This week promises to be as busy as last one, so I'm just going to post a little bit of this story every day. Check back every day now through Friday.
My job is to lay there. So I do. I lie across a bench just wide enough to keep me comfortable and balanced. My chest has been waxed and my pubes trimmed. There’s nothing quite like not one, but two grown adults discussing just the right length and shape of your pubic hair. I’ve had a long and impersonal pedicure, whole parts of my feet shaved off by what looked like a miniature cheese slicer. I tried not to giggle, but when I did they ignored me. My eyebrows have been shaped, a woman, breathing on my face, her fingers on my cheekbones, gently plucked bit by painful bit away as I tried not to look down her blouse. I’ve had a facial, grey mud on my face spied over a copy of Maxim in the mirror. I was scared for a moment, then caught myself and laughed.
A woman’s fingers run over my chest. The women here are of the older, richer sort. They have wrinkles, but they’ve also have work done. Their fingers look pliant under the weight of UFO-sized rocks. This one is the same, the diamond on her left hand only slightly outweighed by the sapphire on her right. I look at her and she looks down cooly, deferring to me a polite smile.
“Close your eyes,” she says, half under a spell of her creation and mine. I close them and she continues to lightly stroke my skin. It feels strangely numb without hair. The feeling is incredibly subtle. I give into it, if only to figure it out. It continues, my nipples run across, the insides of my arms caressed, my side run down. My thighs are handled and the hair is swiped backward. It tickles as it slowly falls back. A finger then slides up the bottom of my cock. I’m surprised to sense that it’s hard. I feel a flick of the tongue and am left there to squirm. I wait a little while and open one eye. The woman has reentered the crowd, though a few women have locked eyes with my pelvic region. I lean my head back and close my eyes again.
There is a girl behind me, but I have to strain to see her. We have a mirror couple across the room, but they are hidden behind a wall of the wealthy. The girl behind me is beautiful, as thoroughly coiffed as I am, and though I’ve strained to make eye contact, we haven’t caught each other.
Lips envelop the tip of my cock and the sensation is so unexpected and perfect that I jump. I look down and find a man’s face in profile, still in his tuxedo. I can feel the wool brush my legs. A woman hovers above him, gives me a gentle smile and slides a hand between the man’s legs. The woman is dignified, aging well, in a dress more elegance than sex. Her hair is light red and falls in spots out of the pins holding it back in a planned way. I keep eye contact with her while the man twists lips and tongue around me. My mouth is pursed, the man knowing what he’s doing, and I have to blink out a couple of surges before I can return to her. She gives the man in the tuxedo a little slap and he stands erect, eyebrows raised and looking down at my body. The woman exhales fully, puts her hand in the man’s belt and pulls him away. I’ve never had a man do that before, and I figured it would be a “his loss, I won’t be hard” thing, it wasn’t. His lips burned into my cock like the feeling that you’re still wearing a hat once you’ve taken it off. I feel them for ten more minutes, my head straining for the girl. I can just make out another woman bent over her, kissing her gently.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Razor, the Tape and the Man
For the first time, I bring you a true story. Not me, though. A kind gentleman, capable of a deluge of flattery and really fucking great ideas sent me this plotline. He's here, though there's not much to see. He says this happened to him. Glad it did.
The razor has no bite to it, but a simple, numbing danger. Jay is handling her completely impersonally, her back against the tiled blue and grey of the shower. He flattens her thighs as he opens them against his palm, only to press the other one away. Her neck is bent against the wall and she’s panting, panting already and they haven’t anywhere near begun yet. She can’t move for fear of being cut and though he has not cut her, will not cut her, she feels the slight wavering in her trust all the same. Her hands are in fists behind her back. He’s not thinking about any of this. He frowns at his duty and handles methodically, half-hypnotized by the tiny detail in it. She doesn’t say a word to interrupt him.
He stops at the last fold before her ass, gives a final check, pressing her pussy lips to examine them, one at a time, then lets them go. He stands, bends the shower water over to himself to straighten his matted hair, stretches his arms and leaves her in the shower. “Clean yourself up now,” he says. She takes the showerhead back to her direction and pours the water over her face until she can regain her control.
When she’s done, nodded at her resolve, had a good grin and exited the bathroom in a towel, she pats, barefoot, to the bedroom and lays down. She covers herself in the blankets and waits there until it’s warm enough to take off the towel. Jay comes in, dressed in a tight t-shirt and low-cut jeans that drop the pockets below his ass. He looks gorgeous as a gay man, but she doesn’t tell him so, doesn’t want to remind him. She’ll find this easier if all of the transition is in her mind, rather than spoken. He moves the towel and pulls the sheet back to reveal her. She looks down too. She has smallish breasts, but they’re still breasts, and the lack of the pouf of pubic hair leaves no doubt that she has no penis. She’s never been what anyone would term “curvy.” She has broad shoulders and barely a dip at the sides. While she looks at this, a new sound appears, one of the rip of surgical tape.
Rrrip.
“Your name will still be Aiden.”
He holds her left breast up and straight and lays the tape across it, just to left of the nipple.
Rrrip.
“It’s a man’s name too. That part’s easy.”
More on the other side of the nipple.
Rrrip. Rrrip. Two more strips on either side.
“Sit up and jump around a bit.”
She does and he nods.
“Good enough,” he says.
Rrrip. The other breast.
“But you’re a ‘he’ from now on.”
Rrrip.
“You’ve got a dick and a hairy ass and everyone’s assumed that you want a girl your whole life.”
Rrrip. Rrrip.
“Sit up and bounce again.”
She does. He examines them for symmetry.
“Lie back. Pull your legs as far apart as you can.”
Rrrip.
“But you don’t,” Jay continues. “You’ve got a secret. You’ve sat through too many sporting events now and you’re done. You want what you want.”
Rrrip.
“Cock, that’s what you want. And tonight, you know you’re getting it.”
The strips are now laid sideways across her pussy, thigh to thigh. He has to pinch the lips together so her clit is untouched. Rrrip. Rrrip. There is something small and smooth now. He pushes it inside her. Rrrip. It’s locked in.
“Plugged,” he says, patting it to make sure it’s flush. “No more pussy.”
A few more strips of tape are pulled and placed for good measure and he stands back to examine his work. “Okay, get dressed,” he says.
She stands and gets the clothes that she hung up on the closet door, a loose flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. She puts them on the bed. One last thing. She’d thought of using socks, the old standby, but decided instead on an oil-filled balloon. She places it across the front of her pelvis and tapes it too in several places. They’re men’s jeans and she only pulls them up to mid-hip. They fall convincingly on the balloon. She stares at the bulge as she would any other she’s ever seen. The shirt is pulled over her head. She combs her short hair flat against her scalp with a bend above the forehead. No makeup, no deodorant, no props.
Aiden looks in the mirror and sighs. He looks hot as a man, he decides.
There’s a man at Aiden’s job who walks with a slight lilt due to a football injury in high school. It’s not unattractive. His bottom just swings a little more on his left leg. His right kicks out and completes the balance with a little flip at the toe. It’s a punishing-the-sidewalk kind of grind, a cowboy thing. Aiden practiced all week and has it down now. He walks to the bar stool, kicks a knee around it and turns himself onto it. His elbows stretch comfortably across the padded edge of the bar, his knees, also comfortably, far apart. He hasn’t said anything yet, isn’t as sure about his voice. Jay orders, the back of his arms flexing as he gets his wallet out of his pants. Aiden watches this and wonders if anyone’s watching him. He takes his cigarettes and lighter out of his wallet and lets them slide to a stop on the bar. He lights one and leaves it in his mouth for a good puff. When he takes it out, he holds it between the inner bones of his fore- and middle finger.
“When did you know you were gay?” Jay asks him, his face turning a little. Aiden wonders if he’s beginning to see him as a man.
Aiden lets out a good cough from the cigarette, hoping loose phlegm will make the slight deepness easier. He can talk, but not loud and with very little air vibrating the vocal chords. He is almost breathy, but it’s controlled.
“I always kind of knew, you know? But I was sure when I got my first kiss. There was nothing. No there there. Like making out with a very large fish.” Aiden takes another hit of the cigarette and thinks. “I just couldn’t wait for it to stop.”
“Uh-huh,” Jay says. He blinked a little when Aiden mentioned kissing a girl. He wondered if this was working on him. He squeezed the thing in his hips to confirm.
“Yeah, that was it right there,” Aiden says. “Gay.”
Jay pauses a while and takes a minor sip of his drink. The Halloweeness of the night is beginning to disappear. Both of them are sure that this is happening now.
“And you want me to fuck you?” Jay says.
“Desperate for it.”
“I can’t believe it took you this long to get fucked.”
“I’m petrified.”
“Oh.”
“I mean this changes everything.”
A large hand lands on Aiden’s shoulder and he turns to see its owner. When the hand landed, an unconscious force drove his shoulders forward in a wince, but he put them back bravely to cover it right away. And he didn’t even think about it.
“My name’s William,” says an effeminate man with a bit of dance in his step and a drunk, eager smile. He holds his hand out. Jay casually looks forward, but listens. Aiden shakes the hand straight on, with a relieved smile when he finds it’s one of those weak wristed shakes. No grab for his small bones.
“Aiden,” Aiden says.
“You’re adorable.”
“This is my partner, Jay.”
“Ohhh. Oops. Jay?”
Jay looks up at William.
“You’ve got a fine man here,” William says and pecks Aiden on the cheek before walking away. Aiden and Jay exchange looks for a moment and Aiden decides to own it.
“Drunk,” he says.
Jay is simply fascinated, lets a small smile edge his lips. He takes Aiden by the shoulders and mashes him in a fighting kiss. Aiden feels that he is a man, kisses hard and rough, biting Jay’s lips and pushing his shoulders. And Jay fights back, holding Aiden by the collar, unnecessary roughness and hooking tongue.
“You ready, rookie?” Jay asks.
“Yes.”
“You ready for your first big cock?”
“Yes.”
“Pay for the drinks.”
Aiden reaches for his wallet in the back of his jeans, perfectly scared and shaking. The same trust faltering as it did in the shower. He’s never loved Jay so much, never wanted to please him so much, to be brave and perfect. He feels what can only be described as a disembodied-limb hard on in his jeans.
On the street, they suddenly realize that they can’t kiss, can’t hold hands. They take their need to touch and filter it into guy-games, kicking the back of each other’s knees out at stoplights, hip-checking each other off the sidewalk, punching the other’s shoulder at a car with one headlight. Aiden punches hard, his thumb out of the fist to save it. Instincts he never knew he had appear. The limped cowboy walk is natural now. He doesn’t think of it. And when he closes his eyes, he sees Jay’s cock, full and three-dimensional huge. He wants it inside of him. He can take it.
At the apartment, fumbling for his keys, Aiden is pressed into the door and he feels Jay’s cock against his ass. Jay bites his shoulderblade hard, slides his hand around Aiden’s stomach, dry-humps him, pointy and meaning it. They are under hypnosis, the fact that it’s not real so unattractive and worthless. They are beyond letting it in.
“You want me to fuck you, boy?” Jay says.
Aiden doesn’t answer. He grinds back for a yes.
Keys are found and mounted into the keyhole. Door is flung open and Aiden, Jay attached to him, are vaulted into the apartment. Bed is reached, Aiden panting like a heart attack, Jay doing the same, mount that. Jeans are disposed of in wrinkled figure eights. Tightie whities are fumbled off. There is ass, bent, eager, frightened in the air. There is cock, its own purpose.
“I’m just going to use my fingers first,” Jay says, a bottle of silicone lube a quarter drained on one hand. “This is going to feel very strange.”
