My cell phone rings. It’s Christopher.
“Would you meet me in my office, please?”
The office is exactly two doors away. I swing out of bed and go to the hallway. The door to the office is closed. I’m compelled to knock.
“Enter,” he says.
The doorknob twists and it occurs to me that I’ve never turned it. Never had this door closed before. Christopher is at his desk, facing the other way.
“Yes?” I ask, trying to quell a laugh.
“What did you do with your vacation day yesterday?”
“I relaxed.”
“I can see that,” he says.
“Well, I suppose I should have done the dishes or something, but I just wanted to take a day and do nothing.”
“Why don’t you come over here?” he asks, getting out of his chair. I’m about to take it, but he kicks it to the side. “Bend over the desk, please,” he says, with a less polite hand on the back of my neck. I’m confused, but do it anyway. He reaches around my front, unties my sweatpants and drops them. He reaches around me, takes the mouse and double clicks on what I now notice is a folder full of .mov files. The silver window pops up and begins to play. It’s me in the bedroom, legs spread, fingers inside.
A teenager voice appears in my twenty-five-year-old throat. “You’ve got a camera in there?”
My ass is spanked, open handed and hard. In the video, the cat jumps on the bed, but I don’t notice her. I’m about to come, my head throwing back, my breasts cresting. The cat sits in the window and stares at me. Here, my ass is spanked again.
“Yes, I’ve got a camera in there. For good reason, it seems. This is what you do all day while I’m off” [spank] “earning money for us?”
There is no answer, so I don’t give one. He spanks me again, and I’m trembling. The pain, from its three centers, begins to join into one stinging, itching sore. In the video, I’m done, my chest heaving, my hand on my thigh, the cat looking out the window. He clicks that one shut and then picks another one. At first, he seems to look randomly, but then finds a specific file, one that seems to bother him the most. Double click and it’s me again, at this desk, my feet spread on either end of it. On the screen is a video. It’s too bright to make out, but I know what it was.
“All day long,” he says. He opens his lower left hand drawer, pulls out a paddle. I see this out of the corner of my eye, but try to turn anyway, to see one of these cameras. He doesn’t let me, takes my head and points it forward. “Yes, you have to look,” he grumbles. The exposure of my ass has become palpable to me. It suddenly feels cold, vulnerable. I didn’t know about the paddle. I dread it. “Look at yourself, you selfish little girl. This was about when I was working through lunch. I’m bent over my desk….” The paddle comes down. My knees bend, my face twists, my pussy, shockingly, swells. It’s the video, I tell myself, and feel the polished wood make gentle contact back where it hit, resting there. “And you’re straddling the one at home. Selfish!” he yells, and the paddle comes down again. “Selfish,” [smack], “selfish,” [smack] “selfish!” My eyes are tearing up. He leaves this video going and opens another, drags it to another corner of the screen. It’s me again, in the bathroom this time. Over the toilet, a bottle of baby oil to my right, a rabbit vibe in the other. My toes curl over the doorknob. I’m spanked again, again, again. My pussy is somehow lit, straining, dripping. He kicks my legs apart, opens yet another video. Me in bed again, a different part of the day, the sun higher across the comforter. The cat is at the foot, resting on my toes as if nothing is happening.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks.
“I…” [spank] “ouch.”
“That’s right, you greedy, selfish bitch.” [spank] “No consideration for me. No thought of my cock.” [spank} “Stupidly going to work while you diddle away all day.” In the video, my eyes stare vapidly at the ceiling. I can’t imagine what I was thinking about. Probably Christopher’s cock, actually. That I didn’t look forward and find a camera is a mystery. [spank] My ass is a giant, burning sting now, the desire in my pussy put into vivid contrast. I would do anything to have him in me right now.
Three movies open now. I’m coming in the one at the desk, my back bent over the chair, my legs trembling. It’s a strange picture. You never see a woman come in porn. I’ve never, actually, seen this before, my knees shut, my whole body rolling in the air. He distracts me with another spank and suddenly I’m impaled on him, his cock reaching for my liver.
“You do the work,” he says. I grasp the sides of the desk and begin to move, to service him. He spanks and I go tighter on him, trying to strangle him in my muscles. The desk video freezes, out of information. In the bathroom, my mouth hangs open, my foot slipping and catching on the door. I’m suddenly intensely envious of myself in these videos. My clit is screaming for contact with anything at all right now. I’m sweating from the effort, grinding Christopher, fucking him at this impossible angle. In the bed video, I’m screaming out “God, God, God, that’s it!” The cat is kicked off the bed with an indignant yelp. “Selfish bitch,” Christopher simply states. I can see his point now. There is rise deep in his nose, a gruff, sinister groan. He’s coming, and I slow on him until he freezes my hips in his hands. He pulls out and spanks me again.
“Close the videos, put something I like on your body and meet me downstairs. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”
He leaves me bent over the desk. I know I shouldn’t, but I put my hands between my legs and slip the handle of the paddle inside. It’s still warm from his fist. A few hard swipes on my clit and I come, squirming over the desk, falling to my knees. My ankles hit my ass and I can feel the red hot in the cheeks. After a few moments, I pull myself up, control q the videos away, and go to my bedroom dresser to find something to wear.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Enough
Note: This one's pure whimpering moosh. If you're not into mooshy, don't read it.
I can’t do anything until we get in. Rushing through the airport, the baggage in the car, people looking at us, but no one saying anything, just rushing down moving sidewalks and through automatic doors until the last one opens and there’s the car, rushing into it. For however long it will last, the last piece of him for a while.
I’d looked forward to it for months, though I never said anything, or even thought about it directly. But it was there and we both knew it, a room outside of our lives, away from our homes, the old routine, if only for one night it was something. And the day was fine. We were just beaming, like children, like we’d just met, like it was all in front of us. There would be nights in front of us and I lied to myself, just in case it didn’t happen. I lied and told myself we were together again. Because I didn’t want to think about the next day, today, when we take the limo home and there are more months ahead of us before we can be alone again. Alone without a lying phone call or a time limit, when we would have hours together away from ourselves, the pillow fort that we hide in, a sheet over it, reading stories to each other with our flashlights.
Corey’s room was right next to mine so I didn’t have to wait long. I answered the door and he was there, an expression of something in him, his face vexed and hopeful, like mine. Exhausted with want and worry and dread and happiness. I let him in and he hugged me tightly to him, finally time for affection. Finally enough time to feel each other, not a quick fuck in the back seat or a drunk dial early in the morning. We stood for a long time like that in the hallway of my room and I felt like I was falling apart, but I swallowed it down, like pushing ice through a hose. I finally broke it off and made us a couple of drinks. He sat on the bed and wiped his mouth back and forth in his hand.
“Are you happy?” he asked, his voice split in two.
I didn’t answer him, but swallowed again, chasing it with the vodka and cranberry I’d made for myself. I gave him his drink and he drank it fast. We sat next to each other, our shoulders pressed in harshly to one another. His hand, cold from the drink, trailed up my beard and I kissed it.
He backed up to the headboard and I followed him. He turned to his side, pulled me into him and kissed me. We took our time. And it hurt. It hurt like hell. Every millimeter between us stung.
