lesbian."
I would have waved my arms for the lifeguard, but I didn't want to raise them. This boy was waiting to touch me. "Hey!" I yelled instead. "Heeeeey!" He blew his whistle, amazingly. The voiceover came on the loudspeaker.
"Adult swim," it said. "Ten minute rest period."
"Here's twenty dollars for the asshole."
"Thanks, lesbian."
"Anytime, asshole."
I swam as fast as I could to the edge of the pool, pulled myself out, and ran for the girls' locker room.
George had been sitting beside me, but saw none of this. I examine the glasses for cloudy floaties, but find none. I give one to him.
George and I went to separate colleges after graduation and didn't see each other until Thanksgiving. He picked me up in his car but didn't kiss me.
"I've held out for you," I said.
"I know," he said.
"So you're gay?" I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"And I'm an idiot," I said.
"If there were a girl...," he said.
"That you would have sex with it would be me, right?" I said.
"But you're a girl," he said.
"Do you love me?" I said.
"Of course," he said.
"Screw me anyway," I said.
"No," he said.
"Then you can go," I said.
The music, if the rumpy-bumpy beat could be called that, goes loud and then off. George hands me his empty and I put it behind me on the bar.
"It's time," says a voiceover, "for adult swim. You've got ten minutes."
The bare lightbulbs go out and George shoves me forward into what must be the crowd. I try to turn around but find the bare chests of men, their fingers in my hair, a dick in jeans at my ass. Before the one can reach around, I drop too hard to my knees and bury my head in his bulge. He pulls locks of my hair between his fingers and unzips. The music grows louder.
George let me kiss him in the car. The two of our faces were wet with tears. I slid my hand up his thighs and found his cock. It was limp, but I'd gotten it going before. Keep your eyes closed, I whispered. I'm a boy. This is my first time with another boy. He lifted his hips so I could lower his jeans. I'm careful to keep my voicebox out of my speech. I'm scared, but I want to touch you.
The man's cock is thin and long. It goes hard right away and I suck to the music. I can feel him trembling and go faster. His fingers pull through my hair tighter and tighter. My pussy swells, needs this. Three minutes pass, four, five. "Yes," he says, "that's a good boy."
I'd been ready for almost a year, ready to lose my virginity to George, would close my eyes in movies and will him to fuck me later. I'd imagined him staring me in the eyes, blinking slowly as he pumped, declaring his love before he came. He lay inert in the car seat as I straddled him, one of my legs forward into the backseat the other twisted and shaking in the well. I'll let you fuck me, I whisper. I'm so scared, but I'll let you do it. I held his cock between my fingers, found the wet spot that I'd tested with hot dogs and Barbie dolls, and put him inside me. It didn't hurt. I thought it would hurt.
Another set of hands moves up and down my shoulders. The man in my mouth's knees shiver. The hands dip down and pull at my ass in my jeans. I want them to slide under me. I want them to press into me. A little bit of friction is all I need. They roll up my hips for a moment, then cross to the front.
It wasn't what I thought it would be, but I grasped the back of George's seat and concentrated. I've got a huge erection, but I don't want you to touch it. I just want to give you this. He was sweating, his shoulders tense and his stomach cranking with his breaths. You feel so good inside me.
The man in my mouth is coming. He holds my head in place and dives into my throat. The taste is there, the swim of salt and lemon and savory. I forget about the arms around me until I notice that one is at my breast and the other is feeling the front of my neck.
George's mouth opened and he grunted just a little, an mmmm-guh, then quickly got a pained look on his face.
"Am I done?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too," he said.
"You don't have to speak to me again," I said.
His eyes opened and he looked at me, considering it.
He's checking for an Adam's apple. The hands are thin and the arms are too. I stand up quickly, but he's got me in a hold.
"It's little bitch cunts like you that fuck us all up," he says in my ear.
"Get the fuck away from me!"