He slips a finger inside and Aiden finds that his first reaction is anger. What the hell is that? That’s not where that’s supposed to be! Another finger is put in. Aiden cringes a bit, fights it, then finds a wash of sex over him. He can do this. Confident that the third finger will be a treat, when it comes the pain is an unwelcome intruder. He pounds the pillow and waits to get used to it.
“Are you okay?” Jay asks.
“I don’t know,” Aiden says.
He leaves the fingers for a while.
“Relax your muscles. All of them. Toes to face. There you go.”
Sex again. Jay moves the fingers, fucks him with them. The disembodied limb freaks out, screams things from “Stop it, what the fuck?” to “Oh holy Jesus on high that is the most amazing shit ever.” Aiden finds himself see-sawing on his knees, encouraging it, though the burning is sickening.
“I want you so bad,” Jay says, and for a moment Aiden is a girl again, feeling sorry for him having to wait.
“One more,” she says.
Four are in and she squeals, then grunts, a man. “Okay!” he says. “I’m okay!”
Quickly, quickly, Jesus quickly, the fingers turn to placeholders and slip out to be replaced by cock. Jay is in pure squishy zip, Aiden in impalement. The two of them freeze for a moment in shock and Jay dips beyond where his fingers were for the point of it. Jay doesn’t want to ask, but does, “Are you okay?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to start fucking you, okay?”
“Do it.”
Aiden is full of every thought ever. Aiden is full of fuck you and no really fuck me and things are good and things are too awful to be excusable and I hate and I love and what the fuck is this other thing and don’t ever ever ever stop. Aiden would really very much like Jay to have his dick cut off and Aiden would like to keep it. Here.
“Oh for the fucking Christ what the fuck is I love you and really you just my God,” he says.
“Unggh,” Jay says. Because that is what you say.
Jay stops for a moment, though he doesn’t want to, but knows he’ll be happy he did, and turns on the vibrator in what was Aiden’s pussy. Aiden grabs the pillow and takes it between his arms.
Jay says, “Oh, fuck.”
Aiden asks, “Can you feel that?”
Jay says, “Oh fuck, of course.”
Aiden says, “Go.”
Jay fucks and Aiden comes like a goddamn nuclear bomb. He’s never known this lack of control, this unstoppable surge of orgasm, this wave of ecstasy soldiers crossing his territory. He doesn’t even notice that Jay’s a person anymore and rides him like a needle in his arm. His arms flail and his life stops to record it. That was it. That was the time.
Jay came. Aiden notices it when he senses things again. Jay is bent over him and his cheek is against his back. Full of love, Aiden reaches behind him to feel the familiar rough of his armhairs. He holds them together as he falls sideways to the sheets. She reaches between her legs and turns the vibrator off. Jay languidly opens her thighs and gently pulls the tape off to let it out. They fall asleep in each other’s arms, Jay’s forearm against the left breast in the tape.
The razor has no bite to it, but a simple, numbing danger. Jay is handling her completely impersonally, her back against the tiled blue and grey of the shower. He flattens her thighs as he opens them against his palm, only to press the other one away. Her neck is bent against the wall and she’s panting, panting already and they haven’t anywhere near begun yet. She can’t move for fear of being cut and though he has not cut her, will not cut her, she feels the slight wavering in her trust all the same. Her hands are in fists behind her back. He’s not thinking about any of this. He frowns at his duty and handles methodically, half-hypnotized by the tiny detail in it. She doesn’t say a word to interrupt him.
He stops at the last fold before her ass, gives a final check, pressing her pussy lips to examine them, one at a time, then lets them go. He stands, bends the shower water over to himself to straighten his matted hair, stretches his arms and leaves her in the shower. “Clean yourself up now,” he says. She takes the showerhead back to her direction and pours the water over her face until she can regain her control.
When she’s done, nodded at her resolve, had a good grin and exited the bathroom in a towel, she pats, barefoot, to the bedroom and lays down. She covers herself in the blankets and waits there until it’s warm enough to take off the towel. Jay comes in, dressed in a tight t-shirt and low-cut jeans that drop the pockets below his ass. He looks gorgeous as a gay man, but she doesn’t tell him so, doesn’t want to remind him. She’ll find this easier if all of the transition is in her mind, rather than spoken. He moves the towel and pulls the sheet back to reveal her. She looks down too. She has smallish breasts, but they’re still breasts, and the lack of the pouf of pubic hair leaves no doubt that she has no penis. She’s never been what anyone would term “curvy.” She has broad shoulders and barely a dip at the sides. While she looks at this, a new sound appears, one of the rip of surgical tape.
Rrrip.
“Your name will still be Aiden.”
He holds her left breast up and straight and lays the tape across it, just to left of the nipple.
Rrrip.
“It’s a man’s name too. That part’s easy.”
More on the other side of the nipple.
Rrrip. Rrrip. Two more strips on either side.
“Sit up and jump around a bit.”
She does and he nods.
“Good enough,” he says.
Rrrip. The other breast.
“But you’re a ‘he’ from now on.”
Rrrip.
“You’ve got a dick and a hairy ass and everyone’s assumed that you want a girl your whole life.”
Rrrip. Rrrip.
“Sit up and bounce again.”
She does. He examines them for symmetry.
“Lie back. Pull your legs as far apart as you can.”
Rrrip.
“But you don’t,” Jay continues. “You’ve got a secret. You’ve sat through too many sporting events now and you’re done. You want what you want.”
Rrrip.
“Cock, that’s what you want. And tonight, you know you’re getting it.”
The strips are now laid sideways across her pussy, thigh to thigh. He has to pinch the lips together so her clit is untouched. Rrrip. Rrrip. There is something small and smooth now. He pushes it inside her. Rrrip. It’s locked in.
“Plugged,” he says, patting it to make sure it’s flush. “No more pussy.”
A few more strips of tape are pulled and placed for good measure and he stands back to examine his work. “Okay, get dressed,” he says.
She stands and gets the clothes that she hung up on the closet door, a loose flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. She puts them on the bed. One last thing. She’d thought of using socks, the old standby, but decided instead on an oil-filled balloon. She places it across the front of her pelvis and tapes it too in several places. They’re men’s jeans and she only pulls them up to mid-hip. They fall convincingly on the balloon. She stares at the bulge as she would any other she’s ever seen. The shirt is pulled over her head. She combs her short hair flat against her scalp with a bend above the forehead. No makeup, no deodorant, no props.
Aiden looks in the mirror and sighs. He looks hot as a man, he decides.
There’s a man at Aiden’s job who walks with a slight lilt due to a football injury in high school. It’s not unattractive. His bottom just swings a little more on his left leg. His right kicks out and completes the balance with a little flip at the toe. It’s a punishing-the-sidewalk kind of grind, a cowboy thing. Aiden practiced all week and has it down now. He walks to the bar stool, kicks a knee around it and turns himself onto it. His elbows stretch comfortably across the padded edge of the bar, his knees, also comfortably, far apart. He hasn’t said anything yet, isn’t as sure about his voice. Jay orders, the back of his arms flexing as he gets his wallet out of his pants. Aiden watches this and wonders if anyone’s watching him. He takes his cigarettes and lighter out of his wallet and lets them slide to a stop on the bar. He lights one and leaves it in his mouth for a good puff. When he takes it out, he holds it between the inner bones of his fore- and middle finger.
“When did you know you were gay?” Jay asks him, his face turning a little. Aiden wonders if he’s beginning to see him as a man.
Aiden lets out a good cough from the cigarette, hoping loose phlegm will make the slight deepness easier. He can talk, but not loud and with very little air vibrating the vocal chords. He is almost breathy, but it’s controlled.
“I always kind of knew, you know? But I was sure when I got my first kiss. There was nothing. No there there. Like making out with a very large fish.” Aiden takes another hit of the cigarette and thinks. “I just couldn’t wait for it to stop.”
“Uh-huh,” Jay says. He blinked a little when Aiden mentioned kissing a girl. He wondered if this was working on him. He squeezed the thing in his hips to confirm.
“Yeah, that was it right there,” Aiden says. “Gay.”
Jay pauses a while and takes a minor sip of his drink. The Halloweeness of the night is beginning to disappear. Both of them are sure that this is happening now.
“And you want me to fuck you?” Jay says.
“Desperate for it.”
“I can’t believe it took you this long to get fucked.”
“I’m petrified.”
“Oh.”
“I mean this changes everything.”
A large hand lands on Aiden’s shoulder and he turns to see its owner. When the hand landed, an unconscious force drove his shoulders forward in a wince, but he put them back bravely to cover it right away. And he didn’t even think about it.
“My name’s William,” says an effeminate man with a bit of dance in his step and a drunk, eager smile. He holds his hand out. Jay casually looks forward, but listens. Aiden shakes the hand straight on, with a relieved smile when he finds it’s one of those weak wristed shakes. No grab for his small bones.
“Aiden,” Aiden says.
“You’re adorable.”
“This is my partner, Jay.”
“Ohhh. Oops. Jay?”
Jay looks up at William.
“You’ve got a fine man here,” William says and pecks Aiden on the cheek before walking away. Aiden and Jay exchange looks for a moment and Aiden decides to own it.
“Drunk,” he says.
Jay is simply fascinated, lets a small smile edge his lips. He takes Aiden by the shoulders and mashes him in a fighting kiss. Aiden feels that he is a man, kisses hard and rough, biting Jay’s lips and pushing his shoulders. And Jay fights back, holding Aiden by the collar, unnecessary roughness and hooking tongue.
“You ready, rookie?” Jay asks.
“Yes.”
“You ready for your first big cock?”
“Yes.”
“Pay for the drinks.”
Aiden reaches for his wallet in the back of his jeans, perfectly scared and shaking. The same trust faltering as it did in the shower. He’s never loved Jay so much, never wanted to please him so much, to be brave and perfect. He feels what can only be described as a disembodied-limb hard on in his jeans.
On the street, they suddenly realize that they can’t kiss, can’t hold hands. They take their need to touch and filter it into guy-games, kicking the back of each other’s knees out at stoplights, hip-checking each other off the sidewalk, punching the other’s shoulder at a car with one headlight. Aiden punches hard, his thumb out of the fist to save it. Instincts he never knew he had appear. The limped cowboy walk is natural now. He doesn’t think of it. And when he closes his eyes, he sees Jay’s cock, full and three-dimensional huge. He wants it inside of him. He can take it.
At the apartment, fumbling for his keys, Aiden is pressed into the door and he feels Jay’s cock against his ass. Jay bites his shoulderblade hard, slides his hand around Aiden’s stomach, dry-humps him, pointy and meaning it. They are under hypnosis, the fact that it’s not real so unattractive and worthless. They are beyond letting it in.
“You want me to fuck you, boy?” Jay says.
Aiden doesn’t answer. He grinds back for a yes.
Keys are found and mounted into the keyhole. Door is flung open and Aiden, Jay attached to him, are vaulted into the apartment. Bed is reached, Aiden panting like a heart attack, Jay doing the same, mount that. Jeans are disposed of in wrinkled figure eights. Tightie whities are fumbled off. There is ass, bent, eager, frightened in the air. There is cock, its own purpose.
“I’m just going to use my fingers first,” Jay says, a bottle of silicone lube a quarter drained on one hand. “This is going to feel very strange.”
He slips a finger inside and Aiden finds that his first reaction is anger. What the hell is that? That’s not where that’s supposed to be! Another finger is put in. Aiden cringes a bit, fights it, then finds a wash of sex over him. He can do this. Confident that the third finger will be a treat, when it comes the pain is an unwelcome intruder. He pounds the pillow and waits to get used to it.
“Are you okay?” Jay asks.
“I don’t know,” Aiden says.
He leaves the fingers for a while.
“Relax your muscles. All of them. Toes to face. There you go.”