The first thing we do in the limo is raise the barrier. He pushes me down into the seat and takes his jeans off. I take off my own. He falls onto me and sinks his tongue into my mouth. I sit up and push him down instead, lube from my bag drizzled on his asshole and the look in his eyes that I’m avoiding. In the room, we took each other’s clothes off slowly. I felt his skin against mine and I almost lost it again. We lay there, our mouths moving into each other, our legs wrapped into each other, all the things I wanted to say getting packed down deeper into my gut. “I love you,” I said, finally, this little admission sent up to explain everything below. And that hurt enough, letting that pass through.
I unzip my bag in the footwell and put the tips of my fingers over his bottom teeth. Don’t say anything. Just don’t. I don’t want any of that. There’s just no fucking time. We put it off and this is it. When I’m coated and my dick, my sullen brain not affecting it at all, pulses in the air, I concentrate on that. I raise his knees onto my chest and slam into him, he whimpers three little jittery inhales over his teeth like he stepped on something sharp. I add more lube and press on, stanching the pain in my chest that I’m ignoring. I’ll deal with you later.
“I. Shit, Alec, I love you too,” he said, breaking the kiss. He put his fingers in my hair and pressed his cheek into mine. “I love you too. I can’t live without you. I can’t do anything at the work. Can’t do anything at home. I’m faking everything. I’m a fucking wreck and I can’t, shit, dammit, shit, no, I just. I don’t want to do this. I can’t talk to you about this. I just want to lay here with you, okay? I just want to lay here.” And I didn’t know what to do. So I crushed him to me and I closed my eyes and tried to be happy for him. And they came anyway, branding my fucking cheeks they were so hot.
He’s getting into it and I’m looking down at him, my arms wrapped tight around his thighs and I’ve never gone so hard, so reckless, so desperate and angry at him. I feel like slapping him I’m so mad. But it’s not him I’m mad at. It’s that tomorrow he’ll be next to me again. And I’ll have to lie. And I’ll have to get into my car and go home. I’m sweating and thinking about how I’m going to explain it. And I’m mad about that too. And I just want to fuck him forever. And I just want to come. And I want to hate him. The feel of his body on mine, I want to hate that. He grasps his cock, but I slap it away and take it myself, quick and cold.
We spent the entire night awake and quiet like that, broken up only occasionally by a quaking shoulder and a word or two. In the morning, late for the airport and rushing to pack everything, I patted my jacket from the night before.
“I have something to show you,” I said. I opened up my wallet and pulled out my stack of I.D.s, credit cards and such. Between the Nieman’s and the Blockbuster, I pulled out a lunch receipt. “It’s from the day we met. It’s been in here ever since.”
He looked at it and bit his lip. I put it all back.
“Come, dammit,” I say to him. “Come, Corey. Come.” I feel my fingernails graze him a couple of times, but I don’t care. Sweat drips through my eyebrows and into my eyes and I take that sting too.
“Alec, I… Alec. Alec.”
“Shut up. Just fucking come.” My body is pulsing. I’m burning, but it doesn’t matter. And I’m fighting everything. I just want to fight. I hate all of it. His shoulders lift off of the seat and I feel his ass twist and lock on me and he shoots out all over my hand and I’m seething and trying not to think of anything but that. When I stop thinking, my whole body explodes and it’s not enough. It’s not enough to feel his knees in my chest and call his name out. It’s not enough to stanch anything. Because I want last night back. I pull out of him and pick him up and hold him so close to me and he pulls out of it with a squeeze on my knee. We get to my neighborhood. We put our clothes on silently and I kiss him hard before I get out of the car, a squeeze on the hand that’s nowhere near enough.
I can’t do anything until we get in. Rushing through the airport, the baggage in the car, people looking at us, but no one saying anything, just rushing down moving sidewalks and through automatic doors until the last one opens and there’s the car, rushing into it. For however long it will last, the last piece of him for a while.
I’d looked forward to it for months, though I never said anything, or even thought about it directly. But it was there and we both knew it, a room outside of our lives, away from our homes, the old routine, if only for one night it was something. And the day was fine. We were just beaming, like children, like we’d just met, like it was all in front of us. There would be nights in front of us and I lied to myself, just in case it didn’t happen. I lied and told myself we were together again. Because I didn’t want to think about the next day, today, when we take the limo home and there are more months ahead of us before we can be alone again. Alone without a lying phone call or a time limit, when we would have hours together away from ourselves, the pillow fort that we hide in, a sheet over it, reading stories to each other with our flashlights.
Corey’s room was right next to mine so I didn’t have to wait long. I answered the door and he was there, an expression of something in him, his face vexed and hopeful, like mine. Exhausted with want and worry and dread and happiness. I let him in and he hugged me tightly to him, finally time for affection. Finally enough time to feel each other, not a quick fuck in the back seat or a drunk dial early in the morning. We stood for a long time like that in the hallway of my room and I felt like I was falling apart, but I swallowed it down, like pushing ice through a hose. I finally broke it off and made us a couple of drinks. He sat on the bed and wiped his mouth back and forth in his hand.
“Are you happy?” he asked, his voice split in two.
I didn’t answer him, but swallowed again, chasing it with the vodka and cranberry I’d made for myself. I gave him his drink and he drank it fast. We sat next to each other, our shoulders pressed in harshly to one another. His hand, cold from the drink, trailed up my beard and I kissed it.
He backed up to the headboard and I followed him. He turned to his side, pulled me into him and kissed me. We took our time. And it hurt. It hurt like hell. Every millimeter between us stung.
The first thing we do in the limo is raise the barrier. He pushes me down into the seat and takes his jeans off. I take off my own. He falls onto me and sinks his tongue into my mouth. I sit up and push him down instead, lube from my bag drizzled on his asshole and the look in his eyes that I’m avoiding. In the room, we took each other’s clothes off slowly. I felt his skin against mine and I almost lost it again. We lay there, our mouths moving into each other, our legs wrapped into each other, all the things I wanted to say getting packed down deeper into my gut. “I love you,” I said, finally, this little admission sent up to explain everything below. And that hurt enough, letting that pass through.
I unzip my bag in the footwell and put the tips of my fingers over his bottom teeth. Don’t say anything. Just don’t. I don’t want any of that. There’s just no fucking time. We put it off and this is it. When I’m coated and my dick, my sullen brain not affecting it at all, pulses in the air, I concentrate on that. I raise his knees onto my chest and slam into him, he whimpers three little jittery inhales over his teeth like he stepped on something sharp. I add more lube and press on, stanching the pain in my chest that I’m ignoring. I’ll deal with you later.
“I. Shit, Alec, I love you too,” he said, breaking the kiss. He put his fingers in my hair and pressed his cheek into mine. “I love you too. I can’t live without you. I can’t do anything at the work. Can’t do anything at home. I’m faking everything. I’m a fucking wreck and I can’t, shit, dammit, shit, no, I just. I don’t want to do this. I can’t talk to you about this. I just want to lay here with you, okay? I just want to lay here.” And I didn’t know what to do. So I crushed him to me and I closed my eyes and tried to be happy for him. And they came anyway, branding my fucking cheeks they were so hot.