The voice of a girl on the floor gets the lights turned on. A bouncer heads toward us from the back. The man lets me go and heads for the exit. I push him. He turns around and grabs my face, runs me back to the bar. I punch him. I've never thrown a punch before and don't even know if I've made contact. I punch again and keep on punching. His face. His chest. He looks furious with me and dodges some of them, trying to catch my arms. My knuckles are bloody and sore. My cheeks sting. He pushes his fingertips into them. The bouncer is a few feet away. I twist my face out of the guy's hands and head for the exit. My cel phone begins to ring. People look at me and someone behind me. Must be the bouncer.
The air is fresh now and I climb into a cab. The phone call was George. The stings were tears in wounds.
The cab takes me to my car and I drive for two hours to the edge of the suburbs. A different forest preserve. Another hour passes before I have my first visitor. He approaches slowly. I watch and close my eyes. His hand touches my cheek through the hole instead. I stare at the hair on his knuckles.
"You got a little beat up there," he says. "What's your name?"
"I just can't watch that stuff," Debra said. "It's just... blech." She chased two shaved pieces of red cabbage in her salad to a different part of the plastic bowl. All over the room, women in sensible sweaters and huge hair pointed at each other with their forks or finger foods, movement on top of the cropped beige carpet and the beige wallpaper, flat in the fluorescent. Men sat back in their chairs, knees apart, like fathers at PTA meetings.
Casey blinked at me, then turned to Debra. "What, two men kissing? Big deal," she said. "I'm a fag hag," she said proudly, but blushed, and rearranged herself in the chair.
"I read somewhere that fag hags are all lesbians," Debra said. Casey didn't look at her, but put her sandwich down and left her mouth open in case she came up with the gumption to respond. They were waiting for me to say something. I peeled my orange and stacked the strips on top of each other, even little triangles rocking back and forth.
My eyes close and I'm back on my knees in the men's bathroom, one cock or the other slipping through my lips. The man comes again and again, losing everything to his dream. My legs are bent against the floor on the futon couch, the shades closed, the pads of my fingers kneading me.
"What's your name?" the guy asks. I can see his hands buttoning his jeans. I dodge in case he looks. "Dude, what's your name?"
My back arches on the futon and my eyes go crossed and blank. Waaa uh. Uh. UH.
George grips my hand and takes a deep sip of his bottled water. It's a hazy night, people's sweat seeming to cause the halos on the streetlights. Sticky men pass us and size George up. He ignores them. I wonder if I've ever sucked any of these guys off or if George is right, I've only sucked straight men with a fantasy. "Hhhhuuuuhhh!" George says, as if he's just noticed the First Lady making out with a girl. "We've gotta go to Deliveries in Rear tonight!"
"No!" I say, and I mean it.
"Yes! Come on." He takes me tightly by the hand and pulls me up the sidewalk. His hands are smallish, not painfully large to hold like my other ex-boyfriends' or thin and poky like my older sister's. They fit.
The bouncer exhales pointedly when I hand him my ID, shakes the flashlight over it and hands it back to me quickly. He looks deep into the club as if he has a secret tell for the entire staff, like a baseball coach, a noserub and neck twitch indicating "fucking girl in here."
I was sick of swimming and decided to jump from one end of the pool to the other just to keep moving. My toes touched the bottom on the deep end, my face well under and I leapt up and forward, emerging into the cold air, and crunched down again. A boy wouldn't get out of my way and I was forced to tread for awhile. I didn't know him, and the way he smiled at me made me nervous.
"What?" I said.
"You're a boy," he said.
"I'm not! I'm a girl!" I said and swum around him.
I jumped again a few more times, splashing gloriously from the water with each one. The boy was there again. I looked for friends, neighbors, but remembered I'd come alone.
"Don't lie. You're a boy."
"I'm a girl!"
I dove and jumped a few more times, a little too fast. Water bubbled in my loose terrycloth suit and pulled it down too much. He ruined my thing, this boy. He was there again. I tried to swim around him, but he blocked me.
"You're a boy!" he said.
George takes me straight to the back of the club, his one eye lazy from drinking. "You order," he says, and socks a twenty in my hand.