Sex again. Jay moves the fingers, fucks him with them. The disembodied limb freaks out, screams things from “Stop it, what the fuck?” to “Oh holy Jesus on high that is the most amazing shit ever.” Aiden finds himself see-sawing on his knees, encouraging it, though the burning is sickening.
“I want you so bad,” Jay says, and for a moment Aiden is a girl again, feeling sorry for him having to wait.
“One more,” she says.
Four are in and she squeals, then grunts, a man. “Okay!” he says. “I’m okay!”
Quickly, quickly, Jesus quickly, the fingers turn to placeholders and slip out to be replaced by cock. Jay is in pure squishy zip, Aiden in impalement. The two of them freeze for a moment in shock and Jay dips beyond where his fingers were for the point of it. Jay doesn’t want to ask, but does, “Are you okay?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to start fucking you, okay?”
“Do it.”
Aiden is full of every thought ever. Aiden is full of fuck you and no really fuck me and things are good and things are too awful to be excusable and I hate and I love and what the fuck is this other thing and don’t ever ever ever stop. Aiden would really very much like Jay to have his dick cut off and Aiden would like to keep it. Here.
“Oh for the fucking Christ what the fuck is I love you and really you just my God,” he says.
“Unggh,” Jay says. Because that is what you say.
Jay stops for a moment, though he doesn’t want to, but knows he’ll be happy he did, and turns on the vibrator in what was Aiden’s pussy. Aiden grabs the pillow and takes it between his arms.
Jay says, “Oh, fuck.”
Aiden asks, “Can you feel that?”
Jay says, “Oh fuck, of course.”
Aiden says, “Go.”
Jay fucks and Aiden comes like a goddamn nuclear bomb. He’s never known this lack of control, this unstoppable surge of orgasm, this wave of ecstasy soldiers crossing his territory. He doesn’t even notice that Jay’s a person anymore and rides him like a needle in his arm. His arms flail and his life stops to record it. That was it. That was the time.
Jay came. Aiden notices it when he senses things again. Jay is bent over him and his cheek is against his back. Full of love, Aiden reaches behind him to feel the familiar rough of his armhairs. He holds them together as he falls sideways to the sheets. She reaches between her legs and turns the vibrator off. Jay languidly opens her thighs and gently pulls the tape off to let it out. They fall asleep in each other’s arms, Jay’s forearm against the left breast in the tape.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Red and White
Tyler wears a dark blue jacket and tie with blue jeans. He tries not to look my direction, but we’ve made eye contact several times already. What do you do? We can’t pretend we don’t know each other. I gauge how often the other partners talk to each other and try to keep us in line with that. Maybe they’re all fucking. Wouldn’t that be funny? The idea of Don and Patty all legs-in-the-air in the back of their truck would be hilarious. Don with his old-man pompadour all fallen in his face, Patty screaming about her sciatica.
I receive a text message and resist a blush. I look at it with critical eyes, but inside, a few organs are in the wrong place.
It reads:
That dress is pure liquid sex. I can’t keep my eyes off of you. Go behind that shed there and pinch your nipple for me, hard.
I put the phone back in my purse, noticing that my fingers are playing with the material of the dress. Two fingers hold a fold in place and the middle runs across the arch. I go to the side of an aluminum lean-to shed. Tyler moves so he can see me. I dip my hand inside my dress, the lowest cut I ever had, and find my nipple. I slide it between two fingers and pinch hard. Tyler’s face relaxes a little at my wince. The wince was genuine.
I feel like I should talk to someone, be social, look less like the bewitched jello-as-bones that I become so often when Tyler’s around, but my mouth has no conjugation in it, and my eyes can barely see anything but blurry greens and yellows. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed a crowd forming around me and would have stopped leaning on the cake table before the bride had to order me off of it.
While Jo-Jo and T.J. cut the cake, a miniature ambulance with a heart instead of a red cross on the side, I feel Tyler behind me, very close. I can feel his breath steam-cloud the back of my neck and feel like I need to sit down. An actual drip of pussy juice is sensed, making room for itself between the lips and the clit. I wish I could find a way to push it back and forth. When everyone claps, he lets his fingers swish my back.
No one had any idea about Jo-Jo and T.J. The wedding invitations were their first notice. T.J. simply got a job at another company before they could fire him. No one is sure that they would, but the subject’s in enough debate without Tyler and me.
The next one reads:
Did you see the bowl of Jolly Ranchers for the kids? Go get one of the red ones and slip it into your pussy in the bathroom. I like the red ones.
I walk all atremble over to the bowl, take a small handful and stuff them in my purse. I open a green one and suck it into my mouth, thinking of where the next one’s going. I rub it with my tongue. Tyler looks and I let an end peek out between my lips before I suck it back in. Inside, miraculously, there is no line for the bathroom. I close the door and lean my back on it. I raise my dress, pull my panties to the side and push the candy in after a few swipes at my clit. I’ve got to hold out, I think to myself. I’ve got to hold out.
My pussy is soaking with my thoughts, and I’m curious about how quickly hard candy will melt in it. How many licks to get to the center. I swipe a finger around the entrance to my pussy and slide it into my mouth. Salt. Musty. Sugar and the biting sour of the candy. My panties aren’t coming back from this one. With one more quick flick at the clit, my fingers unable to resist, I shut my legs and go out there.
Tyler breaks out of a conversation with the mother and father of the groom and approaches me at the drinks table. He smiles, conversationally, and in that guise, he asks, “Are you wet? Is it going to be melted by the time I can have you?”
I smile as if he’d made a joke about how drunk the fifteen-year-old nieces are. “Yes. I’ll be sticky as cotton candy by the time you get to me.” He turns and takes a sip of his drink as if we’re having a comfortable lull in the conversation. He bounces on his heels a couple of times and buttons his jacket. He points at a family member of T.J.’s who’s about to return to the Gulf behind me and to the right. The man nods at him and Tyler nods back. He says, as he does this, “I’m so hard right now I could break my buckle. It hurts. I need your pussy. I need your tit in my mouth.”
“I need your mouth,” I say, nodding somberly, the brim of my hat covering my dark and slowly blinking eyes in shadow. I’m wondering about his lips, how he can just walk around with those things all day and not even think about them.
“One hour after the dancing starts. That’s it.”
“Half,” I reply, looking at the vibrations of drink in my hand, the tiny tsunamis that ripple across it. I’d be better off with it poured over my head. I watch his thighs walk away and want mine wrapped around them.
Dinner is served, burgers and potato salad on paper plates. I sit down next to my boss, who complains about gas prices or something. I’m not sure. My phone vibrates in my purse and I jump.
It reads:
Number 17, five minutes.
I look up at Tyler, seated next to Mel, his old partner, who drives like a madman, even for an EMT. I shake my head no. I return to nodding at my boss when my phone buzzes again.
Bring your pussy to number 17 in five minutes or I’ll crawl inside your dress right where you’re sitting.
And then:
Or I could just jerk off into the potato salad.
I laugh and put the phone back in my purse before my boss, who’s gotten curious, can read it.
I look at the food, imagining that this might be something to want for some people, that even I have been “hungry” for “food” at one time or another. It ain’t happening right now.
I look up to Tyler. He’s gone.
Jo-Jo and T.J. agreed that the ambulances were good for their limousine service. They are each decorated in matching red and white. The back of the main one has a sign, “Not injured, just married.” Number 17 is parked next to it in the drive. I walk carefully in the gravel, unused to heels, unused to such practical requests at this time of the day. I get to the back of the truck and am taken suddenly, picked up in a fireman’s carry and laid out on the gurney. He throws my hat off, straps me under the top and middle seatbelts, leaving only my legs free to kick, lifts my dress unceremoniously, gets a pair of medical scissors and cuts open my pantyhose and panties, the cold of the metal against my thighs. He looks at my pussy for a moment, rapidly expanding runs appearing in the hose, exposed now and ready for him, but instead leans over my face, holding his mouth just over my own. He doesn’t kiss, but stands up instead, undoes and drops his jeans, straddles my face and holds his cock out over it. He leans forward and guides it in my mouth.
Is there a way, your pussy already swimming in a sea of itself, swollen beyond its own boundaries, your clit giving up and trying the air for friction, that you can get even more so? I didn’t think so. I was wrong. My thighs bash together and rub as hard as they can, my mouth full of Tyler’s cock, slippery and smooth and I suck it so tight and desperate, opening up the back of my throat, but gagging anyway, rolling the bottom of it back and forth on my tongue. He gasps and leans over more, holding the bottom of the jump seat, his stomach tightening above my eyes. His pubes play at my nostrils and I can smell his pre-come, let it hit that juicy center of my brain the way it does.
“I’ve got to stop,” he says, continuing. I’ve, frankly, had enough of this holding-back talk, especially since our jobs depend on no one getting curious and looking for us. I want to come right now, want him to come right now, so that we could get our minds off of this for a few hours. I crunch up and suck him deeper, take longer pulls faster, twist at the tip of him. His thighs begin to tremble and I work it harder, his knees crushing my shoulders. “I don’t care!” he says and shoots down my throat, his fingers squeaking in the naugahyde of the jump seat, stomach slapping my nose.
He holds for a few seconds and finally exhales, pulling out of my mouth, with a string of come pulling and finally snapping back to my lips.
“Dessert,” he says, and wipes his forehead with his arm.
He sees my thighs grinding each other and pulls them apart. He looks at my pussy for a second, says “You’re all pink,” and bends in. His tongue is everywhere, inside, along the lines and the folds and the soft bends, everywhere except my clit. My thighs crush his head and I begin to beg. “Stop teasing,” I say quietly. “I need.”
He lifts his head for a moment and says, “I’m not teasing, I’m eating.”
“Bastard!” I say, meaning it, grinding my head into the gurney, hooking his shoulders with my ankles and pulling. With the slightest swipe at my clit I freeze, two-thirds of the way to coming right away. He goes painfully slowly, though I twist in the belts. He gains speed for a moment and I plead with him, “Don’t stop. Keep going. Right there.” He slows. I kick his back with my heel. He starts again. “Please. Please. Please. Please.” He slows again. I kick harder. He cups his hand and drills four fingers into me holding my clit up with his thumb. He gently, gently like he’s painting details onto it, licks just the tip in flicks. My body grabs him, holds him and my nose fills with cherry Jolly Rancher and bliss. The lights on the ceiling of the ambulance blur into white, the red in the air. I come for ages, grabbing at the sheets and trying not to scream.
Screaming in an ambulance is the quickest way to get surrounded by EMTs.
I receive a text message and resist a blush. I look at it with critical eyes, but inside, a few organs are in the wrong place.
It reads:
That dress is pure liquid sex. I can’t keep my eyes off of you. Go behind that shed there and pinch your nipple for me, hard.
I put the phone back in my purse, noticing that my fingers are playing with the material of the dress. Two fingers hold a fold in place and the middle runs across the arch. I go to the side of an aluminum lean-to shed. Tyler moves so he can see me. I dip my hand inside my dress, the lowest cut I ever had, and find my nipple. I slide it between two fingers and pinch hard. Tyler’s face relaxes a little at my wince. The wince was genuine.
I feel like I should talk to someone, be social, look less like the bewitched jello-as-bones that I become so often when Tyler’s around, but my mouth has no conjugation in it, and my eyes can barely see anything but blurry greens and yellows. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed a crowd forming around me and would have stopped leaning on the cake table before the bride had to order me off of it.
While Jo-Jo and T.J. cut the cake, a miniature ambulance with a heart instead of a red cross on the side, I feel Tyler behind me, very close. I can feel his breath steam-cloud the back of my neck and feel like I need to sit down. An actual drip of pussy juice is sensed, making room for itself between the lips and the clit. I wish I could find a way to push it back and forth. When everyone claps, he lets his fingers swish my back.