He’s getting into it and I’m looking down at him, my arms wrapped tight around his thighs and I’ve never gone so hard, so reckless, so desperate and angry at him. I feel like slapping him I’m so mad. But it’s not him I’m mad at. It’s that tomorrow he’ll be next to me again. And I’ll have to lie. And I’ll have to get into my car and go home. I’m sweating and thinking about how I’m going to explain it. And I’m mad about that too. And I just want to fuck him forever. And I just want to come. And I want to hate him. The feel of his body on mine, I want to hate that. He grasps his cock, but I slap it away and take it myself, quick and cold.
We spent the entire night awake and quiet like that, broken up only occasionally by a quaking shoulder and a word or two. In the morning, late for the airport and rushing to pack everything, I patted my jacket from the night before.
“I have something to show you,” I said. I opened up my wallet and pulled out my stack of I.D.s, credit cards and such. Between the Nieman’s and the Blockbuster, I pulled out a lunch receipt. “It’s from the day we met. It’s been in here ever since.”
He looked at it and bit his lip. I put it all back.
“Come, dammit,” I say to him. “Come, Corey. Come.” I feel my fingernails graze him a couple of times, but I don’t care. Sweat drips through my eyebrows and into my eyes and I take that sting too.
“Alec, I… Alec. Alec.”
“Shut up. Just fucking come.” My body is pulsing. I’m burning, but it doesn’t matter. And I’m fighting everything. I just want to fight. I hate all of it. His shoulders lift off of the seat and I feel his ass twist and lock on me and he shoots out all over my hand and I’m seething and trying not to think of anything but that. When I stop thinking, my whole body explodes and it’s not enough. It’s not enough to feel his knees in my chest and call his name out. It’s not enough to stanch anything. Because I want last night back. I pull out of him and pick him up and hold him so close to me and he pulls out of it with a squeeze on my knee. We get to my neighborhood. We put our clothes on silently and I kiss him hard before I get out of the car, a squeeze on the hand that’s nowhere near enough.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Holy crap! No way!
No, really, no freaking way. You are all beloved.
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 #99? 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.
Note: Details of the Sugasm #100 celebrations will appear in Tuesday’s post request.
This Week’s Picks
Anal, her perspective
“This entire anal sex episode had started some months earlier, on a theoretical level.”
When the Muse Wants to Fuck
“Participles, linking verbs, superlative adjectives… You want more?”
Chef
“He’s already at work, but he’s left an order behind on the scraps of ordering paper that we have all over the house.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
The Secret Diary of a Callgirl
Editor’s Choice
Whipped on this day: 1791
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.)
NSFW Pics & Videos
Chicagoland by Rand McNally, Body by Celina, Photos by Usama Alshaibi
Erotic Orchid
Eva Angelina (Twistys)
Half-Nekkid Blogging
HNT (Hopelessly Narcissistic Thursday) - What I Want…
Three In The Morning by Westland Armitage
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Brothel story II
The Double Standard of Promiscuity
Eye contact
Half-Nekkid Dessert
Inclinations
Long Distance Lovin’
Playing a Role
Women aren’t the only ones with cunts
Sex News & Reviews
Beefcake Calendar Bonanza
Deeply Throaty
Sex Swing Review
Submit to CineKink!
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Craving Me
A Gift Between Friends
In Which I (Almost) Get My First Facial
Milk And Honey
The other girl
A place to live
Visit To A Sex Club
We Don’t Have Fantasies, We Have Plans
Sex Advice & Sex Poetry
How to be a Cum-Guzzler
In deep cushions redolent of perfume
BDSM & Fetish
At the Club
Back to the Garden of Carnal Delights
Catalina loves To Submit
Doll of wax
Fantasy: A man walks into a bar…
Marks like Pink Ribbons pt. 1
My Checkered Past: The Earth Moves Under My Feet
The Nooner
Post Party Portrait
The Way of a Man with a Maid
Whips and Lubes
Monday, September 24, 2007
Uncle Sam Wants You
So, I was watching The War last night, and yes, it's a sacred subject and all, but let us praise the brilliant propagandist who came up with this one.
&
Um. Wow. And now back to the written smut.
&Um. Wow. And now back to the written smut.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Eponymous
We lounge on your couch, grape-eating style, our legs intertwined, your cock lazy and curled on your stomach, one of your balls hanging between your thighs, the other stuck against your left thigh. Your stomach is hairy, soft, reddish brown. It’s flat, the result of years of agonizing denial and a certain Siddhartha masochism. Mine isn’t. It’s round and pudgy, jovial, the result of years of lazing around on couches. Doctors could cut me open and count the rings, “Ah,” they’d say to each other, “that was 2002, the year she found out she liked mayonnaise.” “It was a good year,” the other would say. You poke me in the stomach with your big toe and look me in the eye. I smile.
“Why aren’t there any good words for female masturbation?” you ask, as if it’s been my responsibility all along to create one.
“The only good one I ever heard was ‘petting the old man in the rowboat,’ but we need something shorter.”
“Yes. Flicking?” you suggest.
“Hmm. That’s good. Nub rubbing?”
“Nah.” Your toe slides up my stomach and absently toys with my nipple. It’s turning me on, but I don’t betray it. “Tender tapping?”
“Tapping?”
“Well, I don’t really ‘jerk’ either.”
My nipple is hard now, could tickle the bottom of your feet if you’d let it. My mouth has been opening slowly. I close it.
“Flicking’s good,” I say, because I can’t think with you doing that.
“How often do you flick, then?” you ask, releasing my nipple. You drop your foot between my side and the couch, supporting my back with it. Your toenails scratch an itch.
“It varies. About three times a week on average, but I’ve been known to let it drop to once a week.”
“My God, how do you live like that?” you ask, a twitch in your cock. I pretend not to notice.
“But I have many weeks where I must at least once a day, and some days are completely lost in self-ravaging.”
“Flicking, darling.”
“Flicking. Mostly it varies on time and opportunity. You?”
“Twice a day.”
“Standard.”
“Is it, do you think?”
“Uh-huh. But this morning…. Have you today?”
“Saving it up,” you say, casually. I smile though. You risk a glance and see it. The compliment hit. “You?”
“Saving it up.”
“Why?”
“It’s better if I haven’t in a while.”
“I’m saving because I want to coat that pretty face of yours, though.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.”
“Hopeless romantic, that’s me,” you joke, but the twitch has become something of a half-erection. “How do you do it?” you ask. We’re going down that road now.
I blush. I buy time. “Do what?”
“Flick,” you say, simply, the K sound emphasized and precise.
“I open the lips, check for wetness….”
“Show me.”
I knew this was coming, but I’m still blushing madly. This conversation is a lot like being tied down. I stare at you, all faux-shock, but you continue to calmly watch, all seriousness and scientific curiosity. My hand slides down and I throw a leg, as elegantly as I can, over the back of your couch. Your eyes drop. My finger goes in, separates the lips so you can see, so I’m exposed to you. I dip a finger, wet, and work back up. And there, less of a flick and more like a rub, I begin.