I can't look around. The bar is dark but for sharp beams of light that you only see if you're looking straight at them. I see blurs of men in small groups, the special shine of skin. Others cruise, watching the groups with their backs against load-bearing poles. I want to be a spider, to watch them as anything but a woman, but I'm conspicuous here as Queen Victoria. I decide that going to the bar will keep my eyes busy.
"I'm a girl! God!" I said to the boy. He smiled at me as if I were falling for some sort of bait. "What do you want?" I asked.
The bartender is slim and short with a faux-hawk. He clashes with the leather-men.
"What will this lesbian be ordering this evening?" he asks, repulsed.
"This girl wants two Ketel and cranberries."
"Does the lesbian want a twist?"
The boy almost lost himself in victory. "Prove to me you're a girl," he said.
"No! Go away!" I looked at the lifeguard, but he was busy watching older girls directly under him. They were talking to him and he smiled, holding the whistle in his mouth absentmindedly.
"The girl doesn't, no."
"Good!" the bartender says, and slaps the drinks down on the service mat so that much of the liquid splashes out. He looks at me up and down and rolls his eyes. "That'll be sixteen-fifty for the lesbian."
I would have waved my arms for the lifeguard, but I didn't want to raise them. This boy was waiting to touch me. "Hey!" I yelled instead. "Heeeeey!" He blew his whistle, amazingly. The voiceover came on the loudspeaker.
"Adult swim," it said. "Ten minute rest period."
"Here's twenty dollars for the asshole."
"Thanks, lesbian."
"Anytime, asshole."
I swam as fast as I could to the edge of the pool, pulled myself out, and ran for the girls' locker room.
George had been sitting beside me, but saw none of this. I examine the glasses for cloudy floaties, but find none. I give one to him.
George and I went to separate colleges after graduation and didn't see each other until Thanksgiving. He picked me up in his car but didn't kiss me.
"I've held out for you," I said.
"I know," he said.
"So you're gay?" I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"And I'm an idiot," I said.
"If there were a girl...," he said.
"That you would have sex with it would be me, right?" I said.
"But you're a girl," he said.
"Do you love me?" I said.
"Of course," he said.
"Screw me anyway," I said.
"No," he said.
"Then you can go," I said.
The music, if the rumpy-bumpy beat could be called that, goes loud and then off. George hands me his empty and I put it behind me on the bar.
"It's time," says a voiceover, "for adult swim. You've got ten minutes."
The bare lightbulbs go out and George shoves me forward into what must be the crowd. I try to turn around but find the bare chests of men, their fingers in my hair, a dick in jeans at my ass. Before the one can reach around, I drop too hard to my knees and bury my head in his bulge. He pulls locks of my hair between his fingers and unzips. The music grows louder.
George let me kiss him in the car. The two of our faces were wet with tears. I slid my hand up his thighs and found his cock. It was limp, but I'd gotten it going before. Keep your eyes closed, I whispered. I'm a boy. This is my first time with another boy. He lifted his hips so I could lower his jeans. I'm careful to keep my voicebox out of my speech. I'm scared, but I want to touch you.
The man's cock is thin and long. It goes hard right away and I suck to the music. I can feel him trembling and go faster. His fingers pull through my hair tighter and tighter. My pussy swells, needs this. Three minutes pass, four, five. "Yes," he says, "that's a good boy."
I'd been ready for almost a year, ready to lose my virginity to George, would close my eyes in movies and will him to fuck me later. I'd imagined him staring me in the eyes, blinking slowly as he pumped, declaring his love before he came. He lay inert in the car seat as I straddled him, one of my legs forward into the backseat the other twisted and shaking in the well. I'll let you fuck me, I whisper. I'm so scared, but I'll let you do it. I held his cock between my fingers, found the wet spot that I'd tested with hot dogs and Barbie dolls, and put him inside me. It didn't hurt. I thought it would hurt.