No one had any idea about Jo-Jo and T.J. The wedding invitations were their first notice. T.J. simply got a job at another company before they could fire him. No one is sure that they would, but the subject’s in enough debate without Tyler and me.
The next one reads:
Did you see the bowl of Jolly Ranchers for the kids? Go get one of the red ones and slip it into your pussy in the bathroom. I like the red ones.
I walk all atremble over to the bowl, take a small handful and stuff them in my purse. I open a green one and suck it into my mouth, thinking of where the next one’s going. I rub it with my tongue. Tyler looks and I let an end peek out between my lips before I suck it back in. Inside, miraculously, there is no line for the bathroom. I close the door and lean my back on it. I raise my dress, pull my panties to the side and push the candy in after a few swipes at my clit. I’ve got to hold out, I think to myself. I’ve got to hold out.
My pussy is soaking with my thoughts, and I’m curious about how quickly hard candy will melt in it. How many licks to get to the center. I swipe a finger around the entrance to my pussy and slide it into my mouth. Salt. Musty. Sugar and the biting sour of the candy. My panties aren’t coming back from this one. With one more quick flick at the clit, my fingers unable to resist, I shut my legs and go out there.
Tyler breaks out of a conversation with the mother and father of the groom and approaches me at the drinks table. He smiles, conversationally, and in that guise, he asks, “Are you wet? Is it going to be melted by the time I can have you?”
I smile as if he’d made a joke about how drunk the fifteen-year-old nieces are. “Yes. I’ll be sticky as cotton candy by the time you get to me.” He turns and takes a sip of his drink as if we’re having a comfortable lull in the conversation. He bounces on his heels a couple of times and buttons his jacket. He points at a family member of T.J.’s who’s about to return to the Gulf behind me and to the right. The man nods at him and Tyler nods back. He says, as he does this, “I’m so hard right now I could break my buckle. It hurts. I need your pussy. I need your tit in my mouth.”
“I need your mouth,” I say, nodding somberly, the brim of my hat covering my dark and slowly blinking eyes in shadow. I’m wondering about his lips, how he can just walk around with those things all day and not even think about them.
“One hour after the dancing starts. That’s it.”
“Half,” I reply, looking at the vibrations of drink in my hand, the tiny tsunamis that ripple across it. I’d be better off with it poured over my head. I watch his thighs walk away and want mine wrapped around them.
Dinner is served, burgers and potato salad on paper plates. I sit down next to my boss, who complains about gas prices or something. I’m not sure. My phone vibrates in my purse and I jump.
It reads:
Number 17, five minutes.
I look up at Tyler, seated next to Mel, his old partner, who drives like a madman, even for an EMT. I shake my head no. I return to nodding at my boss when my phone buzzes again.
Bring your pussy to number 17 in five minutes or I’ll crawl inside your dress right where you’re sitting.
And then:
Or I could just jerk off into the potato salad.
I laugh and put the phone back in my purse before my boss, who’s gotten curious, can read it.
I look at the food, imagining that this might be something to want for some people, that even I have been “hungry” for “food” at one time or another. It ain’t happening right now.
I look up to Tyler. He’s gone.
Jo-Jo and T.J. agreed that the ambulances were good for their limousine service. They are each decorated in matching red and white. The back of the main one has a sign, “Not injured, just married.” Number 17 is parked next to it in the drive. I walk carefully in the gravel, unused to heels, unused to such practical requests at this time of the day. I get to the back of the truck and am taken suddenly, picked up in a fireman’s carry and laid out on the gurney. He throws my hat off, straps me under the top and middle seatbelts, leaving only my legs free to kick, lifts my dress unceremoniously, gets a pair of medical scissors and cuts open my pantyhose and panties, the cold of the metal against my thighs. He looks at my pussy for a moment, rapidly expanding runs appearing in the hose, exposed now and ready for him, but instead leans over my face, holding his mouth just over my own. He doesn’t kiss, but stands up instead, undoes and drops his jeans, straddles my face and holds his cock out over it. He leans forward and guides it in my mouth.
Is there a way, your pussy already swimming in a sea of itself, swollen beyond its own boundaries, your clit giving up and trying the air for friction, that you can get even more so? I didn’t think so. I was wrong. My thighs bash together and rub as hard as they can, my mouth full of Tyler’s cock, slippery and smooth and I suck it so tight and desperate, opening up the back of my throat, but gagging anyway, rolling the bottom of it back and forth on my tongue. He gasps and leans over more, holding the bottom of the jump seat, his stomach tightening above my eyes. His pubes play at my nostrils and I can smell his pre-come, let it hit that juicy center of my brain the way it does.
“I’ve got to stop,” he says, continuing. I’ve, frankly, had enough of this holding-back talk, especially since our jobs depend on no one getting curious and looking for us. I want to come right now, want him to come right now, so that we could get our minds off of this for a few hours. I crunch up and suck him deeper, take longer pulls faster, twist at the tip of him. His thighs begin to tremble and I work it harder, his knees crushing my shoulders. “I don’t care!” he says and shoots down my throat, his fingers squeaking in the naugahyde of the jump seat, stomach slapping my nose.
He holds for a few seconds and finally exhales, pulling out of my mouth, with a string of come pulling and finally snapping back to my lips.
“Dessert,” he says, and wipes his forehead with his arm.
He sees my thighs grinding each other and pulls them apart. He looks at my pussy for a second, says “You’re all pink,” and bends in. His tongue is everywhere, inside, along the lines and the folds and the soft bends, everywhere except my clit. My thighs crush his head and I begin to beg. “Stop teasing,” I say quietly. “I need.”
He lifts his head for a moment and says, “I’m not teasing, I’m eating.”
“Bastard!” I say, meaning it, grinding my head into the gurney, hooking his shoulders with my ankles and pulling. With the slightest swipe at my clit I freeze, two-thirds of the way to coming right away. He goes painfully slowly, though I twist in the belts. He gains speed for a moment and I plead with him, “Don’t stop. Keep going. Right there.” He slows. I kick his back with my heel. He starts again. “Please. Please. Please. Please.” He slows again. I kick harder. He cups his hand and drills four fingers into me holding my clit up with his thumb. He gently, gently like he’s painting details onto it, licks just the tip in flicks. My body grabs him, holds him and my nose fills with cherry Jolly Rancher and bliss. The lights on the ceiling of the ambulance blur into white, the red in the air. I come for ages, grabbing at the sheets and trying not to scream.
Screaming in an ambulance is the quickest way to get surrounded by EMTs.
Aw, Vixen!
Thanks, honeybunch!
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #93? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Do one thing every day that scares you…
“What I didn’t know-that it would turn me on as much as it hurt me.”
Interview With Deborah Jeane Palfrey, AKA The DC Madam
“I wanted to see coverage treating sex workers as just that-workers.”
Rough Sex - with pictures
“She bites, she writhes, she moans, she claws- none of which she can remember after.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Keep Britain Tidy, Gimp
Editor’s Choice
In Her Mind, the Pigeons Were Always Fucking
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Bear
Homosexual myths
Sexual powerlessness
That Thorny Bisexual Thing….
Weird things happen every day
BDSM & Fetish
Asking For A Caning
Bully (working title)
The Challenge, part 1
Command
Every blog should have a slave…
Half-Nekkid Tattoo 2
Happy HNT - Tit flash in a boat
Heel!
Overpower, part 2
Request, granted
Sex Poetry
Heaven is a place
Tonight I’m going to
Vodka Confessions
Sex Audio & Podcasts
Musical Intro #2: sexual nostalgia (Mixed Media.)
Nobilis Erotica 29 — Someone New
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Catalina loves Penelope and Odysseus
Devil’s Last Dance (PJ story)
The Dream
Film
I’m A Woman Man: Episode 5 - Hands
The Most Famous Cock in the World
My slum goddess
Vignette: 3 #2
Sex News
The Birth of The Eye of Venus
Errotica archives
Which One of My subs Is This???
Sex Humor
Kink In The Mainstream - Family Guy In Texas
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Black
Britney Caught topless with a Stranger in Hotel Pool
Half-Nekkid and Proud to Be Me
Half-Nekkid Thursday: Begging to Be Spanked
Red Handed Porn
Zurich (nsfw)
Sexy Mandy courtesy of How About Now?
Saturday, August 11, 2007
The Last Petal on the Daisy
You knew it was the last time, but you didn’t tell me. You knew, flipping me on my back, that we’d never do this again. I should have known it from when you did that. You’d never looked into my face before. I remember your green eyes looking down on me, and I remember thinking that you seemed different. That you were trying to tell me something with your stare. You were. “This is the last time,” you should have said. “I love you and this is the last time.” But I put the stare away. I figured I was imagining it. I looked to the side, letting you pump into me without looking at you. Letting you look at me, it seemed for the first time. You’d never wanted a boyfriend. You told me that. You told me you just wanted some guy to fuck every once in a while. I believed you. Every other time, you bent me down to the floor or the table or the bed or the couch by the back of my neck and fucked me hard like a machine. And I would argue with myself. He loves me. He loves me not.
He loves me not, I’d finally driven into my stupid skull after a few weeks with you, showing up at my door and dropping me to my knees. You’d jerk off over my face and I would close my eyes, waiting for the shot of hot, then cold. That was the convincer. When your come turned cold on my face before it dried.
You saw that I wouldn’t look back at you and you turned me on my side. I know that now. You had burned that hope out of me, you see. I’d killed it, torn its heart out, stabbed it with an olive pick and left it there to jiggle. Whatever you thought you could suddenly get me to do I had no muscle memory for. You saw what you did and you turned me on my side so you wouldn’t have to look at it. All I knew was that you were deeper in my ass than you’d ever been, my leg straight between yours, your balls dragging on my thigh. To me it was just another fuck. To you, it was as close as you ever came to telling me.
That I think of you all the time hasn’t been a surprise. I fall in love so easily. I have this way of being in love with someone all the time. I don’t expect anyone to love me, doubt that they ever could, really. I don’t tell them. I don’t want them to know. They’ll leave, you see. And it’s better if I have them near me, even if it’s slowly shattered me into a million pieces. When they leave, another piece is gone and I walk around without it as if it were never there. I’m a fucking Swiss cheese of a man now, just structurally sound enough to be able to bend out of bed in the morning. You took a very large piece with you. I think about you all the time and it hurts where it was.
I should have known, my eyes scrunched shut for the pain of you so deep inside of me. I should have seen that this was the last time. It had to be. When you came you said “I… I… I… I….”
I love you too. Please, fuck off now.
He loves me not, I’d finally driven into my stupid skull after a few weeks with you, showing up at my door and dropping me to my knees. You’d jerk off over my face and I would close my eyes, waiting for the shot of hot, then cold. That was the convincer. When your come turned cold on my face before it dried.
You saw that I wouldn’t look back at you and you turned me on my side. I know that now. You had burned that hope out of me, you see. I’d killed it, torn its heart out, stabbed it with an olive pick and left it there to jiggle. Whatever you thought you could suddenly get me to do I had no muscle memory for. You saw what you did and you turned me on my side so you wouldn’t have to look at it. All I knew was that you were deeper in my ass than you’d ever been, my leg straight between yours, your balls dragging on my thigh. To me it was just another fuck. To you, it was as close as you ever came to telling me.
That I think of you all the time hasn’t been a surprise. I fall in love so easily. I have this way of being in love with someone all the time. I don’t expect anyone to love me, doubt that they ever could, really. I don’t tell them. I don’t want them to know. They’ll leave, you see. And it’s better if I have them near me, even if it’s slowly shattered me into a million pieces. When they leave, another piece is gone and I walk around without it as if it were never there. I’m a fucking Swiss cheese of a man now, just structurally sound enough to be able to bend out of bed in the morning. You took a very large piece with you. I think about you all the time and it hurts where it was.