I’m watching your cock, the arc it makes over your lower abdomen as it raises, unfurls, solidifies. It’s a perfect fit for my mouth and I think about that as I rub myself, what that tastes like, what it feels like to flatten your veins under my lips, making you lose yourself finally, making you unleash, grasping my shoulder as you explode. It works well, my hand coated now. My eyes open again and you’re breathing deeply, an open look in your face and your cock hovering over your lower body, finding no friction in the air. Your hands, however, lay calmly on your chest and between the couch and its cushions. I’m going in then. You can’t expect me to stay here.
I draw my legs back, lean forward, roll onto my knees, and handless, pull your cock into my mouth with a hooked tongue. The rounded tip, the nose of a rocket, all swollen and spongy in the skin. Farther, my lips sliding over the tip, like making my way over the points of an arrow, headed for the shaft, and the skin here is softer, looser. It’s been years since I’ve had an uncut one in my mouth. I play with it for awhile, move the skin around with the tip of my tongue, then try to hold the slack with it, moving back and forth along the skin with my lips. My fingers slip easily over my clit, the angle allowing a free flow of slick wetness to my fingers. Now, farther down on your cock, the lips scouting before they pull you in, my tongue welcoming you, warming you, teasing you and tasting you. And my fingers find a new high, and my back arches for a moment. I snap them off of me for a moment, grab your balls instead, cradle them, pull them a little in their tight suede bag. Then, my fingers still a little wet, now receiving a bit of the saliva that drips from my mouth, I go behind your balls, massage you there firmly.
You jump a little as I find a rhythm, matching the swing of my fingers to the one in my neck. I want to ask you what you want, but my mouth is full.
“Go back to yourself,” you say. “Get flicking, girl.”
So I let your cock down slowly, push off your knees and sit back, my legs splaying even less elegantly than before. And there, the fingers of my left hand spread my lips in a V shape, my clit left out there, a helpless little thing to be battered, hard like a cherry and soaking in its own brandy. The other hand reaches and batters it, pushes harder into the side, and I can feel it throb, my mind singularizing on this spot, clit, clit, clit. You’ve started to stroke yourself, and your lips pull. Your eyes close for a moment and you have a half swoon. So do I. You sit up, crawl to me on your knees, and whimper. Come squirts before you’re ready, swipes my breasts, my stomach, my clit. I rub it in there and lose you and the world for a moment, crash inside, lose thought and self. There is you and there is peace and there is joy and then, then, then, there is breath again.
“You know,” you say, falling back to your side of the couch, “when I was watching you….”
“Yeah?”
“I think ‘petting the old man in the rowboat’ might be better.”
I roll some of your come in my index finger and flick it in your face.
“Why aren’t there any good words for female masturbation?” you ask, as if it’s been my responsibility all along to create one.
“The only good one I ever heard was ‘petting the old man in the rowboat,’ but we need something shorter.”
“Yes. Flicking?” you suggest.
“Hmm. That’s good. Nub rubbing?”
“Nah.” Your toe slides up my stomach and absently toys with my nipple. It’s turning me on, but I don’t betray it. “Tender tapping?”
“Tapping?”
“Well, I don’t really ‘jerk’ either.”
My nipple is hard now, could tickle the bottom of your feet if you’d let it. My mouth has been opening slowly. I close it.
“Flicking’s good,” I say, because I can’t think with you doing that.
“How often do you flick, then?” you ask, releasing my nipple. You drop your foot between my side and the couch, supporting my back with it. Your toenails scratch an itch.
“It varies. About three times a week on average, but I’ve been known to let it drop to once a week.”
“My God, how do you live like that?” you ask, a twitch in your cock. I pretend not to notice.
“But I have many weeks where I must at least once a day, and some days are completely lost in self-ravaging.”
“Flicking, darling.”
“Flicking. Mostly it varies on time and opportunity. You?”
“Twice a day.”
“Standard.”
“Is it, do you think?”
“Uh-huh. But this morning…. Have you today?”
“Saving it up,” you say, casually. I smile though. You risk a glance and see it. The compliment hit. “You?”
“Saving it up.”
“Why?”
“It’s better if I haven’t in a while.”
“I’m saving because I want to coat that pretty face of yours, though.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.”
“Hopeless romantic, that’s me,” you joke, but the twitch has become something of a half-erection. “How do you do it?” you ask. We’re going down that road now.
I blush. I buy time. “Do what?”
“Flick,” you say, simply, the K sound emphasized and precise.
“I open the lips, check for wetness….”
“Show me.”
I knew this was coming, but I’m still blushing madly. This conversation is a lot like being tied down. I stare at you, all faux-shock, but you continue to calmly watch, all seriousness and scientific curiosity. My hand slides down and I throw a leg, as elegantly as I can, over the back of your couch. Your eyes drop. My finger goes in, separates the lips so you can see, so I’m exposed to you. I dip a finger, wet, and work back up. And there, less of a flick and more like a rub, I begin.
I’m watching your cock, the arc it makes over your lower abdomen as it raises, unfurls, solidifies. It’s a perfect fit for my mouth and I think about that as I rub myself, what that tastes like, what it feels like to flatten your veins under my lips, making you lose yourself finally, making you unleash, grasping my shoulder as you explode. It works well, my hand coated now. My eyes open again and you’re breathing deeply, an open look in your face and your cock hovering over your lower body, finding no friction in the air. Your hands, however, lay calmly on your chest and between the couch and its cushions. I’m going in then. You can’t expect me to stay here.
I draw my legs back, lean forward, roll onto my knees, and handless, pull your cock into my mouth with a hooked tongue. The rounded tip, the nose of a rocket, all swollen and spongy in the skin. Farther, my lips sliding over the tip, like making my way over the points of an arrow, headed for the shaft, and the skin here is softer, looser. It’s been years since I’ve had an uncut one in my mouth. I play with it for awhile, move the skin around with the tip of my tongue, then try to hold the slack with it, moving back and forth along the skin with my lips. My fingers slip easily over my clit, the angle allowing a free flow of slick wetness to my fingers. Now, farther down on your cock, the lips scouting before they pull you in, my tongue welcoming you, warming you, teasing you and tasting you. And my fingers find a new high, and my back arches for a moment. I snap them off of me for a moment, grab your balls instead, cradle them, pull them a little in their tight suede bag. Then, my fingers still a little wet, now receiving a bit of the saliva that drips from my mouth, I go behind your balls, massage you there firmly.
You jump a little as I find a rhythm, matching the swing of my fingers to the one in my neck. I want to ask you what you want, but my mouth is full.
“Go back to yourself,” you say. “Get flicking, girl.”
So I let your cock down slowly, push off your knees and sit back, my legs splaying even less elegantly than before. And there, the fingers of my left hand spread my lips in a V shape, my clit left out there, a helpless little thing to be battered, hard like a cherry and soaking in its own brandy. The other hand reaches and batters it, pushes harder into the side, and I can feel it throb, my mind singularizing on this spot, clit, clit, clit. You’ve started to stroke yourself, and your lips pull. Your eyes close for a moment and you have a half swoon. So do I. You sit up, crawl to me on your knees, and whimper. Come squirts before you’re ready, swipes my breasts, my stomach, my clit. I rub it in there and lose you and the world for a moment, crash inside, lose thought and self. There is you and there is peace and there is joy and then, then, then, there is breath again.