Another set of hands moves up and down my shoulders. The man in my mouth's knees shiver. The hands dip down and pull at my ass in my jeans. I want them to slide under me. I want them to press into me. A little bit of friction is all I need. They roll up my hips for a moment, then cross to the front.
It wasn't what I thought it would be, but I grasped the back of George's seat and concentrated. I've got a huge erection, but I don't want you to touch it. I just want to give you this. He was sweating, his shoulders tense and his stomach cranking with his breaths. You feel so good inside me.
The man in my mouth is coming. He holds my head in place and dives into my throat. The taste is there, the swim of salt and lemon and savory. I forget about the arms around me until I notice that one is at my breast and the other is feeling the front of my neck.
George's mouth opened and he grunted just a little, an mmmm-guh, then quickly got a pained look on his face.
"Am I done?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too," he said.
"You don't have to speak to me again," I said.
His eyes opened and he looked at me, considering it.
He's checking for an Adam's apple. The hands are thin and the arms are too. I stand up quickly, but he's got me in a hold.
"It's little bitch cunts like you that fuck us all up," he says in my ear.
"Get the fuck away from me!"
The voice of a girl on the floor gets the lights turned on. A bouncer heads toward us from the back. The man lets me go and heads for the exit. I push him. He turns around and grabs my face, runs me back to the bar. I punch him. I've never thrown a punch before and don't even know if I've made contact. I punch again and keep on punching. His face. His chest. He looks furious with me and dodges some of them, trying to catch my arms. My knuckles are bloody and sore. My cheeks sting. He pushes his fingertips into them. The bouncer is a few feet away. I twist my face out of the guy's hands and head for the exit. My cel phone begins to ring. People look at me and someone behind me. Must be the bouncer.
The air is fresh now and I climb into a cab. The phone call was George. The stings were tears in wounds.
The cab takes me to my car and I drive for two hours to the edge of the suburbs. A different forest preserve. Another hour passes before I have my first visitor. He approaches slowly. I watch and close my eyes. His hand touches my cheek through the hole instead. I stare at the hair on his knuckles.
"You got a little beat up there," he says. "What's your name?"
Sunday, January 13, 2008
On Time
I'm late. I'm not so late that I can give it up, sacrifice my job, potential, good standing, but I'm late enough to put it in serious jeopardy. Late again. Four years on time and then I met him. When he's not stealing my time and body, he's stealing my thoughts and ambition, and I give them to him gladly, like flicking away a winning lottery ticket. Every minute with him is better than all that. I've got to be at work on time today, even though I can feel him back in bed, pulling me to him like a stray hair to staticky wool.
I keep my back to Nicolas, who lies in bed with a thin sheet covering him, his skin creating a shadow through it. I can't look at him and he knows why. I pick out my last pair of work pants without a come stain on them. The button on the inside is missing, but they'll hold up. The others lie in a pile in front of the dresser, waxy stain remover reflecting light on them. My mind is arguing again, that I can stay, that they won't fire me, that I deserve just a few more minutes. I show it the clock, 9:50 and I'm supposed to be there at 11:00, and let this argument go on unheeded. I'm here, Nicolas doesn't need to say, but radiates instead from a few feet behind me. I search for my belt, or rather, let my arms do it while my mind fends off this man in my bed.
Belt, I think, then tuck shirt in, find socks, put on shoes, they're under the table in the dining room, and then get the hell out of here.
Hand on my back, I trip on flat floor. Pants undone and thumb and forefinger on the zipper. I inhale deeply, looking for conviction under all this.
"I've got to go."
"You can stay for a little bit. Take a cab."
I can take a cab! Nicolas is a genius!
I don't have cash for a cab.
The hands enter my pants, just as warm as me, but exotic, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly, though it's from another puzzle. My hand grips the door jamb to keep steady. I've done the math. Getting money and then a cab will take just as long as taking the train. I could take him with me! Wrap him around me in the back seat, nourish myself before I face the day without him.
Falling in love is madness. He's not a teddy bear, for fuck's sake.