I should have known, my eyes scrunched shut for the pain of you so deep inside of me. I should have seen that this was the last time. It had to be. When you came you said “I… I… I… I….”
I love you too. Please, fuck off now.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Oh yeah? I got yer Sugasm right here, baby.
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 #92? 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 Pussy Hair Debate
“I’ve got a shaggy bush.”
Devoured
“Each bit of me that he touches arches toward him, demanding further contact.”
The Last Dance
“I start my journey down her body …”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sex in the Second City
Editor’s Choice
Feminist Carnival 42
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Birthday Bliss—His Turn
IM
In the company of strangers, part 2
The Meeting
Park adventure
The Party
Sweat
A Tale of Two Bloggers
Sex Work
Further Adventures in Tourism
Strip Club Fun, How I Got My Sore Throat Part 1
When A Client Dies-Part 3
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Half-Nekkid Voyeur
Old time nudes
Ra-Ra
Vinod Kambli’s Wife - Andrea - Hot Body
Sex Reviews
Lelo Lily Mini Vibrator Review
BDSM & Fetish
24/7
Boot Worship
Catalina loves Domination and Submission (D/S)
Featured Fetish - Smoking
Inspiration - Part II
Nipples
She’ll Be ‘Stocking’ You
Sex Poetry & Advice
Alternatives to Viagra
Favorite Part #1
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Feminism and Sex
I Left It at That
My evolving relationship with sex
Monday, August 6, 2007
In Her Mind, the Pigeons Were Always Fucking
In her mind, the pigeons were always fucking, their wings flapping desperately to keep balance. In her mind, delivery men dropped their boxes and lay down on their carts with each other, pulled at their blue collars, unsnapped their shirts with an echo in the back of the truck. In her mind in restaurants, bartenders were occupied below, barbacks bending with cases of beer turning and unzipping them. The taller waitresses, not to be found at the tables, would take the small one, slide her across the brushed aluminum counters in the kitchen, tie her hands in her own apron, split her legs and tease her with steels, with ladles and the handles of warm pans, the back of a knife against her forearm and thigh, the burgundy reduction drizzled across her clit and licked off.
On the commuter train, the standing men would be unzipped by her mind, their helpless erections pulled out and serviced by her lips, cheeks and tongue. Others, in between their turns, would rub their cocks furiously, coming finally on her ear, on her eyelid, on the back of her neck. The man sitting next to her would lift her skirt and ease her thighs open, would find her without underwear, would pick her up and put her in his lap.
Every window she passed had couples pressed into it, the mouths of the women open against the glass, steaming it, their nipples, some pink, some brown, some small, some large, flattening and pulling, flattening and pulling. She would lean over and lick the glass for them, her long tongue warming it, and the women would look down, helpless between the men fucking them and the pressure of the glass, the pressure of her tongue there too. She would wait for them to come, wide trembles that bent the light, and then she would smile and move onto the next.
Each bathroom stall had forests of legs below their walls. The tiles were filled with groans and gasps. The sliding latches would be snapped from the metal and go flying, whole groups falling down to the floor, writhing, muscles bent into each other, noses in necks and tense backs. She would open her stall and find a man there for her, a bulge toward the left pocket of his jeans. He would be expecting her, and finding her there, his lips would part for a sigh.
Each convent she passed contained an orgy, the split dresses of the nuns revealing soft stomachs, each with a habit between their legs, pressing at the back of it with plain fingernails. In her mind, police stations were full of men paying off their misdemeanors with willing mouths, policemen entering the cells to take their due, policewomen bending over at the bars to receive the dirty cocks. She would finish them off, would drain them all before they fell to the ground in groups. In her mind, dark huddles of art students would share cigarettes and lick each other’s skin with pierced tongues in doorways, the pricks of the men would fall out of black jeans and be teased. The fishnet stockings of the girls would always end in red corsets and their black-bushed pussies would be shockingly crimson on the inside to match. Sometimes, they would press her hands in their fists and pull them down.
In her mind, the fingers of her right hand always smelled of pussy, the fingers of her left of cock, and her mouth tasted like come, her own saliva tasted of come, and she could smell it when she breathed as deep as she could, would take the scent straight into her nervous system and smile.
On the commuter train, the standing men would be unzipped by her mind, their helpless erections pulled out and serviced by her lips, cheeks and tongue. Others, in between their turns, would rub their cocks furiously, coming finally on her ear, on her eyelid, on the back of her neck. The man sitting next to her would lift her skirt and ease her thighs open, would find her without underwear, would pick her up and put her in his lap.
Every window she passed had couples pressed into it, the mouths of the women open against the glass, steaming it, their nipples, some pink, some brown, some small, some large, flattening and pulling, flattening and pulling. She would lean over and lick the glass for them, her long tongue warming it, and the women would look down, helpless between the men fucking them and the pressure of the glass, the pressure of her tongue there too. She would wait for them to come, wide trembles that bent the light, and then she would smile and move onto the next.
Each bathroom stall had forests of legs below their walls. The tiles were filled with groans and gasps. The sliding latches would be snapped from the metal and go flying, whole groups falling down to the floor, writhing, muscles bent into each other, noses in necks and tense backs. She would open her stall and find a man there for her, a bulge toward the left pocket of his jeans. He would be expecting her, and finding her there, his lips would part for a sigh.
Each convent she passed contained an orgy, the split dresses of the nuns revealing soft stomachs, each with a habit between their legs, pressing at the back of it with plain fingernails. In her mind, police stations were full of men paying off their misdemeanors with willing mouths, policemen entering the cells to take their due, policewomen bending over at the bars to receive the dirty cocks. She would finish them off, would drain them all before they fell to the ground in groups. In her mind, dark huddles of art students would share cigarettes and lick each other’s skin with pierced tongues in doorways, the pricks of the men would fall out of black jeans and be teased. The fishnet stockings of the girls would always end in red corsets and their black-bushed pussies would be shockingly crimson on the inside to match. Sometimes, they would press her hands in their fists and pull them down.
In her mind, the fingers of her right hand always smelled of pussy, the fingers of her left of cock, and her mouth tasted like come, her own saliva tasted of come, and she could smell it when she breathed as deep as she could, would take the scent straight into her nervous system and smile.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
The Accent of the Temp, or Lay Back and Think of England
I came to London for many reasons, the history, the experience and so on, but mostly for the accents, and to wake up next to that accent as much as possible. To fuck as many Englishwomen as I could get my hands on. I worked as an office temp, because I’d never gotten laid in any job as much as I got laid as an office temp. I brought my winning people skills and switchboard operation experience to where the accent was and waited for the pussy to descend upon me. The first two weeks proceeded as expected, a middle manager with the tits of Scarlett Johansson crying on the way out of a traumatic meeting was comforted in my sensitive American arms and then in her tiny English bed. A short but doe-eyed junior clerk (she said “clark,” gah!) crawled disarmingly across her kitchen floor to unzip my jeans.
All Englishwomen spit, apparently.
The very next week I was stuffing envelopes in Centre Point, a view across the conference table of Westminster, and flirted openly with a woman named Vera. Vera was Jamaican, but I was willing to make an exception, her accent, if anything, even more sexually charged. I asked, leaning over a stack of shareholder reports, my eyelids blinking once (once is important), if she’s like to have a drink with me. The other girl, Cheryl, an American, was in the bathroom. She agreed, but insisted on asking Cheryl along. Cheryl came along and the two of them got along famously, my prick and its sudden Jamaican obsession taking a backseat to stories of Cheryl’s graduation trip to Ocho Rios, money making a desperate escape from my pocket.
On my next assignment, handing out flyers for a cel phone company on Oxford Street, there was Cheryl again. I gave her a curt nod and smiled wide for the onslaught of pedestrians. It turned out that most of them were American tourists.
“Don’t give them away so fast,” she said.
I’d figured that I would get this over with as quickly as possible and was ready to drop the whole thing in the trash. I ignored her and kept going. “Stretch it out ,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because if you run out before I do, you’re supposed to take some of mine and I need the money, thanks.”
I glared at her and she frowned back at me. It’s not that Cheryl wasn’t pretty, it’s that there were nothing but Cheryls at home and my work permit was only good for six months.
“Your mom and dad aren’t taking care of things for you? No suite with a view of a waterfall?”
“I saved for this all year, but it’s going so fast.” She dropped her handing-out arm and engaged me straight on. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“The real world, you mean?” I asked, slowing up slightly.
“No, Rick, I mean London,” she said, exasperated. I’d finally pissed her off. She said nothing the rest of the day, but I slowed up enough for her to catch up to me and then to match her pace. At 2:30, we parted ways and hoped never to see each other again.
The next day, the two of us found each other at opposite switchboards at an insurance company almost entirely staffed by temps on Euston Road. I answered calls with a full American accent, taking on full conversations with some of the more beautiful-voiced claimants. She faked an English one to be understood quickly and put them through.
“Don’t you feel weird talking like that?” I asked.
“It’s just easier,” she said. “Did I just hear you give your number out to someone?”
“She seemed nice,” I said, and went back to my book, Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence. I was waiting for the administrator in the blue and white striped rayon shirt to notice it.
“You’re reading Lawrence?” the administrator asked that afternoon on the way out the door.
“Yes.”
“I haven’t read that one. Is it any good?” My pants melted for her.
“Lawrence was a misogynist pig,” Cheryl said, not just breaking the mood, but rubbing DDT all over it. The administrator nodded and walked off.
I was stuck with Cheryl and the lack of sex for two more weeks at the insurance company and then at a construction office, the two of us alone, the office having been given the week before Christmas off.
“I thought for sure you’d go home for Christmas,” she said, flipping through a Daily Mail.
“Can’t afford it.”
“Me either.”
Hours dragged by, and we said nothing to each other. At noon, I took a call from the girl who normally runs the switchboard.
“Just checking in to see how your day’s been. Have you had any trouble?”
“No, it’s been really,” I looked at Cheryl and lied, “busy, but we’ve been handling it fine. How’s your vacation?”
“My holiday’s been lovely, thanks. Just cozying up my flat before I go to my mum and dad’s.”
Talk to me. Talk to me.
“Do you decorate?”
“Fairy lights have quite engulfed the place, yes. It’s always so dreary once they’re taken down, isn’t it?”
Cheryl was on another call when a third call came in. She pointed at the light and glared at me.
“Yes it is. You don’t realize how much they add until you take them away.”
Cheryl got off of her call but didn’t answer the next. She folded her arms instead.
“Noreen, is it?” I asked. She responded enthusiastically that it was her name. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to pick up another call. Call back later, though, please. I need the company.”
Noreen giggled girlishly and agreed. I took the other call with venom, a male, and ended it quickly.
“What the hell is your problem?” I asked Cheryl.
“Your chit-chat is annoying the hell out of me.”
“Just because I’m nice to people.”
“Just because you’re nice to girls,” she said, and continued her letter.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” She dotted an i with terrible force. “Nothing at all is wrong with that.”
“Then keep out of it!”
“I’m not in it!”
“You’re everywhere! You’re like that Visa thing, in between me and everywhere I want to be.”
“Believe me, I do not want to be anywhere near where you want to be.”
“You interrupt my conversations. You get between me and women. You’re a goddamn plague on my prick.”
“I’m a what, exactly?”
“A plague, a fungus, a catching eyesore on my penis!”
“Is that your way of saying I’m ugly, or just diseased?”
I paused and frowned. I’d gone way over the line. “Look, I’m sorry. I just haven’t been able to get a date since I met you.”
She nodded slightly at this, but seemed unable to speak.
“I didn’t mean that eyesore thing. I’m just frustrated. And it seems like it’s your fault and I just didn’t want to see your face. You know? I just did not want to see you today. You’re actually very pretty.”
She pretended to proofread her letter.