“You know,” you say, falling back to your side of the couch, “when I was watching you….”
“Yeah?”
“I think ‘petting the old man in the rowboat’ might be better.”
I roll some of your come in my index finger and flick it in your face.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Nautilus
He bent over, touched his toes, a high-pitched defiance from his thighs. He did it again. And again. Tips of fingers into the hair on his toes. Then against the wall, one leg back, the foot forward and flat, leaning. This muscle complaint more subtle, more of a groan than a shriek. Pulling, pulling. Then the other foot, the other shin, his cheek pressing into the wall. Onto the floor then, his legs apart, toes pointed. He leaned over one leg, grasped his foot in two hands and pulled until he could kiss his leg. It hurt. Terribly. He had to anyway. To the other leg, foot held, nose down, pain and dismay against the mat. A few rotations of his torso, left, right, left right, his elbows in the air. His arms pulled behind his back, across his front, balance in the distortion. His fingers were loosened, his forearm taking the brunt shock. Finally, his reward. He dropped back into a half somersault and remained there, his legs in a triangle above his face, his cock there. He opened his mouth and sucked it in.
He licked the tip, felt the instant sensation given to him, the shock in his balls. He bent his neck more, dropped his knees a little. Around the tip, now, beyond the tip. He rocked, bouncing his knees, pulling his shins up. Inside, out, in, out, like he was teasing himself. A bottle of lube was just off the mat and he reached for it. His lips pressed hard into himself, knew where his spots were, rubbed them cautiously. He opened the bottle and poured some lube into his hand, difficult at this angle, but he was practiced. Enough to coat, not so much that he would get a lot in his mouth. He wrapped his hand around the his cock and rubbed. It was all about his tongue now, the tastebuds against the skin, a glow encouraged out of him. He tasted his own precome, something he’d gotten to love, and sucked for more.
His neck ached, but it was a familiar ache, one that meant sex to him. His back complained, but that’s just what it did. The pleasure was more than enough to suffice, this kind of gratification, intimacy with oneself, and the knowledge that he could. Of course, he could never take his time here, and rubbed quickly at himself, the lube taste mixing with the precome in his mouth, sweet and chemical. His tongue rocking and holding, rocking and holding.
And there, a light beginning to be coaxed out of his balls, and his body wanted to straighten. He forced himself to stay. He stroked faster, his legs bending at the knee. He sucked a farewell to the tip of his cock and let it go, his mouth open, teeth exposed. He let his strokes cover more, moving up. There was a low note in his body, the beginning of anything by Beethoven, then a climb and more fighting his muscles. His mouth let out a gasp but his eyes weren’t closed long. They watched, fascinated, as he shot out, heard it against his teeth, felt it on his lips, one shot directly at the back of his throat and swallowed before it gagged him. The taste, a full one now and everywhere, tart and savory and organic. And his. All his, his own funk and his own delight.
He licked the tip, felt the instant sensation given to him, the shock in his balls. He bent his neck more, dropped his knees a little. Around the tip, now, beyond the tip. He rocked, bouncing his knees, pulling his shins up. Inside, out, in, out, like he was teasing himself. A bottle of lube was just off the mat and he reached for it. His lips pressed hard into himself, knew where his spots were, rubbed them cautiously. He opened the bottle and poured some lube into his hand, difficult at this angle, but he was practiced. Enough to coat, not so much that he would get a lot in his mouth. He wrapped his hand around the his cock and rubbed. It was all about his tongue now, the tastebuds against the skin, a glow encouraged out of him. He tasted his own precome, something he’d gotten to love, and sucked for more.
His neck ached, but it was a familiar ache, one that meant sex to him. His back complained, but that’s just what it did. The pleasure was more than enough to suffice, this kind of gratification, intimacy with oneself, and the knowledge that he could. Of course, he could never take his time here, and rubbed quickly at himself, the lube taste mixing with the precome in his mouth, sweet and chemical. His tongue rocking and holding, rocking and holding.
And there, a light beginning to be coaxed out of his balls, and his body wanted to straighten. He forced himself to stay. He stroked faster, his legs bending at the knee. He sucked a farewell to the tip of his cock and let it go, his mouth open, teeth exposed. He let his strokes cover more, moving up. There was a low note in his body, the beginning of anything by Beethoven, then a climb and more fighting his muscles. His mouth let out a gasp but his eyes weren’t closed long. They watched, fascinated, as he shot out, heard it against his teeth, felt it on his lips, one shot directly at the back of his throat and swallowed before it gagged him. The taste, a full one now and everywhere, tart and savory and organic. And his. All his, his own funk and his own delight.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Sugasm? One lump or two?
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 #98? 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 Manifesto of the Cuntcentric Hedonist
“I’m not being selfish, I’m being altruistic when I open my legs and offer my body up.”
No reservations, part 4
“By this time, said balls felt twice their normal size and very full.”
Sex Work And Religion: The Violent Priest
“We were to seduce one of the young ladies in the church’s choir.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
JBS Underwear
Editor’s Choice
The Top 10 Reasons to avoid “Pregnancy & Sex” bulletin boards
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.)
BDSM & Fetish
Bending Over……Another Erotic Tale of “Him”
Dinner with Amy
Fetish Film - Master Sessions - Mia (Master, Bondage, BDSM, Forced Orgasm)
Friday Night
I don’t know if i am strong enough for this….
My Checkered Past: Motorcycle Black Madonna Two-Wheeled Gypsy Queen
The story behind a spanking drawing
Sugarbutch Star: Jennifer
Sunday Caning
Fantasy: The Terminal
Watching hardcore collection Richard
Sex Work
Dumb emails I have received
OK, So Here’s The Thing…
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Come here
The desert
Half-Nekkid and Jilling Off
Jackhammer of love
My Office
Oil, Water and Skin
Oiled and running smoothly
The Open Door
Tingling
Tit for Tat and a Taste of That
Sex News & Reviews
Polyamory Conferences and Events
Watch the Video Trailer for Hegre Art’s First DVD Release
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Brothel story I
Inquiring Minds Want to Know
Most MFM Threesomes Don’t Turn Out Like This
Perhaps one day this will happen to you…
Sex & Politics
Accepting the fact that kids are gonna get it on
Let’s laugh at these fagots
NSFW Pics & Videos
Catalina loves Half-Nekkid-Tuesday (the Other HNT)
Half-Nekkid One-Night Stand
Pirate Hooker Baby - You Asked For It, You Got it
Rope Rookie
Monday, September 17, 2007
The Last Frontier
And here I am again, in your bedroom in the basement, my head against your chest because I need to move into it. It’s got some part of me lashed to its ribcage and I struggle to bungee right back to it. I’ve got to know everything about you, will perform surgery on your body and your soul, skin surgery, just what I can find out by holding a glass up to the wall. I could feel your heartbeat coming down the stairs, the smell of your body, one that I’ll remember years from now, that lets me know that I can. That I’m here with that bit in your ribcage again. And there are your lips, and I seriously want to cry because I know I’ll have to leave them sometime, to get up and earn my keep or change my clothes or buy a tax sticker for the car. And the breath. Have we had a new one lately? It seems that all we do is trade the same one, mist and bonfires and your toes in mine.