I turn to the dresser, ready to reach for the socks as soon as the belt is on, but my pants have dropped. Nicolas is on the floor, fingers hooked into my underwear and dropping that too. My cock enters his mouth, my eyes roll back and my hands struggle for a hold on the dresser. If he's fast enough, if I'm fast enough, I can have this and my job.
No, I'm late already!
"No."
But I haven't moved. He has, wrapped my knees in his arms and started to work me. I shake my head violently and hold his chin. "No." With regret like I'm about to jump into a volcano, I slide out of his mouth and look down on him. "I'm really late."
I get the socks and pull my pants and underwear back up. Running now, I make it into a chair at the dining room table. Sock on foot, other sock on other foot. Erection not going down, but will be hidden by coat. Shoe. Shoe. Hands slide down my arms, pull them back. My neck is kissed. My cock presses into my belt buckle and aches there.
"Call in," he says.
"I called in last week."
"You're still sick."
"I really have got to be there today."
"You've got to be here today."
"Shh."
I stand up, feet in shoes, and walk toward the door. He grabs my belt and pulls me back to him. My eyes close and his hands run down my chest, down my thigh, up and over my ass. I'm swaying, but he holds me. He turns to my front, presses his ear to my chest. He's listening to my heart beat. It's for him. He knows that.
"Nicolas, no. I've got to go." I'm whining now, haven't heard that voice since I was fifteen. I hold his head and kiss the top of it, pull away from him with the almost audible rip of velcro. If I leave now, I'll be five minutes late at best. My coat is in the closet. I put it on, make a break for the back door.
"Kiss me goodbye, at least," he says, his lips chapped from our week together. We fall together, and my heart drops into my stomach. The word "no" floats somewhere. Somewhere else.
My belt is undone again. My pants are undone again. They make a figure eight at my ankles. My shirt is twisted in his hand. My cock is in his mouth. I'm home.
He pulls, sucks, lifts me. My mind twists into my body and my knees fall into his chest. A clock ticks with his mouth, in one thousand, out two thousand. My head presses into the wall hard. In. Out.
"Nicolas. I don't want to leave you ever."
Time evaporates. I've been here for hours. I've been here for ten seconds. He holds me up, cupping my ass in his hands. My feet slide and catch on the floor. He pulls off of me.
"What!" I crack out.
"You can go."
I press my cock down and shove it into his mouth, hold him by the ears, fuck his head. I'm coming bigger these days with him. I'm losing whole parts of myself in him. When the drop comes before the orgasm now, it's somewhere underneath the floorboards.
And it is. My arms rip at the air, and I call for gods that I don't even believe in. I empty into him, another piece of myself in him. He pulls it clean from my body, absorbs every drop.
"You hate your job anyway, right?" he says, his mouth pressing into my thigh.
I don't hate anything but leaving.
I keep my back to Nicolas, who lies in bed with a thin sheet covering him, his skin creating a shadow through it. I can't look at him and he knows why. I pick out my last pair of work pants without a come stain on them. The button on the inside is missing, but they'll hold up. The others lie in a pile in front of the dresser, waxy stain remover reflecting light on them. My mind is arguing again, that I can stay, that they won't fire me, that I deserve just a few more minutes. I show it the clock, 9:50 and I'm supposed to be there at 11:00, and let this argument go on unheeded. I'm here, Nicolas doesn't need to say, but radiates instead from a few feet behind me. I search for my belt, or rather, let my arms do it while my mind fends off this man in my bed.
Belt, I think, then tuck shirt in, find socks, put on shoes, they're under the table in the dining room, and then get the hell out of here.
Hand on my back, I trip on flat floor. Pants undone and thumb and forefinger on the zipper. I inhale deeply, looking for conviction under all this.
"I've got to go."
"You can stay for a little bit. Take a cab."
I can take a cab! Nicolas is a genius!
I don't have cash for a cab.