“I mean it, you’ve got beautiful lips and stunning eyes and if….”
“Fuck you,” she said, her voice a little quavered.
“And you’ve got an ass to die for.”
The switchboard lit. I took it.
“Fordham Construction.”
“I need to speak to Mr. Picketts, please.”
“The office is closed until after the first, but I’d be happy to take a message.”
“Asshole,” I heard Cheryl say.
“That’s right, I forgot. I’ll just call back, thanks.”
The light went off and I got up. I pulled Cheryl’s chair to face me, her angry eyes turning to panic, then back to anger. I took her letter and pen out of her hand, grabbed her by the hair and kissed her. I expected a slap, would have welcomed one, really. She gave a mild shocked whimper, but kissed right back, her whole face pressed hard into mine, sticky breaths exchanged instead of clean air, her lips, which really were beautiful, no matter what accent passed between them, slipping mine between them.
England disappeared. My body, resigned to cold, dreary hours with the one girl in this country it didn’t want to fuck, revved and purred, recategorizing Cheryl as forbidden fruit. The tip of my cock nipped at my belt buckle. Fresh kill, it buzzed. Cheryl split her knees and admitted my legs, her hands on my spine, on my shoulderblade, then on my neck. I cupped one of her thighs, full and soft in my palm and she stood up. I bent her over the desk. She slipped out of it. I kissed the back of her neck, my palm turning up between her legs. She bent over her chair, but it slipped. She walked to a wall. I put my arm around her, took her tit in my hand, nibbling and licking her neck at the base. She tried an office door. It was locked. I slid my other hand deeper between her thighs, pressed into the seam on her pants. She tried another door, panting, and another. I unzipped her pants, found satin panties in my fingers. Moved down.
I turned her face, my fingers pressed authoritatively into her cheek, and took her earlobe between my teeth, toyed with the earring. She exhaled, squirmed. I pressed into her. She moved again, my belt in her fingers. I pushed under her panties, felt the wet in my fingers, the slippery, swollen need in her. Was I forbidden fruit too. Did she well up with hate when she saw me this morning too? She tripped and fell to the floor. I turned her over, pulled her pants off, threw her panties and shoes in different directions. She looked up at me, red-chinned. I’d been ripping her face with my stubble. She deserved it, I thought. I deserved it too.
“Tell me you hate me,” I said.
“I fucking hate you,” she said, quickly and easily. I dropped my face between her thighs, slid my hand under her back and lifted her pelvis to me on a fist. She helped me out, put elbows down and lifted her ass in her hands, her knees bent back to her chest. I saw my eventual destination, smelled it, admired its loathsome folds, split it with two fingers, shiny dark red, and plunged in.
She tasted sweet, I imagined virginal. My tongue slid down to her hole and filled its tastebuds with her desperation. I stuck it inside a few times to tease. She took my head between her feet and pulled me tighter and up. I slipped up slowly, tongue twisting until I found the spot that made her moan and I worked it, flicked it gently with the tip of my tongue. Enemy territory seduced with the skill that my side brings to the battle. In a few minutes she began to buck and writhe and I stopped before she could finish, my cock as hard as it’s ever been, I kneeled up and pushed in.
She turned over, losing me, and I got back in just as she made herself come. I jerked and jolted, fucked her into the carpet, moving her along though she bent herself against it like a stretching cat. I’d pushed her back to the switchboard just as it lit up. She climbed the side of the desk and answered.
In an English accent: “Thank you for phoning Fordham Construction. Offices are closed until after the first of the new year. All enquiries will be answered at that time.” She hit the release button, which hung up on them.
“That’s good,” I said. “Say it again.”
“Thank you for, ungh, phoning Fordham ConstrucTION. Offices are,” I started to come, “closed until after the first….”
“Oh fucking hell!”
“…of the year.”
“Mmm rargh!”
“All enquiries will be answered at that time.”
She was pressed into the desk, her face against it, panting. I was bent into her, my hands still clutching the sides of her hips. I was already thinking of another go. The switchboard rang again. She looked to me for a sign. I nodded.
“Thank you for phoning Fordham Construction.”
I was definitely ready for another go.
All Englishwomen spit, apparently.
The very next week I was stuffing envelopes in Centre Point, a view across the conference table of Westminster, and flirted openly with a woman named Vera. Vera was Jamaican, but I was willing to make an exception, her accent, if anything, even more sexually charged. I asked, leaning over a stack of shareholder reports, my eyelids blinking once (once is important), if she’s like to have a drink with me. The other girl, Cheryl, an American, was in the bathroom. She agreed, but insisted on asking Cheryl along. Cheryl came along and the two of them got along famously, my prick and its sudden Jamaican obsession taking a backseat to stories of Cheryl’s graduation trip to Ocho Rios, money making a desperate escape from my pocket.
On my next assignment, handing out flyers for a cel phone company on Oxford Street, there was Cheryl again. I gave her a curt nod and smiled wide for the onslaught of pedestrians. It turned out that most of them were American tourists.
“Don’t give them away so fast,” she said.
I’d figured that I would get this over with as quickly as possible and was ready to drop the whole thing in the trash. I ignored her and kept going. “Stretch it out ,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because if you run out before I do, you’re supposed to take some of mine and I need the money, thanks.”
I glared at her and she frowned back at me. It’s not that Cheryl wasn’t pretty, it’s that there were nothing but Cheryls at home and my work permit was only good for six months.
“Your mom and dad aren’t taking care of things for you? No suite with a view of a waterfall?”
“I saved for this all year, but it’s going so fast.” She dropped her handing-out arm and engaged me straight on. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“The real world, you mean?” I asked, slowing up slightly.
“No, Rick, I mean London,” she said, exasperated. I’d finally pissed her off. She said nothing the rest of the day, but I slowed up enough for her to catch up to me and then to match her pace. At 2:30, we parted ways and hoped never to see each other again.
The next day, the two of us found each other at opposite switchboards at an insurance company almost entirely staffed by temps on Euston Road. I answered calls with a full American accent, taking on full conversations with some of the more beautiful-voiced claimants. She faked an English one to be understood quickly and put them through.
“Don’t you feel weird talking like that?” I asked.
“It’s just easier,” she said. “Did I just hear you give your number out to someone?”
“She seemed nice,” I said, and went back to my book, Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence. I was waiting for the administrator in the blue and white striped rayon shirt to notice it.
“You’re reading Lawrence?” the administrator asked that afternoon on the way out the door.
“Yes.”
“I haven’t read that one. Is it any good?” My pants melted for her.
“Lawrence was a misogynist pig,” Cheryl said, not just breaking the mood, but rubbing DDT all over it. The administrator nodded and walked off.
I was stuck with Cheryl and the lack of sex for two more weeks at the insurance company and then at a construction office, the two of us alone, the office having been given the week before Christmas off.
“I thought for sure you’d go home for Christmas,” she said, flipping through a Daily Mail.
“Can’t afford it.”
“Me either.”
Hours dragged by, and we said nothing to each other. At noon, I took a call from the girl who normally runs the switchboard.
“Just checking in to see how your day’s been. Have you had any trouble?”
“No, it’s been really,” I looked at Cheryl and lied, “busy, but we’ve been handling it fine. How’s your vacation?”
“My holiday’s been lovely, thanks. Just cozying up my flat before I go to my mum and dad’s.”
Talk to me. Talk to me.
“Do you decorate?”
“Fairy lights have quite engulfed the place, yes. It’s always so dreary once they’re taken down, isn’t it?”
Cheryl was on another call when a third call came in. She pointed at the light and glared at me.
“Yes it is. You don’t realize how much they add until you take them away.”
Cheryl got off of her call but didn’t answer the next. She folded her arms instead.
“Noreen, is it?” I asked. She responded enthusiastically that it was her name. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to pick up another call. Call back later, though, please. I need the company.”
Noreen giggled girlishly and agreed. I took the other call with venom, a male, and ended it quickly.
“What the hell is your problem?” I asked Cheryl.
“Your chit-chat is annoying the hell out of me.”
“Just because I’m nice to people.”
“Just because you’re nice to girls,” she said, and continued her letter.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” She dotted an i with terrible force. “Nothing at all is wrong with that.”
“Then keep out of it!”
“I’m not in it!”
“You’re everywhere! You’re like that Visa thing, in between me and everywhere I want to be.”
“Believe me, I do not want to be anywhere near where you want to be.”
“You interrupt my conversations. You get between me and women. You’re a goddamn plague on my prick.”
“I’m a what, exactly?”
“A plague, a fungus, a catching eyesore on my penis!”
“Is that your way of saying I’m ugly, or just diseased?”
I paused and frowned. I’d gone way over the line. “Look, I’m sorry. I just haven’t been able to get a date since I met you.”
She nodded slightly at this, but seemed unable to speak.
“I didn’t mean that eyesore thing. I’m just frustrated. And it seems like it’s your fault and I just didn’t want to see your face. You know? I just did not want to see you today. You’re actually very pretty.”
She pretended to proofread her letter.
“I mean it, you’ve got beautiful lips and stunning eyes and if….”
“Fuck you,” she said, her voice a little quavered.
“And you’ve got an ass to die for.”
The switchboard lit. I took it.
“Fordham Construction.”
“I need to speak to Mr. Picketts, please.”
“The office is closed until after the first, but I’d be happy to take a message.”
“Asshole,” I heard Cheryl say.
“That’s right, I forgot. I’ll just call back, thanks.”
The light went off and I got up. I pulled Cheryl’s chair to face me, her angry eyes turning to panic, then back to anger. I took her letter and pen out of her hand, grabbed her by the hair and kissed her. I expected a slap, would have welcomed one, really. She gave a mild shocked whimper, but kissed right back, her whole face pressed hard into mine, sticky breaths exchanged instead of clean air, her lips, which really were beautiful, no matter what accent passed between them, slipping mine between them.
England disappeared. My body, resigned to cold, dreary hours with the one girl in this country it didn’t want to fuck, revved and purred, recategorizing Cheryl as forbidden fruit. The tip of my cock nipped at my belt buckle. Fresh kill, it buzzed. Cheryl split her knees and admitted my legs, her hands on my spine, on my shoulderblade, then on my neck. I cupped one of her thighs, full and soft in my palm and she stood up. I bent her over the desk. She slipped out of it. I kissed the back of her neck, my palm turning up between her legs. She bent over her chair, but it slipped. She walked to a wall. I put my arm around her, took her tit in my hand, nibbling and licking her neck at the base. She tried an office door. It was locked. I slid my other hand deeper between her thighs, pressed into the seam on her pants. She tried another door, panting, and another. I unzipped her pants, found satin panties in my fingers. Moved down.
I turned her face, my fingers pressed authoritatively into her cheek, and took her earlobe between my teeth, toyed with the earring. She exhaled, squirmed. I pressed into her. She moved again, my belt in her fingers. I pushed under her panties, felt the wet in my fingers, the slippery, swollen need in her. Was I forbidden fruit too. Did she well up with hate when she saw me this morning too? She tripped and fell to the floor. I turned her over, pulled her pants off, threw her panties and shoes in different directions. She looked up at me, red-chinned. I’d been ripping her face with my stubble. She deserved it, I thought. I deserved it too.
“Tell me you hate me,” I said.
“I fucking hate you,” she said, quickly and easily. I dropped my face between her thighs, slid my hand under her back and lifted her pelvis to me on a fist. She helped me out, put elbows down and lifted her ass in her hands, her knees bent back to her chest. I saw my eventual destination, smelled it, admired its loathsome folds, split it with two fingers, shiny dark red, and plunged in.