We’re flat out against each other and my instinct is to raise my legs. You take them in your elbows and sway them and we gasp, but you won’t do it. I lie and pant and want to scream, but you won’t. Some stupid barrier in your brain. Something left over from walking in on your parents fucking, or some retarded religious bullshit from your choir boy days, or your uncle slapping your dick with a newspaper when you were caught masturbating. I know it’s not me. And I know better than to try, that I could make you run away, that you’ve put all this on a pedestal so high that now it’s just habit, saying no to me, and to everyone else. And that’s the thing. I hold up for you anyway, petrified, but writhing, ready to come just being close to it. And you hold, still kissing me, still having confessed to loving me once a week in a broken cough, because that three word agent makes a mess of whatever it’s representing. I know you’re thinking about it. My eyes shut tight and I go Zen thoughtless, only waiting for that, the thing I want so bad, the last frontier of contact with you. And it doesn’t come. My legs are returned to the bed and I’m turned and spooned. Neither one of us needs to look at the other’s face anymore. My fingers dig into a pillow and I press it into my chest. So I don’t smother you with it. The object of all of my affections, cold and as fucked up as me.
We’re flat out against each other and my instinct is to raise my legs. You take them in your elbows and sway them and we gasp, but you won’t do it. I lie and pant and want to scream, but you won’t. Some stupid barrier in your brain. Something left over from walking in on your parents fucking, or some retarded religious bullshit from your choir boy days, or your uncle slapping your dick with a newspaper when you were caught masturbating. I know it’s not me. And I know better than to try, that I could make you run away, that you’ve put all this on a pedestal so high that now it’s just habit, saying no to me, and to everyone else. And that’s the thing. I hold up for you anyway, petrified, but writhing, ready to come just being close to it. And you hold, still kissing me, still having confessed to loving me once a week in a broken cough, because that three word agent makes a mess of whatever it’s representing. I know you’re thinking about it. My eyes shut tight and I go Zen thoughtless, only waiting for that, the thing I want so bad, the last frontier of contact with you. And it doesn’t come. My legs are returned to the bed and I’m turned and spooned. Neither one of us needs to look at the other’s face anymore. My fingers dig into a pillow and I press it into my chest. So I don’t smother you with it. The object of all of my affections, cold and as fucked up as me.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Chef
The Chef’s uniform, the one you see in clip art with the puffy, cloudlike toque and the wry mustache, perhaps being twisted by the owner upon serving the meal, isn’t just a caricature. There is a reason for all that stuff. The toque, though lately replaced by a kind of paper corrugation in the style of folded napkins, is there to displace heat in the kitchen and soak up sweat. The pants are thick and baggy so that you may sense contact with a hot stove before burning yourself on it. The jacket is also thick, and can be reversed to hide stains. And there are symbols too. Of course there are symbols. The kitchen is the warzone and the cooks are there to wage war with the organic. There is a strict rank in a kitchen, executive Chef, who’s name is on the door, sets the menu, arguably the make and break of the restaurant, and oversees everything from the hiring to the purchasing to the freshness of the rosemary sprigs. Mostly, the executive is to be found alternately schmoozing VIPs and running into the kitchen to scare the staff and maintain chaos.
Just under the executive is the Chef de cuisine, who runs the place in the absence of the executive, which can be from all the time to never, but is usually just most of the time. Under him are the sous Chefs, or usually is just the sous Chef. The sous Chef is the one with all of the responsibility, who runs the kitchen and beats his or her underlings down with an arbitrary and iron fist, is, in turn, the bitch of the executive and the Chef de cuisine. He or she must cover for the abhorrent behavior of his betters, doing everything from picking up their dry cleaning to mopping up their vomit before the customers smell it. The sous Chef, in turn, bullies everyone else into submission. It’s their ass in the sling if anything goes wrong.
Under them, through a complicated series of ranks and psuedoranks and subranks lies me, the line cook. There is only one answer to anything that is asked of the line cook to anyone who is not a fellow line cook or the dishwasher. Yes, Chef. Yes, Chef. This is a war and there is no time for argument. Chef, after all, means chief.
Milo is my Chef. A sous Chef, to be specific. The one hundred folds in Milo’s toque, etched onto his forehead in boiled blood at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, are symbols of the things that he can do with an egg. His jacket has his name on it, his rank and even a few ribbons, honors and ownerships and bitches he’s broken. He’s already at work, but he’s left an order behind on the scraps of ordering paper that we have all over the house. I read it and walk to the bedroom. Yes, Chef. It’s inserted and I stand straight, sweat appearing in bolt heads on my face.
Down the stairs and walking, the thing beats electricity into my legs. The pants, just lowly line cook pants, are baggy enough to hide my joy. The walk, the burning grin on my face, is only two blocks long, appropriately up a steep hill, which bounces the thing in my ass mercilessly. At the top of the hill is Ile-de-France, my own Pot au Feu, boiled down to my essence in my own blood. I enter through the back, the restaurant’s asshole, and I’m compelled to speak to a few specks, like me, dangling in the shorthairs.
“Hola, maricón,” Manuel says, and the rest of them laugh as if this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
“Just because you keep begging to suck my cock every day doesn’t make me a maricón,” I answer in Spanish. The thing is, they can say the same thing every day, but you’ve got to come up with a fresh answer every time.
“Eh! Ehhhh! Maricón!” Chaco says, flipping his cigarette over the grease dumpster. “You like to suck the cock of Milo, yeah? I see you.” Bwwaaaaa ha ha ha! Funniest thing ever.
“See you cleaned up that pearl necklace I gave you last week, Chaco. Or did you save it in case you run out of truffle oil?”
This is enough for now. They don’t know about Milo and me. It’s just the standard insult for whitey in the kitchen. Milo’s pubes in my teeth, his balls against my chin. Same thing every day. The weight in my ass brings me up again. Milo is there, large, hairy, top-heavy like a bulldog and his own bolt-heads of sweat.
“Hey, you think you got some fucking baby shower to go to or something? Get the fuck in the fucking kitchen, you lazy piece of shit. Get to fucking work.”
I’m a half-hour early. “Yes, Chef.”
“Do I have to tattoo the time that you’re supposed to show up on your nuts or something?” My insides are burning. I can’t even look at him. “Get your mis en fucking place sometime before your cock draws back into a cunt and get the fuck going.”
I’m running as he says this, the slips on the relief mats not greasy enough to worry me yet. The nerves on the insides of my arms are tingling and I can’t remember a thing. His abuse is like wildfire in my pubes and I’m visibly sighing. I concentrate on it, what it’s told me I can do. Sauté station. Pans, bent into the grill, sauces, baskets, fresh meat to be checked, vegetables of all types and slices and spices and oil. It’s run back to the station, placed, unveiled, rejected, replaced and restocked. The hollandaise provided to me is broken. Milo sees this and throws it on the ground. It splatters up the inside of my pants leg and settles in my socks. I run to clean it up, but Milo says, “What the fuck are you doing? Make another batch, you fucking dog dick.”