The hands enter my pants, just as warm as me, but exotic, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly, though it's from another puzzle. My hand grips the door jamb to keep steady. I've done the math. Getting money and then a cab will take just as long as taking the train. I could take him with me! Wrap him around me in the back seat, nourish myself before I face the day without him.
Falling in love is madness. He's not a teddy bear, for fuck's sake.
I turn to the dresser, ready to reach for the socks as soon as the belt is on, but my pants have dropped. Nicolas is on the floor, fingers hooked into my underwear and dropping that too. My cock enters his mouth, my eyes roll back and my hands struggle for a hold on the dresser. If he's fast enough, if I'm fast enough, I can have this and my job.
No, I'm late already!
"No."
But I haven't moved. He has, wrapped my knees in his arms and started to work me. I shake my head violently and hold his chin. "No." With regret like I'm about to jump into a volcano, I slide out of his mouth and look down on him. "I'm really late."
I get the socks and pull my pants and underwear back up. Running now, I make it into a chair at the dining room table. Sock on foot, other sock on other foot. Erection not going down, but will be hidden by coat. Shoe. Shoe. Hands slide down my arms, pull them back. My neck is kissed. My cock presses into my belt buckle and aches there.
"Call in," he says.
"I called in last week."
"You're still sick."
"I really have got to be there today."
"You've got to be here today."
"Shh."
I stand up, feet in shoes, and walk toward the door. He grabs my belt and pulls me back to him. My eyes close and his hands run down my chest, down my thigh, up and over my ass. I'm swaying, but he holds me. He turns to my front, presses his ear to my chest. He's listening to my heart beat. It's for him. He knows that.
"Nicolas, no. I've got to go." I'm whining now, haven't heard that voice since I was fifteen. I hold his head and kiss the top of it, pull away from him with the almost audible rip of velcro. If I leave now, I'll be five minutes late at best. My coat is in the closet. I put it on, make a break for the back door.
"Kiss me goodbye, at least," he says, his lips chapped from our week together. We fall together, and my heart drops into my stomach. The word "no" floats somewhere. Somewhere else.
My belt is undone again. My pants are undone again. They make a figure eight at my ankles. My shirt is twisted in his hand. My cock is in his mouth. I'm home.
He pulls, sucks, lifts me. My mind twists into my body and my knees fall into his chest. A clock ticks with his mouth, in one thousand, out two thousand. My head presses into the wall hard. In. Out.
"Nicolas. I don't want to leave you ever."
Time evaporates. I've been here for hours. I've been here for ten seconds. He holds me up, cupping my ass in his hands. My feet slide and catch on the floor. He pulls off of me.
"What!" I crack out.
"You can go."
I press my cock down and shove it into his mouth, hold him by the ears, fuck his head. I'm coming bigger these days with him. I'm losing whole parts of myself in him. When the drop comes before the orgasm now, it's somewhere underneath the floorboards.
And it is. My arms rip at the air, and I call for gods that I don't even believe in. I empty into him, another piece of myself in him. He pulls it clean from my body, absorbs every drop.
"You hate your job anyway, right?" he says, his mouth pressing into my thigh.
I don't hate anything but leaving.
Monday, January 7, 2008
The Views
The buildings, though they didn't seem to be tall enough, blinked for very low and confused-flying aircraft. She'd meant to do it in the car, waiting for the sun to go down, showing herself off to drivers in taller vehicles. He liked her to do that. He wanted men to want her, projected himself into their shoes, out at a restaurant with a peek at her pussy across the room, wanderers in a public park finding them fucking against a tree. It would make his night to be one of them, a lucky stumbler-upon in the middle of a dreary day, suddenly struck by sex, a favor of a glance or a stare. He'd lifted her skirt in the car, but she didn't care for it in the daylight, and forced her book down to her panties.