She tasted sweet, I imagined virginal. My tongue slid down to her hole and filled its tastebuds with her desperation. I stuck it inside a few times to tease. She took my head between her feet and pulled me tighter and up. I slipped up slowly, tongue twisting until I found the spot that made her moan and I worked it, flicked it gently with the tip of my tongue. Enemy territory seduced with the skill that my side brings to the battle. In a few minutes she began to buck and writhe and I stopped before she could finish, my cock as hard as it’s ever been, I kneeled up and pushed in.
She turned over, losing me, and I got back in just as she made herself come. I jerked and jolted, fucked her into the carpet, moving her along though she bent herself against it like a stretching cat. I’d pushed her back to the switchboard just as it lit up. She climbed the side of the desk and answered.
In an English accent: “Thank you for phoning Fordham Construction. Offices are closed until after the first of the new year. All enquiries will be answered at that time.” She hit the release button, which hung up on them.
“That’s good,” I said. “Say it again.”
“Thank you for, ungh, phoning Fordham ConstrucTION. Offices are,” I started to come, “closed until after the first….”
“Oh fucking hell!”
“…of the year.”
“Mmm rargh!”
“All enquiries will be answered at that time.”
She was pressed into the desk, her face against it, panting. I was bent into her, my hands still clutching the sides of her hips. I was already thinking of another go. The switchboard rang again. She looked to me for a sign. I nodded.
“Thank you for phoning Fordham Construction.”
I was definitely ready for another go.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Excuse me, I just Sugasmed
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 #91? 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
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”
Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”
Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine
Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Am I Missing Anything, Really?
Catalina loves the Museu de l’ Erotica
Cheating Men
“How much confession can one read before becoming uncomfortably numb?”
I’m a Woman Man: Episode 2 - Faces
Lulu Forever
Playground positions
So many rabbits…
BDSM & Fetish
Car Wheels on a Gravel Road
Dirty words
Fetish Film - English Punishment Series (Spanking, Caning)
The Flesh Remembers
Fun with a subby boy
Luring the Guardian Angel
The Percentage Game
Sukebe Otaku: Happy Tears, Revisited
Teeth and claws and cock and cunt
Thunder: Service With A Smile
The Violent Kiss
Wake up bitch…
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
You suck!
Sex News & Reviews
Lelo Nea Mini Vibrator Review
Sex In The Virtual World - Computer Games
Sex Humor
How To Get His Attention
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Amy of 24.7 in the Kitchen
Drum Solo (video)
Half-Nekkid Exhibitionist
Ivett
Sex Work
Busy Princess Play Day
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Distracted by Her shoes
Endangered
I Want
No reservations, part 1
An old friend
Pink
Sleeping Beauty…
Supply and Demand
That Kiss
Torrential
We were in heat
Amy of 24/7 courtesy of Kitchen Girls.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
IM
To: moodyjudythefoodie@yahoo.com
From: youareell@bendertheisp.com
Hi. This is a little weird. I knew a girl with your name at Atlantic University from 1996 to 1998. I moved to Portland in July of that year and we talked maybe once or twice since, but I’m curious and I’m trying to find her. I ran across your site and saw your name and thought maybe. If you remember me, please reply to this email.
Thanks for your time,
Paul Cecchini
To: youareell@bendertheisp.com
From: moodyjudythefoodie@yahoo.com
Paul!
Paul?
Paul!
aol chat:
moodyjudythefoodie
Judy
For two days, I waited to hear from Paul, nervously activating my iChat, a little red bubble in the upper right hand corner of my screen, waiting to drag its tail into all kinds of trouble. And there he was on Wednesday night, while I was answering emails. He popped up, well, yeah, he popped up right there with a little bwooop sound.
P-Judy!
I smiled and blushed, my fingers shaking over the keyboard.
J-Paul!
P-Judy!
J-Paul!
P-What the fuck is going on with you?
I was unsure of how to take this one, then remembered that Paul’s mouth contained a billowing blue cloud of smoking profanity. This was him just talking. I thought about being vague about my life, letting him wrench details from me question after question, but I realized I was impatient, wanted to skip to the good stuff right away. I’d wanted to talk to him for years.
J-Occupation: Administrator at graphic arts house.
Marriage status: Married. His name is Frank.
Kids? No.
Want them? Not really.
Living where? Newburgh, NY
Why? Husband got a job there.
You?
P-Occupation: Arranging religious pamphlets alphabetically, throwing them out, gathering more pamphlets. To make money, I work as an architect. But you know that, silly.
People in the home whose various moods I must administer: One fully grown adult named Bea. Tad, five years old. Gordon, three.
Living in Portland (Oregon, you remember) in a house of my competitor’s design.
Why? I wanted to stop well short of the ocean. Fucking hate fish.
The night I met Paul, he was in a crisis at a bar. He’d just found out that his girlfriend was cheating on him. He confessed this to me in the line for the men’s room, across from the line for the women’s.
“Would you do something for me when you’re done in there?” he asked, nodding at the women’s room door.
“What?”
“I fucking need a hickey. A big fucking hickey like Jennifer Lopez thought I was a straw or something.”
“What, like on your neck, right?”
He sighed and grinned. “Yeah, on my neck.”
Under a fluorescent lamp buzzing over a pay phone at the back of the bar, I sucked on Paul’s neck for all it was worth, rubbing the bend of skin with my tongue. It took a few minutes, this being the first task set by a new friend, I wanted it to be perfect. We were silent, still, listening to Lovefool by The Cardigans play on the jukebox. My lips tingled when I was done.
J-Did you miss me?
P-Of course. Did you miss me?
J-Aw. Totally. I like your avatar thingy.
P-I like yours. It looks just like my computer.
J-You’ve got a MacBook?
P-Just got it last week.
P-Uh oh.
P-I’m about to press that camera button.
P-I’m going to press it.
J-Oh shit. Alright. I’ll press mine too.
P-Ready? Go.
I pressed the camera button and Paul appeared before me.
“Can you see me?” he asked.
“Oh my God.”
“I guess so. I can see you. You look great! You look better than you did in school!”
“You look exactly the same,” I said.
And he did. He picked up his computer and did a kind of head-to-toe of himself. I did the same when he was done.
The last time I saw Paul, he was in my dorm room. He was about to move to Portland and asked me if he should bring his girlfriend. I told him he should. Then he complained about not getting laid enough.
“There’s always some reason that she won’t. And then I’m stuck there with this girl that I can’t touch and I can’t touch another girl because I’ve got her. And I can’t touch myself ‘cause she’s there. And then, you know what I’m thinking about? I’m thinking about calling you.”
I blushed, sitting cross-legged on my bed. We never talked about it. He would ask for it, I’d do it, and we just went on like it never happened. He sat down on the opposite side of the bed, his back against the wall.
“Would you do one more? I don’t think I can afford to call you all the time. Just one last one for the road?”
“Just call me when you get back.”
“Why not do it now?”
“Like right here? Isn’t that going to be kind of boring for you?”
“I was thinking I would… right here. You could finally see it.”
He didn’t look at me. My heart beat like a box full of bricks dropping on the floor. Whump. Whump. Whump.
“Okay,” I said. “Um, girl?”
“Gillian Anderson.”
“Place?”
“Haven’t done a restaurant in a while.”
“Okay,” I start. “You’re at an expensive restaurant and you’re eating a New York strip with garlic mashed potatoes. You’re sitting next to Gillian Anderson. She puts her knife and fork down and takes a pat of butter in her hands. She warms it up between her palms and you know what to do. You unzip your pants and pull it out.”
I watched Paul unzip his pants and pull it out. He looked around the dorm room and took a bottle of lotion from my desk. He dropped his pants completely and sat back down on the bed. He pulled his shirt up to his armpits so I could see and squirted some of the lotion into his right hand.
“She reaches under the tablecloth and wraps her hand around it. Some of the butter hasn’t melted yet and it feels cold. You stare at your fork and concentrate.”
Paul looked good these days. He seemed fit, a little paunch, but not too much. He moved with more confidence, taking the computer around his house to give me a tour. He put it down and I watched him pour himself a Coke in his kitchen. He didn’t have the lope in his walk like he used to.
“Where’s Bea?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen her since like your first date.”
“She and the kids are visiting her mom. Her mom spoils the absolute shit out of them and we’ve gotta break them in again whenever they come back. “
“I guess that’s what grandmothers are for, right?”
There was a long pause and he picked up the computer again, his face, and then a turn and a walk until we were back in his office. He set it down, sat and stared at me for a while.
“Where’s your guy? Frank, right?”
“He works nights.”
“Factory?”
“Sommelier.”
“Oh. That’s gotta be hard.”
“Not really. We’re very different people and it’s better that we don’t see too much of each other.”
“Now I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be.”
“Things not so good?” he asked.
“Not really. You?”
“Same as they were at Atlantic.”
“Sorry.”
“Ah. You get what you marry, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You getting laid any more than you were?”
“Nope.”
“Cheating?”
“Nope.”
“Good for you.”
“I guess. I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” I said, and this time he could see me smile. He smiled back.
“You had your teeth capped, huh?”
“Had to,” he said. “Dentist’s orders.”
He mussed his hair and sat back, regarding my face.
“Tell me a story,” he said, and I waited for him to say he was kidding.
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Bea. Frank.”
“It’s not cheating. No one’s touching anyone.”
“No!”
“How ‘bout I tell one?”
“Paul….”
“Judy….”
“Place?” I said nothing and frowned at him. “Pl-aaace.” His hands patted his desk. “Judy, when I would call you in college, would you say that we were having sex?”
“No.”
“So it’s not cheating.”
“Frank hasn’t had sex with me in five months.”
“Give me a place.”
“Bedroom.”
“Did you say dining room table? Okay. He’s kissing you hard in your dining room and he’s got his hand in your pants. He unzips them and pulls them down. Judy, pull your pants down.”
“What? No!”
“I’m telling the story. Pull your pants down. It’s only fair.”
I slid the laptop forward on my bed, got up, my heart pounding like it was in the dorm room. Whump. Whump. Whump. My pants and underwear, as though my hands were not under my control, were dropped to the floor. I angled the laptop screen so he could see. His face went a little slack. I saw his arm go down to a drawer in his desk. He got a bottle of lube and set it out.
He continued. “He starts to fuck you with his fingers. It feels good. It feels really good to you. You want the real thing and you start to beg for it.” He took his shirt off, then stood and took his jeans off, still talking. “You say ‘Fuck me. Fuck me with that big cock.’” He stood in his underwear for a moment, an undeniable bulge in there, then pulled those too off. His cock was hard, straight, bouncing out of the underwear.
“I forgot how hairy you are,” I said.
“Shh. He asks you to say it again. You do. ‘Fuck me. Please.’”
His voice was a little comical, trying to imitate me. I couldn’t laugh because he’d see me. I covered my mouth instead. He backed his chair far enough from the desk so I could see all of him. “Your pussy is wet.” He snapped open the bottle of lube and poured some down over it. He rubbed it in with a twist and began to work it. My smile turned to hot shock under my palm. I seemed to stop breathing. “Is your pussy wet, Judy?”
“Probably.”
“Check.”
My fingers slipped between my pussy lips, his face changing, a smirk and a gasp.
“I’m wet. This is wrong.” But my finger took some of the wet and moved up.
“There you go,” he said. “I’m not very good at this. Why don’t you take over?”
“You press her face down on the dining room table and smack her ass a few times. The pink drives up on both cheeks. She tries to hide the pain in her face, but she can’t. ‘Please, Paul,’ she says. ‘That hurts.’” My fingers started to rub furiously, as if doing this fast would make it less wrong. I found a spot that made my thighs tremble. He noticed. “You finally give in, press your cock down and slide in. Her pussy grabs you tight and you’re not sure how you’re going to hold out. You start to fuck her, slow so you can feel it all, but she begs you to go harder now.”
He stopped for a moment and held his cock out for me to see. It was long and thick, just as I remembered it. I remembered it all the time, had memorized that night in my dorm room like I filmed it.