“Yes, Chef.”
I turn, panicked, to the walk-in and slip in the filth. I fall to the relief mat and don’t say ouch. The vinegar and rancid lemon falls into new cuts, but I’ve got to get the stuff. Milo walks off to go at someone else.
The doors open and the tables fill. Somewhere, a few hours later, my lamb noisettes are found wanting and thrown in my face. Linguini is dribbled, in onion and butter, down my front. And I’m in a trance, on, the food a blur and my mind in a state of half-conscious production and losing time. The cold piece of metal in my ass is a metronome, a cock that never loses blood, in half-erection all day, kept at respectful distance from the flat top.
I know it’s about 9:30 when we begin to slow, when the world beyond the six square feet just in front of me begins to reappear in blotches of stainless steel. I have one moment to myself and take it back to the walk-in, to restock the fennel and the lamb chops, and perhaps to give my face and neck a good wipe. I’m at the shelves, holding plastic bins and turning around when I’m taken by the shoulders and run backward to a metro rack. His, Milo’s, hands take my bins and place them to the side. He adjusts me until my ass, and its attachment, are level with the metal on the shelves. The cold radiates, penetrates my sphincter. My knees wobble.
“Take your pants down.”
“Yes, Chef.”
He has a squeeze bottle of oil and points it at me. It squirts and inhales. “Do it,” he says, his quiet authority in silhouette against the light bulb at the ceiling. His arms are folded. My cock jumps at the cold, but goes quickly hard in my hand. “Can’t you go faster?” he says. I reluctantly nod. I’m going swift as an immersion mixer, the metal in my ass biting in hard. I’m watching him and begging in my head. Let me. Let me.
He stops me. “That’s enough,” he says. He slaps it. I don’t say ouch. “Pull your pants up and cook something.” I suit back up and grab the bins with shaky hands. He takes the ring on the metal in me and turns me to the door. “And try to keep your pigtails out of it, you little girl.”
I want to take a moment to recover, but he kicks the handle of the door and pushes me out, the air hot as a deep fryer, the sweat melting immediately and dripping down my neck. I move to my station and press my pelvis into the stove. I don’t say ouch.
“Maricón!”
“What, Efrain?”
“He take you the cooler and makes you suck his cock?”
Ah ha ha ha ha!
“No, Manuel was in there getting stuck like pork on a spit, so I let them have a moment.”
“Maybe some time you suck my cock, eh?”
Ah ha ha ha ha!
“Your cunt might get offended.”
And that’s enough. I look at my arm. I’ve got a new burn, a pink slash welting up where I’d touched the burner. He’ll like that, I think.
The night goes by slower and clearer now, until news trickles in that we’re done, the hour of cleaning ahead and the disinfectant in my oily wounds. I’ve been here eleven hours and they went by like five. I can feel them only when I lean on something, my hips seeming to creak. My hands are coming apart under the silver roughage of a steel scrubber, when I hear, “Travis!”
“Yes, Chef!”
“Come.”
“Yes, Chef!”
He leads me, his ass like two roasts under the seam of his jacket, to the dish room, which has been empty for a half hour.
“Strip.”
“Yes Chef.”
I lay my clothes on the main machine, but he throws them onto the ground. The floor is clean, but it’s still wet. I await his orders. He stands me in the center of the room and hits me with the dish sprayer.
“What will you do for me!” he yells.
“Whatever you ask, Chef!”
The water is a little hot.
“Good. And what will I do for you?”
“Nothing that I don’t earn, Chef.”
“That is the right answer.”
He sprays me and sprays me. I feel it in cuts and burns, sores and rashes. And I feel it in the toy, the radiation of the heat in the metal. I stand with my legs apart, panting. He looks at me in appraisal. I hope I pass.
“You wore the toy,” he says, dropping the spray onto it from behind. “You did well tonight.” He approaches me, wraps his clothed body around me, still full of grease and splatter, the jets directly on the toy now. “You can come.”
It’s hard to admit what he’s done to me, but there they are, near tears of thanks. He has an oil bottle and coats my cock with it. I go to spread it in and begin, but he slaps my hand away.
“Learn,” he says. He holds the ring of the toy in my ass and twists his hand, covered in scars and the pits where fingertips used to be, around my cock. Then, strongly, he pumps. It’s a few seconds or two minutes, time blurring here too, before he kneels suddenly at my feet, as I come on his face, his expert timing pulling the toy out just at the right moment, and his tongue, what’s made him the man he is, now licking my sauce out of his beard.
Just under the executive is the Chef de cuisine, who runs the place in the absence of the executive, which can be from all the time to never, but is usually just most of the time. Under him are the sous Chefs, or usually is just the sous Chef. The sous Chef is the one with all of the responsibility, who runs the kitchen and beats his or her underlings down with an arbitrary and iron fist, is, in turn, the bitch of the executive and the Chef de cuisine. He or she must cover for the abhorrent behavior of his betters, doing everything from picking up their dry cleaning to mopping up their vomit before the customers smell it. The sous Chef, in turn, bullies everyone else into submission. It’s their ass in the sling if anything goes wrong.
Under them, through a complicated series of ranks and psuedoranks and subranks lies me, the line cook. There is only one answer to anything that is asked of the line cook to anyone who is not a fellow line cook or the dishwasher. Yes, Chef. Yes, Chef. This is a war and there is no time for argument. Chef, after all, means chief.
Milo is my Chef. A sous Chef, to be specific. The one hundred folds in Milo’s toque, etched onto his forehead in boiled blood at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, are symbols of the things that he can do with an egg. His jacket has his name on it, his rank and even a few ribbons, honors and ownerships and bitches he’s broken. He’s already at work, but he’s left an order behind on the scraps of ordering paper that we have all over the house. I read it and walk to the bedroom. Yes, Chef. It’s inserted and I stand straight, sweat appearing in bolt heads on my face.
Down the stairs and walking, the thing beats electricity into my legs. The pants, just lowly line cook pants, are baggy enough to hide my joy. The walk, the burning grin on my face, is only two blocks long, appropriately up a steep hill, which bounces the thing in my ass mercilessly. At the top of the hill is Ile-de-France, my own Pot au Feu, boiled down to my essence in my own blood. I enter through the back, the restaurant’s asshole, and I’m compelled to speak to a few specks, like me, dangling in the shorthairs.
“Hola, maricón,” Manuel says, and the rest of them laugh as if this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
“Just because you keep begging to suck my cock every day doesn’t make me a maricón,” I answer in Spanish. The thing is, they can say the same thing every day, but you’ve got to come up with a fresh answer every time.
“Eh! Ehhhh! Maricón!” Chaco says, flipping his cigarette over the grease dumpster. “You like to suck the cock of Milo, yeah? I see you.” Bwwaaaaa ha ha ha! Funniest thing ever.
“See you cleaned up that pearl necklace I gave you last week, Chaco. Or did you save it in case you run out of truffle oil?”
This is enough for now. They don’t know about Milo and me. It’s just the standard insult for whitey in the kitchen. Milo’s pubes in my teeth, his balls against my chin. Same thing every day. The weight in my ass brings me up again. Milo is there, large, hairy, top-heavy like a bulldog and his own bolt-heads of sweat.