And now he slept, the television and the sheets of a hotel room like Mickey Finns to him. She looked out onto this miniature city, the one skyscraper, put up by some local enterprise to justify a skyline, and squinted the curtains shut across it. A butter knife, the handle pleasingly round and bent at the tip, the cheap hotel hand and body lotion, enough for her. She took a long look back at him, his face slack and neck bent against the pillows, and sat on the edge of the bed. The lotion popped a few air bubbles, but produced a liquidy cream full of too much alcohol. She maneuvered it to her clit on careful fingers, losing some of it on the outer lips, but enough to start. It was cold. The alcohol evaporated and took her heat with it, but then it seemed to burn, and she held herself open. She glanced at him again and leaned back, flat on the bed, pulling the butter knife from under her shoulderblade. She swiped across her clit a few times with it, cold too like the lotion, and plunged the handle inside of her, the bent part pointing up, the blade dull enough to grip tightly when it came to that.
The pads of her fingers slipped and flickered. Her back began to tense. Sugar entered her veins and she breathed faster and deeper, though she was just as quiet. The world around her lost importance and she fell away, her body walking her on all fours through its jungle.
The sound of nylon cord zipping through a pulley startled her, followed by the scrape of small metal wheels in a track. She swore inside and dropped her hands to her sides out of habit, one taking the lotion under her back. The butter knife fell to the carpet. His lips were above hers, but they would not touch. He held her hands down to the bed.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, and his lips pulled the way they sometimes did, the half smile that showed just the tips of his teeth and rounded his eyes, "but I'm curious."
She'd been two-thirds of the way there and buzzed under it. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, but she kept silent. Please, she thought anyway, don't drag this out, finish it or go away. He knew this, of course, and breathed on her neck for a moment before continuing. Her hairs raised everywhere.
"What were you thinking about?" he said.
She said nothing. He continued to hold her still.
"How many men?" he asked.
Nothing.
"How many women?"
His mouth didn't touch her, but scaled and dropped along her body.
"Were you in diapers?"
She was meant to scoff and deny, but she managed a frown of disbelief instead.
"You were in diapers!"
"What? No!"
"Now we're getting somewhere." He kissed the inside of her thigh. She had to stop herself from slapping them shut. She froze and waited, but he stopped. "Tell me more. Tell me about the baseball team and the locker room."
"Please just touch me."
"Not until you tell me."
"I was on a table...."
He kissed her ear, "In a meat packing plant?"
"No," she said. She tried to push her thighs together for the friction, but he clamped them open with his own.
"Go on," he said, and licked the very tip of her nipple. "Was I there at the table?"
"Yes."
He moved into the space between her thighs. His cock made contact with her through her sleeping shorts.
"And what was I doing?"
"You were watching."
He thrust against her hard. It wasn't enough.
She continued. "I'd been plugged," she said. He ran his fingers along her skin, skirting her pussy. "Oh, please touch me."
"Plugged?"
"Food," she said. His head cocked. "Cucumbers, carrots, sauces. Don't make me tell you anymore."
"Go on." His fingers held her open and he pressed into her clit. He straddled her thigh and humped it slowly.
"A man was eating it off of me."
He began to stroke her and she clenched frozen again. Her whole body throbbed. He moved slowly, though, teasing her.
"And I was watching."
"The man, mmm, the man fucked me with the cucumber as he bit things off of my skin. He... he.... Oh God."
"He what?"
Her eyes had been closed but she was curious. She glanced at him and found him stroking himself with his other hand.
"He was getting me off with two baby carrots."
He laughed.
"Shut up!"
"Come on," he said, and turned her legs to the window. "I just wanted to know what you think about. This is what I think about."
The whole city lay before her and she closed her eyes again, despite herself, thinking of the baby carrots and the man.
His breaths got shorter, darker. He shivered and fell into her shoulders, stroking her. She felt his come cool slowly on her breasts. Her knees rose up and with a howl, new pleasure scooped out of her, he slowly made her come, shaking the bed, her whoops bending down to the streets.
"There," he said, and kissed her. She crawled up under the covers and listened the return of the metal wheels and the nylon through the pulleys.