He brought it back into his fist and started to beat it hard, the sound of flapping skin making it to the tiny microphone in his computer. “You’re fucking her madly now, and she calls out to you. She says ‘Paul! Paul, that’s so good! Fuck me harder, Paul! Fuck harder!’ And you look down at her face and see it all scrunched up and red and you do. You go harder.” It was getting harder to talk now. To concentrate on the words. I never did this when he’d call me before. I waited until we hung up.
“Mmm. And your… your body just fills… up with… sex. And you slap her ass one more time for it. One more time… and she… cringes. You can feel her tighter on your cock. Her teeth are gritting. “And you slow down and grind into me. You… grind me and I can feel you so deep.”
I’d done it. We both noticed the switch to first person. We both gasped. I was about to come, but he got there first.
“Judy, fuck, fuck, Judy.” He stood up and came, shooting out onto the camera. “Fuck!”
“Paul! Jesus Christ, Paul!” His thumb wiped the come off as I came in wave after wave, thrown all over the bed and shaking the computer. I lay silently for a few moments before I had the strength to sit up. I knew I was blushing. I knew he wouldn’t be.
“I miss you,” he said again.
“When does she get back?”
“Next week.”
“Good. Tomorrow night, then?”
“Yeah.”
And I closed iChat.
From: youareell@bendertheisp.com
Hi. This is a little weird. I knew a girl with your name at Atlantic University from 1996 to 1998. I moved to Portland in July of that year and we talked maybe once or twice since, but I’m curious and I’m trying to find her. I ran across your site and saw your name and thought maybe. If you remember me, please reply to this email.
Thanks for your time,
Paul Cecchini
To: youareell@bendertheisp.com
From: moodyjudythefoodie@yahoo.com
Paul!
Paul?
Paul!
aol chat:
moodyjudythefoodie
Judy
For two days, I waited to hear from Paul, nervously activating my iChat, a little red bubble in the upper right hand corner of my screen, waiting to drag its tail into all kinds of trouble. And there he was on Wednesday night, while I was answering emails. He popped up, well, yeah, he popped up right there with a little bwooop sound.
P-Judy!
I smiled and blushed, my fingers shaking over the keyboard.
J-Paul!
P-Judy!
J-Paul!
P-What the fuck is going on with you?
I was unsure of how to take this one, then remembered that Paul’s mouth contained a billowing blue cloud of smoking profanity. This was him just talking. I thought about being vague about my life, letting him wrench details from me question after question, but I realized I was impatient, wanted to skip to the good stuff right away. I’d wanted to talk to him for years.
J-Occupation: Administrator at graphic arts house.
Marriage status: Married. His name is Frank.
Kids? No.
Want them? Not really.
Living where? Newburgh, NY
Why? Husband got a job there.
You?
P-Occupation: Arranging religious pamphlets alphabetically, throwing them out, gathering more pamphlets. To make money, I work as an architect. But you know that, silly.
People in the home whose various moods I must administer: One fully grown adult named Bea. Tad, five years old. Gordon, three.
Living in Portland (Oregon, you remember) in a house of my competitor’s design.
Why? I wanted to stop well short of the ocean. Fucking hate fish.
The night I met Paul, he was in a crisis at a bar. He’d just found out that his girlfriend was cheating on him. He confessed this to me in the line for the men’s room, across from the line for the women’s.
“Would you do something for me when you’re done in there?” he asked, nodding at the women’s room door.
“What?”
“I fucking need a hickey. A big fucking hickey like Jennifer Lopez thought I was a straw or something.”
“What, like on your neck, right?”
He sighed and grinned. “Yeah, on my neck.”
Under a fluorescent lamp buzzing over a pay phone at the back of the bar, I sucked on Paul’s neck for all it was worth, rubbing the bend of skin with my tongue. It took a few minutes, this being the first task set by a new friend, I wanted it to be perfect. We were silent, still, listening to Lovefool by The Cardigans play on the jukebox. My lips tingled when I was done.
J-Did you miss me?
P-Of course. Did you miss me?
J-Aw. Totally. I like your avatar thingy.
P-I like yours. It looks just like my computer.
J-You’ve got a MacBook?
P-Just got it last week.
P-Uh oh.
P-I’m about to press that camera button.
P-I’m going to press it.
J-Oh shit. Alright. I’ll press mine too.
P-Ready? Go.
I pressed the camera button and Paul appeared before me.
“Can you see me?” he asked.
“Oh my God.”
“I guess so. I can see you. You look great! You look better than you did in school!”
“You look exactly the same,” I said.
And he did. He picked up his computer and did a kind of head-to-toe of himself. I did the same when he was done.
The last time I saw Paul, he was in my dorm room. He was about to move to Portland and asked me if he should bring his girlfriend. I told him he should. Then he complained about not getting laid enough.
“There’s always some reason that she won’t. And then I’m stuck there with this girl that I can’t touch and I can’t touch another girl because I’ve got her. And I can’t touch myself ‘cause she’s there. And then, you know what I’m thinking about? I’m thinking about calling you.”
I blushed, sitting cross-legged on my bed. We never talked about it. He would ask for it, I’d do it, and we just went on like it never happened. He sat down on the opposite side of the bed, his back against the wall.
“Would you do one more? I don’t think I can afford to call you all the time. Just one last one for the road?”
“Just call me when you get back.”
“Why not do it now?”
“Like right here? Isn’t that going to be kind of boring for you?”
“I was thinking I would… right here. You could finally see it.”
He didn’t look at me. My heart beat like a box full of bricks dropping on the floor. Whump. Whump. Whump.
“Okay,” I said. “Um, girl?”
“Gillian Anderson.”
“Place?”
“Haven’t done a restaurant in a while.”
“Okay,” I start. “You’re at an expensive restaurant and you’re eating a New York strip with garlic mashed potatoes. You’re sitting next to Gillian Anderson. She puts her knife and fork down and takes a pat of butter in her hands. She warms it up between her palms and you know what to do. You unzip your pants and pull it out.”
I watched Paul unzip his pants and pull it out. He looked around the dorm room and took a bottle of lotion from my desk. He dropped his pants completely and sat back down on the bed. He pulled his shirt up to his armpits so I could see and squirted some of the lotion into his right hand.
“She reaches under the tablecloth and wraps her hand around it. Some of the butter hasn’t melted yet and it feels cold. You stare at your fork and concentrate.”
Paul looked good these days. He seemed fit, a little paunch, but not too much. He moved with more confidence, taking the computer around his house to give me a tour. He put it down and I watched him pour himself a Coke in his kitchen. He didn’t have the lope in his walk like he used to.
“Where’s Bea?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen her since like your first date.”
“She and the kids are visiting her mom. Her mom spoils the absolute shit out of them and we’ve gotta break them in again whenever they come back. “
“I guess that’s what grandmothers are for, right?”
There was a long pause and he picked up the computer again, his face, and then a turn and a walk until we were back in his office. He set it down, sat and stared at me for a while.
“Where’s your guy? Frank, right?”
“He works nights.”
“Factory?”
“Sommelier.”
“Oh. That’s gotta be hard.”
“Not really. We’re very different people and it’s better that we don’t see too much of each other.”
“Now I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be.”
“Things not so good?” he asked.
“Not really. You?”
“Same as they were at Atlantic.”
“Sorry.”
“Ah. You get what you marry, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You getting laid any more than you were?”
“Nope.”
“Cheating?”
“Nope.”
“Good for you.”
“I guess. I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” I said, and this time he could see me smile. He smiled back.
“You had your teeth capped, huh?”
“Had to,” he said. “Dentist’s orders.”
He mussed his hair and sat back, regarding my face.
“Tell me a story,” he said, and I waited for him to say he was kidding.
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Bea. Frank.”
“It’s not cheating. No one’s touching anyone.”
“No!”
“How ‘bout I tell one?”
“Paul….”
“Judy….”
“Place?” I said nothing and frowned at him. “Pl-aaace.” His hands patted his desk. “Judy, when I would call you in college, would you say that we were having sex?”
“No.”
“So it’s not cheating.”
“Frank hasn’t had sex with me in five months.”
“Give me a place.”
“Bedroom.”
“Did you say dining room table? Okay. He’s kissing you hard in your dining room and he’s got his hand in your pants. He unzips them and pulls them down. Judy, pull your pants down.”
“What? No!”
“I’m telling the story. Pull your pants down. It’s only fair.”
I slid the laptop forward on my bed, got up, my heart pounding like it was in the dorm room. Whump. Whump. Whump. My pants and underwear, as though my hands were not under my control, were dropped to the floor. I angled the laptop screen so he could see. His face went a little slack. I saw his arm go down to a drawer in his desk. He got a bottle of lube and set it out.
He continued. “He starts to fuck you with his fingers. It feels good. It feels really good to you. You want the real thing and you start to beg for it.” He took his shirt off, then stood and took his jeans off, still talking. “You say ‘Fuck me. Fuck me with that big cock.’” He stood in his underwear for a moment, an undeniable bulge in there, then pulled those too off. His cock was hard, straight, bouncing out of the underwear.
“I forgot how hairy you are,” I said.
“Shh. He asks you to say it again. You do. ‘Fuck me. Please.’”
His voice was a little comical, trying to imitate me. I couldn’t laugh because he’d see me. I covered my mouth instead. He backed his chair far enough from the desk so I could see all of him. “Your pussy is wet.” He snapped open the bottle of lube and poured some down over it. He rubbed it in with a twist and began to work it. My smile turned to hot shock under my palm. I seemed to stop breathing. “Is your pussy wet, Judy?”
“Probably.”
“Check.”
My fingers slipped between my pussy lips, his face changing, a smirk and a gasp.
“I’m wet. This is wrong.” But my finger took some of the wet and moved up.
“There you go,” he said. “I’m not very good at this. Why don’t you take over?”
“You press her face down on the dining room table and smack her ass a few times. The pink drives up on both cheeks. She tries to hide the pain in her face, but she can’t. ‘Please, Paul,’ she says. ‘That hurts.’” My fingers started to rub furiously, as if doing this fast would make it less wrong. I found a spot that made my thighs tremble. He noticed. “You finally give in, press your cock down and slide in. Her pussy grabs you tight and you’re not sure how you’re going to hold out. You start to fuck her, slow so you can feel it all, but she begs you to go harder now.”
He stopped for a moment and held his cock out for me to see. It was long and thick, just as I remembered it. I remembered it all the time, had memorized that night in my dorm room like I filmed it.
He brought it back into his fist and started to beat it hard, the sound of flapping skin making it to the tiny microphone in his computer. “You’re fucking her madly now, and she calls out to you. She says ‘Paul! Paul, that’s so good! Fuck me harder, Paul! Fuck harder!’ And you look down at her face and see it all scrunched up and red and you do. You go harder.” It was getting harder to talk now. To concentrate on the words. I never did this when he’d call me before. I waited until we hung up.
“Mmm. And your… your body just fills… up with… sex. And you slap her ass one more time for it. One more time… and she… cringes. You can feel her tighter on your cock. Her teeth are gritting. “And you slow down and grind into me. You… grind me and I can feel you so deep.”
I’d done it. We both noticed the switch to first person. We both gasped. I was about to come, but he got there first.
“Judy, fuck, fuck, Judy.” He stood up and came, shooting out onto the camera. “Fuck!”
“Paul! Jesus Christ, Paul!” His thumb wiped the come off as I came in wave after wave, thrown all over the bed and shaking the computer. I lay silently for a few moments before I had the strength to sit up. I knew I was blushing. I knew he wouldn’t be.
“I miss you,” he said again.
“When does she get back?”
“Next week.”
“Good. Tomorrow night, then?”
“Yeah.”
And I closed iChat.
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