“Hey, you think you got some fucking baby shower to go to or something? Get the fuck in the fucking kitchen, you lazy piece of shit. Get to fucking work.”
I’m a half-hour early. “Yes, Chef.”
“Do I have to tattoo the time that you’re supposed to show up on your nuts or something?” My insides are burning. I can’t even look at him. “Get your mis en fucking place sometime before your cock draws back into a cunt and get the fuck going.”
I’m running as he says this, the slips on the relief mats not greasy enough to worry me yet. The nerves on the insides of my arms are tingling and I can’t remember a thing. His abuse is like wildfire in my pubes and I’m visibly sighing. I concentrate on it, what it’s told me I can do. Sauté station. Pans, bent into the grill, sauces, baskets, fresh meat to be checked, vegetables of all types and slices and spices and oil. It’s run back to the station, placed, unveiled, rejected, replaced and restocked. The hollandaise provided to me is broken. Milo sees this and throws it on the ground. It splatters up the inside of my pants leg and settles in my socks. I run to clean it up, but Milo says, “What the fuck are you doing? Make another batch, you fucking dog dick.”
“Yes, Chef.”
I turn, panicked, to the walk-in and slip in the filth. I fall to the relief mat and don’t say ouch. The vinegar and rancid lemon falls into new cuts, but I’ve got to get the stuff. Milo walks off to go at someone else.
The doors open and the tables fill. Somewhere, a few hours later, my lamb noisettes are found wanting and thrown in my face. Linguini is dribbled, in onion and butter, down my front. And I’m in a trance, on, the food a blur and my mind in a state of half-conscious production and losing time. The cold piece of metal in my ass is a metronome, a cock that never loses blood, in half-erection all day, kept at respectful distance from the flat top.
I know it’s about 9:30 when we begin to slow, when the world beyond the six square feet just in front of me begins to reappear in blotches of stainless steel. I have one moment to myself and take it back to the walk-in, to restock the fennel and the lamb chops, and perhaps to give my face and neck a good wipe. I’m at the shelves, holding plastic bins and turning around when I’m taken by the shoulders and run backward to a metro rack. His, Milo’s, hands take my bins and place them to the side. He adjusts me until my ass, and its attachment, are level with the metal on the shelves. The cold radiates, penetrates my sphincter. My knees wobble.
“Take your pants down.”
“Yes, Chef.”
He has a squeeze bottle of oil and points it at me. It squirts and inhales. “Do it,” he says, his quiet authority in silhouette against the light bulb at the ceiling. His arms are folded. My cock jumps at the cold, but goes quickly hard in my hand. “Can’t you go faster?” he says. I reluctantly nod. I’m going swift as an immersion mixer, the metal in my ass biting in hard. I’m watching him and begging in my head. Let me. Let me.
He stops me. “That’s enough,” he says. He slaps it. I don’t say ouch. “Pull your pants up and cook something.” I suit back up and grab the bins with shaky hands. He takes the ring on the metal in me and turns me to the door. “And try to keep your pigtails out of it, you little girl.”
I want to take a moment to recover, but he kicks the handle of the door and pushes me out, the air hot as a deep fryer, the sweat melting immediately and dripping down my neck. I move to my station and press my pelvis into the stove. I don’t say ouch.
“Maricón!”
“What, Efrain?”
“He take you the cooler and makes you suck his cock?”
Ah ha ha ha ha!
“No, Manuel was in there getting stuck like pork on a spit, so I let them have a moment.”
“Maybe some time you suck my cock, eh?”
Ah ha ha ha ha!
“Your cunt might get offended.”
And that’s enough. I look at my arm. I’ve got a new burn, a pink slash welting up where I’d touched the burner. He’ll like that, I think.
The night goes by slower and clearer now, until news trickles in that we’re done, the hour of cleaning ahead and the disinfectant in my oily wounds. I’ve been here eleven hours and they went by like five. I can feel them only when I lean on something, my hips seeming to creak. My hands are coming apart under the silver roughage of a steel scrubber, when I hear, “Travis!”
“Yes, Chef!”
“Come.”
“Yes, Chef!”
He leads me, his ass like two roasts under the seam of his jacket, to the dish room, which has been empty for a half hour.
“Strip.”
“Yes Chef.”
I lay my clothes on the main machine, but he throws them onto the ground. The floor is clean, but it’s still wet. I await his orders. He stands me in the center of the room and hits me with the dish sprayer.
“What will you do for me!” he yells.
“Whatever you ask, Chef!”
The water is a little hot.
“Good. And what will I do for you?”
“Nothing that I don’t earn, Chef.”
“That is the right answer.”
He sprays me and sprays me. I feel it in cuts and burns, sores and rashes. And I feel it in the toy, the radiation of the heat in the metal. I stand with my legs apart, panting. He looks at me in appraisal. I hope I pass.
“You wore the toy,” he says, dropping the spray onto it from behind. “You did well tonight.” He approaches me, wraps his clothed body around me, still full of grease and splatter, the jets directly on the toy now. “You can come.”
It’s hard to admit what he’s done to me, but there they are, near tears of thanks. He has an oil bottle and coats my cock with it. I go to spread it in and begin, but he slaps my hand away.
“Learn,” he says. He holds the ring of the toy in my ass and twists his hand, covered in scars and the pits where fingertips used to be, around my cock. Then, strongly, he pumps. It’s a few seconds or two minutes, time blurring here too, before he kneels suddenly at my feet, as I come on his face, his expert timing pulling the toy out just at the right moment, and his tongue, what’s made him the man he is, now licking my sauce out of his beard.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Gimme an S! Gimme a U! Gimme a G! Gimme an A! Gimme an S! Gimme an M! What's that spell?
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 #97? 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.
Note: Sam’s been working on the Sugasm and it looks like our glitches are fixed. To get the post requests on time you’ll need to subscribe to the Sugasm RSS.
This Week’s Picks
Tips and Sugestions on having sex with me.
“I’m a slut, but I’m an ethical one.”
Wet
“You can smell this wet. It glistens on my thighs.”
A Brief Meeting with the Girl Next Door
“You can pay me by teaching me how you like to be licked.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Stacked Decks
Editor’s Choice
Concentration?
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
Beautiful
How To Set Up a MFF/FMF Threesome (and Live)
“Sexual Fantasy # 1″ : For Art’s Sake!”
Tara’s Private Diary: Guilty Pleasures
“We’re just good friends”
NSFW Pics & Videos
Half-Nekkid Footballer
A Jewell in bondage, pantyhose and latex
Pagan Lust
Pamela Anderson Showing Thong in See Through White Clothes
Valerie Vasquez Nude
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Hot House pt. 1
The Missing Sex Scene: Superman
Now
Syncronicity
Theater
To the ground floor
Vivid memories, solo vacation edition
Sex News & Satire
The Great Porn Debate
Half-Nekkid Schoolgirl
Retro Sex Blog Turns 1 Year Old!
What if…? Suzanne’s story
BDSM & Fetish
Catalina loves Sexual Fantasies
Center peace
Full Circle - Part II
Good morning little schoolgirl
Hair
Ring
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