And now he slept, the television and the sheets of a hotel room like Mickey Finns to him. She looked out onto this miniature city, the one skyscraper, put up by some local enterprise to justify a skyline, and squinted the curtains shut across it. A butter knife, the handle pleasingly round and bent at the tip, the cheap hotel hand and body lotion, enough for her. She took a long look back at him, his face slack and neck bent against the pillows, and sat on the edge of the bed. The lotion popped a few air bubbles, but produced a liquidy cream full of too much alcohol. She maneuvered it to her clit on careful fingers, losing some of it on the outer lips, but enough to start. It was cold. The alcohol evaporated and took her heat with it, but then it seemed to burn, and she held herself open. She glanced at him again and leaned back, flat on the bed, pulling the butter knife from under her shoulderblade. She swiped across her clit a few times with it, cold too like the lotion, and plunged the handle inside of her, the bent part pointing up, the blade dull enough to grip tightly when it came to that.
The pads of her fingers slipped and flickered. Her back began to tense. Sugar entered her veins and she breathed faster and deeper, though she was just as quiet. The world around her lost importance and she fell away, her body walking her on all fours through its jungle.
The sound of nylon cord zipping through a pulley startled her, followed by the scrape of small metal wheels in a track. She swore inside and dropped her hands to her sides out of habit, one taking the lotion under her back. The butter knife fell to the carpet. His lips were above hers, but they would not touch. He held her hands down to the bed.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, and his lips pulled the way they sometimes did, the half smile that showed just the tips of his teeth and rounded his eyes, "but I'm curious."
She'd been two-thirds of the way there and buzzed under it. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, but she kept silent. Please, she thought anyway, don't drag this out, finish it or go away. He knew this, of course, and breathed on her neck for a moment before continuing. Her hairs raised everywhere.
"What were you thinking about?" he said.
She said nothing. He continued to hold her still.
"How many men?" he asked.
Nothing.
"How many women?"
His mouth didn't touch her, but scaled and dropped along her body.
"Were you in diapers?"
She was meant to scoff and deny, but she managed a frown of disbelief instead.
"You were in diapers!"
"What? No!"
"Now we're getting somewhere." He kissed the inside of her thigh. She had to stop herself from slapping them shut. She froze and waited, but he stopped. "Tell me more. Tell me about the baseball team and the locker room."
"Please just touch me."
"Not until you tell me."
"I was on a table...."
He kissed her ear, "In a meat packing plant?"
"No," she said. She tried to push her thighs together for the friction, but he clamped them open with his own.
"Go on," he said, and licked the very tip of her nipple. "Was I there at the table?"
"Yes."
He moved into the space between her thighs. His cock made contact with her through her sleeping shorts.
"And what was I doing?"
"You were watching."
He thrust against her hard. It wasn't enough.
She continued. "I'd been plugged," she said. He ran his fingers along her skin, skirting her pussy. "Oh, please touch me."
"Plugged?"
"Food," she said. His head cocked. "Cucumbers, carrots, sauces. Don't make me tell you anymore."
"Go on." His fingers held her open and he pressed into her clit. He straddled her thigh and humped it slowly.
"A man was eating it off of me."
He began to stroke her and she clenched frozen again. Her whole body throbbed. He moved slowly, though, teasing her.
"And I was watching."
"The man, mmm, the man fucked me with the cucumber as he bit things off of my skin. He... he.... Oh God."
"He what?"
Her eyes had been closed but she was curious. She glanced at him and found him stroking himself with his other hand.
"He was getting me off with two baby carrots."
He laughed.
"Shut up!"
"Come on," he said, and turned her legs to the window. "I just wanted to know what you think about. This is what I think about."
The whole city lay before her and she closed her eyes again, despite herself, thinking of the baby carrots and the man.
His breaths got shorter, darker. He shivered and fell into her shoulders, stroking her. She felt his come cool slowly on her breasts. Her knees rose up and with a howl, new pleasure scooped out of her, he slowly made her come, shaking the bed, her whoops bending down to the streets.
"There," he said, and kissed her. She crawled up under the covers and listened the return of the metal wheels and the nylon through the pulleys.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
